She reaches out and touches my blouse, and I realize that since I hung my coat when I re-entered the estate earlier, I’ve been walking around in this pink, sheer top in front of Julian.
What did he think of that?
“My pretty boy, how are you?” she pries, her soft blue eyes staring at me with admiration.
“I’m well, thank you. How are you?”
“Well,” she repeats. “And last night? How was last night?”
I swallow thickly, letting my eyes fall from her face to where her fingertips now rest against my forearm.
“Long,” I say honestly.
If it had been Atticus who asked, I would have given more detail, but I’m constantly concerned with how hard my mother or father will take the information I give. How it will crush them. And Abigail is far too young to know specifics.
“Are you okay now? Physically? Or should I call Dr. Harold for you?” my mother rapid-fires her line of questioning, and I shake my head, patting her hand where she’s touching me.
“I’m okay now. Promise.”
Momma nods demurely, her eyes tracing the contours of my face.
“Maybe we should get you an aide, yes?” she offers, and I scoff in disgust at her proposal.
“I’ll say it again, Momma, I will not pay someone forthat.”
But Theodora Chastain just sighs, as if it wasn’t an incredibly ludicrous suggestion, and sits up straight on the chaise.
“Whatever you say, darling. I just worry about you. I don’t want you to end up bedridden again.”
At her nervous tone and her sad eyes, I feel immense guilt. Sure, I didn’t ask for this, and sure, there’s nothing I can do in this moment to stop it—but I’m causing everyone around me pain. I’m a burden.
“I really am fine,” I insist. “Really.”
I stare into the large mirror that sits in the corner of my bedroom, leaning against the wall. With my bedroom door at my back, I allow my eyes to trace the delicate lines of my hips and my arms, my thighs and my waist. For a boy, I am quite frail-looking.
I have no bulging muscles or abs to speak of, and standing at 5 feet 10 inches, I’m nearly a head shorter than Atticus. But that’s fine by me.
I like myself how I am: soft skin with pink undertones, silky brown curls, and large blue eyes. Even the delicate curve of my spine is quite beautiful, and although my ass is small, it’s perky and inviting all the same.
I am appealing to women and men alike, and I relish the fact that I can put on pretty clothes and look so appetizing. Even if this same gift has cursed me in some ways.
Staring at my naked figure, I release a dream-like sigh.
I’m not a narcissist, as I don’t believe I’m the center of the universe, and I have empathy in spades. But Idohave confidence, and a boatload at that.
And with that thought in mind, and my symptoms flaring higher than they have in days, I take to walking in the nude, all the way to my bedside, where the gold cord dangles freely.
Then, I pull it.
It takes Julian all of three minutes to be knocking at my door, meaning he took the steps of the west tower at least two at a time.
In the dim lighting of my candlelit room, with the fading afternoon sun streaming in from the window overlooking my bed, I continue to stare at myself in the mirror.
I haven’t seen Julian since the music room this morning. We didn’t even pass each other as I was leaving the dining room after dinner, having lingered around after my family members in hopes I would.
So now, while I should be preparing for bed, I’m vibrating with excitement as I call, “Come in.”
Julian enters the room, his wide brown eyes taking in the expanse of my room for the first time. The large bed to his left, the privacy screen and dresser to his right. Various plants are sporadically placed around the place, and the skylight window above his head filters in even more fading sunlight.
