Page 19 of The Tyranny of our Longing

- —— —- Father’s voice that finally broke the spell, and drew my eyes painfully from this wonder.

— Do you not like it?

It was the first time I had noticed the clipped nature —- ——- — ——— as if there were some hidden meaning behind the polite words and endearing tone. —- —— ——— — Mother’s face who finally looked at the fabric, nodding curtly, the words a whisper on her lips:

— It is lovely, my darling. Please, forgive me, I am merely tired.

Lovely. She must have been indeed truly tired if she looked upon that marvel, and that was the only word she could find to describe it. —- ——— ——— — — ——- but rather took her arm, guiding her toward the door.

— Of course, my love. I understand. Allow me to escort you to your chamber.

And there it was again. A new chorus running beneath his words, — - — —- ——— shared a secret language containing all the same words — ———- —— yet their meaning different entirely.

—— —— out of the room before I could judge —- ——— ————— barely a good night thrown my way. Then, as my eyes fell to the fabric once more, all my ———- evaporated like so much ———

Even now as I write this, I can feel the fabric’s presence amid the walls of this house. - —- ——- see it through the darkness, hear it like a live thing calling out to me. As if it were made for me. —- - ——— —— —- ———- or hope rather—if Mother would not mind sharing, yet I fear what Father ——- —- - —- —— Some part of me thinks he would not even notice, as he fails to notice everything that concerns my person. - ———- — —— —- —- —— ——- I know it will most certainly haunt my dreams, just as whatever frightful images haunt poor Mother’s. I can hear her ——— —- gasps for breath even through the walls separating our bedrooms, and I hope —— — —- —— —- the gift ——— —- ———- —- will finally bring her peace.

CHAPTER 12

When Matilda knocked on her door the next morning, Phaedra was already dressed. The anticipation of what would come next had seeped into her dreams, guiding her steps along green hallways pulsing with the heavy beat of her heart, moving her ever closer to the door she still could not reach. But as her eyes had sprung open to the first light of dawn, it had not been the fright of nightmares singing in her blood, but the flutter of excitement for the things yet unraveled. Falling back to sleep had been out of the question.

Yet despite the nervous twitch of her fingers, eager to finally pick up her brush, she could not bring herself to leave her room just yet. She knew there was one more thing she must do—or rather, let happen—and she awaited the arrival of the maid with mixed emotions.

She knew it superfluous to have the girl attend to her hair each morning, indeed remembered her vow not to allow it again. Yet she could not help this strange urge that had overcome her, shifting her seemingly so solid convictions as if overnight.

She could not explain why the very thing she had previously thought so intrusive now seemed a necessity, but it felt important to look the part she would be taking. Even if she did not wholeheartedly agree.

So she sat before her vanity, allowing the girl free reign of her locks, as her own fingers toyed with the corner of the pad before her. She could feel the impossible pull of the sketch beneath the cover, and her hands moved multiple times to open the pad before her mind caught up with them. And each time she smoothed the cover back into place, her heart racing from the betrayal of trust she had almost committed.

Although Nathaniel had not explicitly stated that the sketch itself should be kept a secret, there was no doubt to the confidential nature of what they were undertaking, and even the idea of a breach—even if involuntary—of that intimacy sent a hollow clang through her frame.

Matilda, unaware of Phaedra’s struggle, worked with the same vacant yet blithe expression, her deft fingers weaving Phaedra’s hair into a braided crown on the back of her head. A few curling strands were left to frame her face, adding softness to the otherwise regal style.

Phaedra watched her reflection come alive in the mirror, a feeling of confidence stirring within her at the sight. The image felt foreign yet familiar, as if displaying an alternate life in which she had been dealt a more fortunate hand. A life in which every choice was her own, and every consequence not only earned but welcomed. It showed someone who was not afraid. Someone who would not be denied. Someone ready to conquer and claim.

She stood, the imagined power of who she saw pulsing through her and into the room, the emerald walls vibrating with it before reflecting it back into her in an endless game of mirrors.

Unafraid. Undenied. Conquer and claim.

Nathaniel.

“Mr. Hawthorn is in his study, miss.”

Phaedra turned to the maid, her brows knitting. But the girl had already moved on, her back turned as she went to tidy the bed.

“Thank you,” Phaedra muttered, uncertain. She grabbed the pad from the vanity, and stepped out the door, the strangeness of the comment slipping from her mind as she walked through the verdant hallway.

When she arrived to the breakfast room, she was met with the good news that her supplies had arrived and been deposited in the ballroom. Excitement surged through her, and the thought of sitting through a meal suddenly felt unbearable, with or without Nathaniel.

She glanced at the assortment of dishes laid out on the table, and with a hasty yet assured decision, she gathered some fruit and a steaming cup of coffee on a tray. Then, with a polite smile and a nod, she left the room to the astonished stares of the servants.

She sped through the halls, unwilling to give herself the chance to pause and heed the call of the many things of beauty around her. She wondered how much time she would need to be entirely accustomed to the magnificence of it all.

That Nathaniel was so dismissive, she could come to understand. His seemingly unembellished tastes, underlined by such unpleasant history within the house, were more than enough to offer an explanation. But she could not understand how the staff managed such a display of indifference, their formality, the way their eyes never strayed making them feel less… alive.

She could not help imagine what their reaction had been to the disaster. How they would have moved to help, and, when that had proven futile, to clear the charred remains of their masters. She wondered what they knew about Nathaniel’s suspicions and the way he endeavored to unearth any underlying secret. And whether they, in turn, knew anything of substance about the tragedy or the time leading up to it. Things that would be left out of Ana’s journal simply because she had not been aware.

She turned the last corner and stopped before the doors of the ballroom, her brow furrowing. She knew Nathaniel had questioned the staff himself, but she could now imagine things omitted from the testimonies, due either to shame that they would know something they should not, ignorance that it could be important, or a lingering sense of loyalty to people who were no more.