Page 36 of The Tyranny of our Longing

She lifted her fist to the door, but before she could knock, it was pulled open from the inside. Nathaniel stepped out, then pulled to a halt, his eyes widening, the papers in his hand slipping to the floor.

“My apologies, Mr. Hawthorn,” Phaedra said, quickly bending to gather the flyaway sheets. “I did not mean to startle you.”

He stood a moment, addled by the near collision, before he too sank to the floor.

“It’s quite alright,” he said, an unusual strain to his voice.

Phaedra peered up to see his face set in a neutral mask, his handsome features as if leveled by the pressure of an invisible hand, denying him the expression of whatever he was feeling. Because there was something there, of that she was certain.

They stood, and Phaedra offered him the pages she had gathered, watching as he reached out almost cautiously to take them. As if he were unsure that he should. As if he were afraid to touch her.

Her brows furrowed. “Is everything alright, Mr. Hawthorn?”

The uncertainty was now clear in his features, and Phaedra wondered what had happened since she had last seen him. What it was that made him pull back into himself, to inflict upon him the reservation of strangers instead of⁠—

Color flared in her cheeks, the memory of what she had done, the fact that it had been mere fantasy, halting her breath.

It had not happened. And yet, for her, it had. For her, they were more now than before. And the only question that remained was what she would do with this state of affairs. Because even if her reverie had been one-sided, she knew the feelings were not. And yet, it felt mistaken to account this sudden shift in his demeanor to the moment they had shared the evening before, however gripping it had been.

“Yes. Forgive me, I…” he began, his words an unfamiliar stutter, and Phaedra was almost sure that it was but the play of light flooding the hall from behind him that infused his skin with the same hue as her own. “You simply— I was not… Why were you—” His words came to an abrupt halt as his wary eyes finally lifted to her, and they cleared.

He stared at her, as if seeing her for the very first time, and what he saw made it impossible to look away. A slow breath escaped his lips, the sharp edges of his shoulders softening, and he slowly stepped closer as if pulled by an unseen force.

She froze, her voice wavering as she asked, “Mr. Hawthorn?”

There was something strange in the way he looked at her, his features turning lax, his eyes glazing over as if mesmerized, that made something uncomfortable settle in the pit of her stomach. Then he lifted his hand, and she sucked in a breath as his fingers dipped into the raven locks gathered at the back of her head.

A tremor shot down her body, the intimacy of the touch, the heat of his sudden proximity overpowering her, and she held her breath not knowing what to do—what to think—her mind flooding with false memories in merciless detail.

Her body strained against her absolute refusal to lean into him, her mind clinging to the last piece of her sanity telling her that something was not quite right. But before the last pillar of her defense could crumble under the weight of endlessly denying what could no longer be denied, he murmured, “It suits you.”

It could have been her downfall, the way his voice dipped low and smooth, his hands weaving through her hair and down her back, the tips of his long, delicate fingers barely grazing yet scorching through the fabric of her dress. But as he lowered his gaze to hers, their eyes finally meeting, she realized he had not been looking at her. Not exactly.

It suits you.

Heart pounding, Phaedra pulled out of his reach, and lifted her own hand to her hair. In it she found a ribbon she did not remember tying, yet she felt more than certain of its origin. Of how its radiant color contrasted the darkness of her curls, painting them with the sheen of an unearthly halo.

“Oh,” she said, her voice going frail, her tone almost absent. “My hair was in the way while I was working.”

She did not know if it was the truth, did not remember why or when she had done it. And she had the distinct impression that her fingers did not truly consent to the act as she pulled the piece of fabric from her hair, and pushed it into her pocket.

A piece of wood cracked in the fireplace somewhere inside the study, the feeble light flickering for a moment, and Phaedra looked up to see Nathaniel bracing his forehead in his hand.

“Miss Mercer,” he said, a crease forming between his brows. “You wished to speak with me?”

He almost seemed dazed, the way he searched her face, as if not quite knowing, not quite remembering where he was, and Phaedra wondered if his duties had been keeping him from sleep. But there was something else as well, some vague thought clawing at the back of her mind, unable to find purchase. That she herself was forgetting something.

“Yes,” she said, unsure. Then she looked down at the pad in her hands, and the fog lifted. “Yes. I was wondering if we might continue tonight?”

“Continue?” he asked, a strange quiver to his voice.

She blinked. “With the journal,” she said, raising the pad so he might see it as well. “We still have some time until the dinner bell.”

“Oh. Yes.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if trying to chase away the remnants of some daydream, and this time she was sure of the light tint of pink creeping into his cheeks. “I apologize, I think I’m a little… tired. But yes, of course, please come in.”

He motioned for her to enter the study, and Phaedra could not help but notice the tightness in his stance as she walked past him. And when he sat down, retrieving the journal with his usual reverence, there was a definite jerkiness to his movements, as if an unseen cold had dug itself into his veins.

She wondered again if his strange behavior was because of her. If he now felt embarrassed for the way she had responded, or indeed regretted what he himself had implied. But before she even had time to examine the possibilities or how she felt about them, he was speaking.