Page 10 of The Tyranny of our Longing

Phaedra whipped her head toward the reflection of the maid, the cheerful voice jarring in its interruption, and blinked at the dark figure staring back at her. It took her a moment to realize that Matilda had moved out of the way, leaving her the only figure within the glass, and she sucked in a breath as she took in the final product of the girl’s labor.

Matilda had pinned her long tresses into a soft chignon high on the crown of her head, the gathered hair accentuating the highness of her cheekbones and the graceful column of her neck. Dark wisps of curling hair framed her face, their softness giving her complexion a youthful glow.

She stood, almost without noticing, her eyes fused to the image before her, to the elegant form so perfectly framed by the lovely green behind her. There was something magnetic to its darkness, the way the raven curls and onyx eyes drank up the light, the dress as if pulsating with the shadows held within its folds. And amid the wonder of this composition, it seemed as if even the faint lines divulging her age had retreated, allowing her to step back in her years. To be, if not the same, but at least closer to that of young Nathaniel Hawthorn.

Phaedra froze, her brows pulling together at the direction of her thoughts. It was unlike her to dwell on these things, indeed to appropriate any importance to such trivial matters as the passage of time. And just like Matilda’s ministrations, the appearance of these notions somehow felt intrusive, as if it had been thrust upon her by her environment and not a product of her own reasoning. And it was wrong.

She let out a slow breath, trying to contain her awakening irritation. Because these thoughts were not only strange, they were indeed as offensive as they were ignorant. Because, in the end, it was her age that had gotten her this far. It was the very thing that had forged her talent into skill, crafted her passion into a business, built a dream into a life. It was her age—her experience—that had brought her here. And there could be no shallow contrivance, imagined or otherwise, that would take that from her.

The lines cleared from her brow, and she raised her head in defiant pride.

“Perfect.”

CHAPTER 7

Deep green wallpaper guided her steps along the hallway, and Phaedra found herself pondering anew how such wonder could have previously escaped her attention to this extent. She remembered briefly noting its general beauty along with that of other decor, yet the full force of its magnificence must have been lost on her whirling mind and the shadows of descending evening, hiding it from conscious view.

Her eyes followed the undulating pattern, her soft steps on the carpeted floor in tune with each dip, her breath coming with each rise, and she finally understood the play of circumstance that had put together the strange setting of her nightmare.

She let out a breath, the corners of her mouth tilting, and she peered around, curious to find whatever shadowed thing had implanted the seed of danger within her dream. But as she came to the staircase, her thoughts were derailed by a sudden shift of atmosphere, as if the very air around her had been exchanged. She could feel it, like a cool sheen settling on her skin, as if after countless hours lounging in the sun she had been immersed into icy gloom. It came as unnervingly as it was unexpected, and it took her a moment to locate the source of the transformation.

In a way, she had not erred in her feelings of being cast in shade, yet the reality was far less poetic than what her mind had rushed to conjure. While the hall behind her seemed to flourish under its lush verdant hue, the stairway felt almost somber with its dark paneling and umber wallpaper, the gold highlights only deepening the shadows. Yet the change had been so abrupt, the difference so jarring, that Phaedra could not help but wonder if it had been intentional, or rather the product of some perhaps unavoidable circumstance. An unexpected depletion of materials—or the time to make use of them.

Chills prickled over her skin as she started down the stairs, and she fought the urge to turn and search for specters that would linger to finish what their premature endings had deprived them of, forcing her mind instead onto practical matters. The things she had, the things she still needed, and the various possibilities of what the day might hold.

She still had no concrete notions of what her assignment entailed, and her previous uncertainty returned, questioning whether she truly was the right person to fulfill these yet unstated expectations. So when she did not find Nathaniel in the breakfast room—a servant relaying the message of his apology of being kept away by important correspondence—Phaedra decided to forgo her own meal and instead revisit the scene of their first meeting.

She did not know if it was out of pure curiosity or an imagined sense of impending failure that she wished to see the paintings again. Whether the desire stemmed from a desperate urge to prepare, to study the strokes and compositions, the lights and shadows, so she might not disappoint. Or from the very simple reason of wanting to get a grasp of what awaited her.

She found the drawing room at the end of a hallway, recognizing the large double doors from the previous day. But as she walked up to them, her steps halted, her hand going not for the handle, but to trace the delicate carvings decorating the surface of the dark wood.

She remembered acknowledging the beauty of the scenes depicted as she had been led through yesterday, and her fingers slid over the reliefs, traced the rising and falling swirls, the wood smooth and cool under her touch. It was mesmerizing in a way only true masterpieces could be, and she wondered at the skill, at the time and effort needed to create something that could be so captivating, while also blending so seamlessly with their surroundings.

“The design is Eidonic,” a voice said behind her.

Phaedra turned, her fingers reluctant to leave the gleaming surface. Nathaniel stood a few paces away, his dark suit in stark contrast to the paleness of his skin. His light hair and green eyes looked almost luminous in the morning light. There was a faint curl to his lips, and Phaedra had a notion that he had somehow anticipated that she would come here, and the smile indicated his pleasure at being proven correct.

She wondered why she had not heard him approach, indeed why his sudden appearance had not startled her. She had been so deep in her own mind, she should have at least felt the jolt of being torn away.

“Eidonic,” she said, turning back to the door. She tilted her head, the word sliding in amid her thoughts like a missing piece clicking into place. “Of course.”

She recognized it now, as if hearing its name had somehow unearthed memories that had been dormant before. She was familiar with the form, had even studied it briefly some time ago, and she wondered if it had been choice or chance that had made her move on. That had made her forget.

She traced the parallel lines of undulating vines running up the edge of the decorative panel, the design so painfully familiar she could feel it thump against her mind with every beat of her heart.

“It is the same as the wallpaper,” she said finally, astonished by her own surprise. At how she had not seen it instantly. “In my room and in the hallway outside it.”

“Of that I am not aware,” Nathaniel said, stepping to her side. “But it is the same as the one inside the drawing room.”

Phaedra let out a breath, an awed smile tilting her lips. Memories flooded her of hours spent poring over books describing the wonder now standing before her, the pages depicting but a mere fragment of its matchless splendor. And how its history had been shrouded in romanticized shadow, the violence of its origin recreated in allegory and symbolism, until all that remained was the sheer essence of its beauty and the undeniable urge to possess it.

She could guess how such a treasure had ended up in this house, yet she could not stop her words as she peered up at the young man standing by her side. “These works are hard to come by.”

His eyes slid over the carved surface, his jaw tightening with what almost looked like disdain. As if he were entirely unaffected by the sight.

“They are,” he said. “But, as most of the world has come to know over the years, my father had quite a taste for all things… exceptional. And a way of always getting what he wanted.”

Phaedra averted her eyes, unsure how to respond, and her fingers lifted, as if summoned, once more to the door.