Page 16 of The Tyranny of our Longing

“Come, have a seat.” He motioned to the space below her.

She pulled back, collecting the sketchbook and box of charcoals she had previously deposited on a side table, then descended the stairs with quick steps.

A fireplace stood hidden beneath the shadow of the gallery, one she had spared no notice of when she had entered. Two curtained windows stood on each side, and Nathaniel moved to pull the heavy drapes open, allowing the bleak afternoon light to spill onto the two plush chairs standing before the hearth. And onto the section of wall above the empty mantel, stripped bare of shelves and frames to display a small yet wondrous piece of that ethereal wallpaper.

Phaedra sank into a chair, her fingers numb to the velvet touch of its cushioned armrest, her eyes fused to the undulating pattern on the wall. The green was so rich, so deep in this light, she felt like she could fall into it. Drown in it. It made her ache with a longing she could not immediately place, the fractured shards of a memory shuddering with every thump of her heart, heavy against her ribs. A hollow yearning for something she might once had thought possible, something fate had dangled in front of her eyes only to rip away, leaving her bare, broken, and alone.

Needles prickled over her skin as her eyes shifted to Nathaniel, the light coming from behind him blurring the lines of his form, making him look so much like the man who had gifted such a cherished book to the woman he had loved.

She wondered if he would be different. Wondered what it would be like to hear those words in his voice, to feel the warmth of his breath on⁠—

“Are you well, Miss Mercer?”

Phaedra blinked, the features of the young man before her finally solidifying. Yet for a moment, she could not speak, the feeling of the world tipping on its axis braiding her thoughts with glaring vertigo.

His brow creased, and he turned, following her gaze that had involuntarily shifted to the window behind him. There, in its corner, a fragment of the wreckage peeked through, its blurry darkness swallowing up the meager light around it.

“Oh,” he said. “I see. It is not an easy sight.”

Phaedra shook her head, not knowing if it was to acknowledge his words or to mean her thoughts had been entirely elsewhere… Only to be dragged back once again under the shadow of the tragedy.

“If you would prefer, we can move to another⁠—”

“No!” she exclaimed, her eyes shooting to his, then balked at the urgency—the panic—in her own voice, at the way her whole body tensed at what was nothing but a polite proposal. She pulled in a breath, commanding calm into her obviously fraying nerves. Then with what she hoped was a more collected tone, she said, “No. Here is fine.”

“Very well.”

If Nathaniel had been surprised by her strange outburst, he did not show it. He sat into the chair opposite her, and motioned toward the supplies gripped in her hand. “Thank you for indulging me.”

Phaedra looked down into her lap as if she had forgotten what was there. “Oh. Of course.”

She forced her fingers to loosen on the items, then took a pencil out of the box, and deposited the rest on the low table between them. She sat back into the chair, the soft closeness of its cushions easing the stiffness in her muscles, and she let out a slow breath before finally raising her eyes to Nathaniel.

He watched her with a curious expression, then said, “Before we begin, I wish to assure you that I do not have any expectations regarding your sketch. Whatever you are drawn to depict, I shall leave up to you. Even if it somehow feels irrelevant to what I am reading, please do not hesitate to put it to paper. And you do not need to show me the sketch once we are finished. All I ask is that in the end, you condense all your observations into one painting.”

She nodded. “I can do that.”

“Then let us begin.”

He reached into his pocket, producing a small leather-bound parcel secured with string. Placing it in his lap, he unlaced it with the care reserved for things most precious, and opened the wrapping to reveal a small book. It looked weathered, the binding charred and flaking, the pages darkened and fragile. As if it had, by a miracle, survived a fire.

“This was my sister’s journal,” Nathaniel said, and her eyes flew to him, air stilling in her lungs. But he did not return her gaze, his own softening eyes focused on the relic held so gently in his hands. “It is the only thing I have left of her.”

His fingers hovered over the once-soft hide cover, as if he wished to stroke it but dared not, worried that even such a delicate touch would damage it beyond repair.

“But that is my own fault, really,” he went on. “It has been years since I saw her last, and in my time away, I have not been the best correspondent.”

Phaedra furrowed her brows. “But you said you had exchanged letters.”

“We had.” He shrugged, the motion jagged in its briefness. “At least, in the beginning. But it was always… difficult, when my turn came to write. Even with her system, I always struggled. At first, because of mere ineptitude, the sheer difficulty of putting my experiences into words delaying my response more and more each time. But then, after a while, delay slowly turned to avoidance, and the reason behind it to guilt.”

“Guilt?” Phaedra asked in surprise. “Whatever for?”

Nathaniel glanced up at her, his lips quirking into an amused smile. Only then did she realize how familiar a tone she had assumed, how direct and almost demanding her question had been. As if she would know him. But she did not. And even if she did, this was not her way, despite what her ever repeating offenses would suggest. Because while her art did indeed have the tendency to become wild and bold and careless, she herself never did. With anyone.

Heat displaced the pallor in her cheeks, knowing that that was not entirely true. That there was indeed one particular circumstance in which she would permit herself this degree of command. But she also knew that that could have nothing to do with the man sitting before her, however he might react.

“I apologize, Mr. Hawthorn,” she said, her eyes falling to the pad in her lap, hoping he would think her embarrassment accountable for the color that would not leave her skin. “That is not how I meant it. I do not mean to question your experiences.”