Page 44 of The Tyranny of our Longing

She shook her head, bracing her back against the door, the drumming in her veins slowly fading, the iron grip on her lungs lessening. And when she felt like she could finally breathe again, she turned her head to look about the room.

The study was as she had remembered, most of the walls lined with packed bookcases. Her gaze darted from place to place, searching out every nook and crevice for any sign of the dreaded color. She found nothing.

Her chest ached as she let out a sigh of relief, and with heavy limbs, she dragged herself to the chair closest to the fireplace. Warmth rushed her as she sank into the cushions, the chill in her bones easing a fraction.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” she said. She leaned back in the chair, her eyes heavy as she blinked them closed. “I promise, I will tell you everything. But first, please read.”

When he made no move to do as she had asked, she looked up at him, the words to urge or plead or do whatever it would take to convince him dying on her tongue.

His features were dark, the blaze of the fireplace catching his face at sharp angles, his emerald eyes glinting like jet beads under the shadow of his brow.

For a moment, he almost did not look like himself. For a moment, Phaedra thought that if she had not known him, she would be afraid of the near-predatory nature of his stance. That he would seem to loom over her, silent and menacing.

But she did know him. And all this was nothing but the play of the light. Yet only when he had lowered himself back into his chair, the glow of the fire dismissing the shadows from his face, did she release the breath she had been holding.

With curt movements, Nathaniel snatched the journal from the desk, and flipped it open. His voice was cold as he began to read.

CHAPTER 35

Tues—— — —- of November, 1879

It was not enough. For all my joy—the sheer elation of seeing the house completely transformed to that of my dreams—the disappointment of this revelation ———- ——— —- ——- - —— —— - - stared at the single piece of wonder above the library fireplace, the difference between its verdant glory and the drab remains of the old walls was so painfully jarring, I felt my heart would shatter.

But then his hand was in mine, the firmness of his touch warm and soothing as he pulled me away from the sight, and led me up the stairs before the large windows, where I could finally breathe. And when his words of comfort finally ——— —- ———— ——— — ——- —— —— brimming with his closeness and care, he pulled a book from the shelf beside me, and asked if he may dedicate a poem to the loveliness ——- ——

- —- ——- — —— the words like glamour pouring from his lips as he stepped closer - —- something in his voice, in the worshiping look of his darkened eyes as his hands slid over the green, as if he could not help — ——- - —- —- — —- ——

— —- ——- —— —- — ——— shuddered through me, and I felt the hardness of the shelves push against my back, but I could not care, not for the way he —- — - —- ——- —- ——- —- —- ———-

And then he told me everything. It spilled out of him like a fountain dug into his very soul, like he could take it no more—the secrets, the lies, the betrayal of all these years—and all I could do was hold him as his anguished words ———— ——- — —— —- ——- - —- ——, he slumped against me, spent with this terrible truth, and I could only caress his hair as my own tremors shook my body, the revelation burning through me as if it would dissolve me whole.

Because I—my entire existence—had been a lie.

And then she, as if summoned by what had passed, came barreling in like a fury with —— —- ——— - —— her cheeks like chalk, eyes horrified, and I could see that she knew - —— ——— understood that she was finally found out. —- ——- hide no more. She could lie no more. And it terrified her.

It took a moment for Phaedra to realize that Nathaniel had stopped speaking and what she was hearing was but the heavy rush of blood in her ears. She looked up at his expectant expression, at the almost naive question tucked into the line of his cocked brow, and the grating weight lodged in her stomach pushed her deeper into her seat. The image of one of the new paintings flashed before her eyes, a crystal clear depiction of the scene just read.

A young woman standing against a bookshelf, her body enveloped in radiant green, and a man in a disheveled state slumped against her. His lips were at her ear, his hands clamped around her for support—or holding her in place—while she raised her head, a look of horror on her face, her hand embedded deep in the tresses of his hair.

And then there was the woman standing at the top of the gallery staircase, her expression one of dread for the secret that was no longer that. Or for the fate she had been absolved of, only to be relinquished to another.

Revulsion churned in Phaedra’s stomach for what she did not want to accept, and it was all she could do to clamp down on the bile clawing its way up her throat again. Because even if it was true, even if Ana had truly not been Bartholomew’s daughter, this could not be right. He could not simply take⁠—

“Shall I read on?” Nathaniel asked, jolting her from her thoughts. There was something so alien to his voice—a cold detachment verging on annoyance—that Phaedra was seized by a wretched urge to cry, her tattered throat closing around her words.

Did he truly not understand any of this? Could he truly read those words and not comprehend what was written there so very clearly? She did not know if she should envy or pity him for his condition, for the delayed understanding of these abhorrent secrets. But they needed to go on. Needed to finish this. And they were so very close to the end.

She nodded her consent, her whole body tensing from the hard stare of his eyes before he flipped the page and lowered his gaze to the next entry.

Wednesday, the 12th of November, 1879

It is unfortunate when clarity comes only when everything else is taken from us. That we may understand the repercussions of our actions only when the tyranny of our hopes—of our desperate longing—has released its hold over our souls.

Yet, despite the shame ———- — — —- —- - -annot blame myself for the mere act of longing to be noticed. — — cherished, wanted. Loved. It is all I have ever yearned for. Is it so surprising then, that given the chance, I would fling my entire being into the welcoming embrace of the one who had hitherto denied me everything? Even if I did not know the extent of what it meant.

The day had been torture. For me the same as —— - —— —- - in every glance we shared, hear it in every word he ———- —- - — every touch that could be stolen. We knew this was not sustainable. Not after all I knew.

We agreed to meet in the library so we may devise a plan on how to proceed. As a promise, he plucked a ribbon from my dress, threading it through the buttonhole of his jacket, and I could not help the gasp tearing from my throat - ——- —- ——- ———- — —— the sharp pain of the act soothed only by the assurance of our swift reunion when we could finally be ———