Page 24 of The Tyranny of our Longing

Shadows danced as the feeble light ran into the long hallway before her, the green of the wallpaper beguilingly deep in the night. She started to walk, not yet knowing where she would go, the repeating pattern of vines and blooms pulsating around her with every intermittent gap of a frame on the wall. It felt calming in a way Phaedra had not expected, her pulse slowing to its soothing rhythm, her senses dipping into a muffled state, her mind finally letting go.

She only realized how silent her movements had been when the plush carpet finally ended, and her steps rang out on hard wood. She looked down, surprised, at the floor that appeared almost black in the darkness. Then she peered around, trying to find her bearings.

A set of doors stood before her that somehow seemed too small for the splintered frame, the unblemished varnish at odds with the dark, flaking paint of everything else around it. There was a haze of black on the walls around the frame, as if the doors were fighting to contain some dark entity desperate to bleed into the outside world, and at once Phaedra understood where she was. Standing at the entrance to the west wing.

The realization tightened around her limbs, and she could almost taste the soot in the heavy air, as if the fire had only just transpired and not months ago.

Her mind told her to retreat, to immediately find her way back to the safety of her room, but before she could even take a step, a silver shaft sliced through the hallway as moonlight fell through a crack in the door.

Phaedra stopped short, a deep frown etching itself between her brows. This could not be right. The moon could not have risen yet. But then a thought brushed a chill down her spine, halting her breath.

How long had she been wandering the hallways for?

She stepped back, the urgency to leave radiating through her entire body, her skin prickling with icy unease. Then a shadow moved through the light, and she heard the creak of marred wood shifting inside the door. Against her better judgment, she moved forward, peering through the gap.

It took a moment to understand the sight before her. The charred wing spread forward, tattered and dark, ending abruptly in a jagged fall. Beams jutted at odd angles from what had once been the ceiling, debris coating what remained of the decaying floor. And at the precipice of all this destruction, a figure stood in dark dress, the moonlight painting his golden locks silver.

He stared into the chasm at his feet, his words just loud enough that they would reach her. “It is not enough.”

His voice was deep and ragged, almost unrecognizable, and Phaedra froze in the grip of fear—and something else entirely. Something that clenched around her body like a vise, igniting the blood in her veins. Something that envisioned his hand, clasped around something she could not see, to tear instead into the tangle of her hair, while his voice, dark and threadbare, pushed into her ear on a heated breath. And suddenly, there was no power on earth that could have stopped the gasp ripping from her throat.

The figure stiffened, and before Phaedra could fully register the wild flailing of his locks as he turned, the green eyes savage in his distorted face, she yanked the door shut and bolted for her room.

CHAPTER 15

Phaedra did not know how she had managed to arrive back to her bedroom, the timid flame of her candle blown out early by her rushing pace, her feet jittering with every step. And even as she finally climbed into bed, the shaking in her limbs would not subside, her heart hammering painfully against her ribs.

She did not understand what exactly she had witnessed, her panicked thoughts aimed only on moving her body far away from the perceived danger. But now, as she pulled in breath after calming breath, her eyes fixed on the gentleness of the moonlight creeping up the verdant walls, she could finally think. And as her mind raced through the possibilities of why Nathaniel had been among the ruins in the dead of night, of what it could have been that had brought him into such a state, one thing became dreadfully clear. That whatever she had seen, whatever he had been going through—it had not been meant for her eyes. That despite him frightening her, it had been she who should not have been there. And as her now subdued alarm moved through guilt and landed into shame, the scorching heat of her cheeks finally doused the tremors of the rest of her body.

Nathaniel had told her the very first night that the west wing was off limits. And while her intention had never been to trespass—indeed she had found herself there by accident—she had had no business to look inside. No business to spy on the evident distress of a still mourning man.

She hid her face in her hands, stifling her mortified groan. And then she decided then and there that the first words out of her mouth come morning would be none other than those of an apology. She only hoped her foolishness would not cost her this contract.

CHAPTER 16

Phaedra’s promise to herself did not come to fruition the next day.

Agitated thoughts woke her before sunrise, and when she could no longer bear to lie amid her sheets, she rose to pace the length of her room. And when even that failed to soothe her, she tidied her bed and the room, then dressed and pinned her hair into a simple chignon. With a fleeting look in the mirror, she left her chamber and started down the hallway.

She had meant to go to her studio, despite the early light offering her little chance of continuing her work, but she had felt it would be a welcome sight to be near the things that would always center her. Instead, she found herself standing before the still locked door of the drawing room, her eyes trained on the floor. How exactly she had gotten there, she could not remember, but she could well imagine the dormant suspicion of the night before moving her feet to seek its proof in the light of day. And here it was, standing in front of her in all its glory.

The carved wood appeared even more beautiful in the dim haze of dawn, the shadows creeping into its crevices, drawing out images far more mesmerizing than before. It almost felt as if this piece of wondrous art were meant to be experienced not in the stark light of day, but in a state of half-light, where emotions moved observation, and the mind grew more open to their suggestions.

Phaedra let her eyes linger only for a moment, her thoughts urging her gaze toward the edges. The frame seemed to strain in places while being hollowed out in others, as if it had been carved strategically to hold a pair of doors too large to fit. A pair of doors that were made for another frame entirely. And the only question that formed on the wake of this discovery was simply—why?

Why had Nathaniel moved the door from the west wing?

Phaedra cocked her head, her hand reaching out to touch the polished surface. She imagined it was quite possible that having something this magnificent locked away in a place of such darkness could be considered almost disgraceful. But even so, exactly because of the nature of what had happened, would it not be a daily reminder of the loss he had suffered? Was its beauty a true counterbalance to the memories it evoked? And, if so, why was this the sole exception to Nathaniel’s contempt for every other beautiful thing in the house?

Yet even that could not have been the case, as she remembered the disdainful glance he had thrown it as they had last stood here together.

She let out a breath. Nathaniel.

The man was proving to be more of a mystery than she could ever have imagined. She only wondered if she would be given the opportunity to unravel it.

CHAPTER 17

When Phaedra finally made her way to the breakfast room, she was met with the unexpected news that Nathaniel had gone away, but was sure to be back later in the afternoon. His note to her simply said, “The green is wrong.”