Jude clears his throat. He flips a page of the tome in front of him, then straightens in his seat. “Look at this,” he says, turning the volume toward me.
It’s a charcoal sketch of a young woman titledMolly. She isn’t the subject of Ezra’s portrait. She doesn’t look like me at all. But there is something slightly familiar about her face. It’s signed by Ezra. And in the upper right corner?
The same symbol from the locket I’m wearing in that portrait.
I scratch my chin.
Jude turns the page in search for more information. Who is Molly? And what does this symbol mean? Judging by his furrowed brow, there’s no more information to be found. When he reaches the end, he snaps a picture of the sketch with his phone and exchanges the tome for another.
Meanwhile, I skim a letter written in 1784,addressed to Ezra’s wife. Halfway through, my eyes come to a screeching halt.
There, on the page, are words about the painting.
“My Dearest Elizabeth,” I read aloud.
Jude comes around the table to look over my shoulder.
“I have received your most recent correspondence and must confess that its contents have troubled me deeply. The accounts you share of your husband’s behavior are most distressing. To hear that he has gone so far as to label his own nephew a ‘demon’ is beyond comprehension. Such words betray a most unsettled mind, and I fear his long-standing enmity toward his brother has now, most unfairly, been cast upon Raphael’s son.
“Moreover, your mention of theportrait,” I continue, emphasizing the word, “that continues to consume his every waking hour raises further concern. This fixation of his can no longer be endured. I earnestly entreat you to urge him to seek the counsel of a learned physician. There are men of science who specialize in ailments of the mind. Surely, such men might offer him some relief or, at the very least, sound guidance. Given the present state of affairs, I fear this may be your only true recourse.
“Please know that my thoughts and prayers arewith you during this trying time. May we soon see Ezra restored to the amiable and worthy man we once held in such esteem. With deepest affection, your doting sister.”
I flip to the next page, hoping for more. Something about the subject of his fixation. Who was this girl in the portrait, consuming Ezra’s every waking hour? Unfortunately, the letter that follows is from a merchant discussing the procurement of bed linens. I flip several more pages, disappointment sinking into the pit of my stomach.
“That’s it,” I say, turning around.
Jude is right there, leaning over me with one hand curled over the back of my chair, the other set on the table, so close I can smell peppermint on his breath, see specks of gold in the brown of his irises. His attention dips to my lips. And the same thing that happened in the hallway on his first day of school, then later in the cafeteria, happens all over again.
A jolt of searing heat.
He uncurls his hand from the back of my chair and stands straight, creating space between us.
But the air is warm and tightly drawn.
I return to the letter, my heart beating erratically. “Sounds like Ezra didn’t like his brother very much.”
“It’s hatred all the way down,” Jude says.
The intriguing words draw my attention.
He leans against the banister, one arm crossedover the other, his thumb pressed against his bottom lip.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“The long-standing enmity. My grandfather obviously didn’t like his cousins, and my father made a point to keep me away from that side of the family. I never understood why.” His eyes darken. “Until I met Rafe at my grandfather’s funeral a few months ago.”
“Did something happen?”
“Nothing specific. He’s just … not a good guy.”
No, he isn’t.
I think about the first timeImet Rafe.
“He tried to kiss me.”
Jude’s gaze jerks to mine. “He tried tokissyou?”
