Page 31 of The Tyranny of our Longing

“For the painting,” he said. He glanced at her, then straightened as he saw her expression. “I’m… sorry, it was just a silly idea. I merely thought that if we were to construct the semblance of a dress from the fabric, we may attach it to the painting. That I could maybe find someone to sew it, and then⁠—”

“No!” she cut him off with a vehemence that surprised them both. He stared at her, uncertainty marring his features, and she closed her eyes with a frustrated sigh, trying to gain control of her obviously slipping mind.

“I apologize, Mr. Hawthorn,” she said finally. “It seems I am not myself today. What I meant to say was yes, it can be done. I have personally not created anything like it before, but… I find it an interesting idea.” She shot him a tentative smile, and was relieved to see his expression smooth. “And what I also meant was that I can do it myself. I can sew the dress. I am not a skilled seamstress by any account, but I think my capabilities would be more than enough for what is needed here.”

“All right.” He nodded. “I shall send someone with the supplies.”

“Thank you,” she said almost absently as he walked out, her eyes slipping to the parcel once more. There was a tremor in her breath, as if air could finally reach her lungs again.

As if the leaden fingers of a painful grip had finally released her.

CHAPTER 22

Without the burden of agonizing over the perfect color, Phaedra made quick work of detailing the painting. And by the time the gray light of the afternoon began to fade, she found that she was finished. All that remained was the dress.

The fireplace had been lit for her, and she settled into the plush chair beside it, her weary body grateful for the repose. She placed the sewing kit on the low table before her, then opened the parcel to pull the fabric onto her lap.

A long exhale broke through her lips as her fingers dipped into its softness, the surface smooth and luminous, yearning to be touched. She wondered what unholy urge could have seized her to close up the box after Nathaniel had left, and a shard of almost anguished remorse stabbed into her for denying herself this view, this feeling. For what had she achieved but to inflict upon herself the pain of the parting, the agony of separation? No. She would never do such a foolish thing ever again. It was hers now. And she would cherish it the way it was meant to be cherished.

She pulled the fabric open, the cloth unspooling across her lap, and she draped it across her arms, relishing in the feel of its weight. It almost felt like sacrilege to cut into it. But then again, so would denying it its destiny.

Phaedra tilted her head, her eyes following the dance of the firelight shimmering across the surface of the cloth, and for a moment she wished it was her own dress she would be making.

She could almost see it, how the radiant color would come alive so vivid against the white of her skin, luminous against the dark of her hair. How it would cascade over her, this blend of light and dark merging in a sensual dance, hiding and revealing as it swirled around her form.

She could almost feel the heady sensation as it draped over her curves, feel how Nathaniel’s eyes would roam over her body as if she too would be a work of art. She could see how he would approach her, his fingers burning to touch, the ache visible in every line of his face, every edge of his straining form. And all it would take would be but a thin crack in his carefully constructed facade before his resolve would shatter, and he would finally bend his knee before the reign of the longing he could no longer deny.

Phaedra’s lips tilted as she reached for the scissors, the blades whistling through the material as if in song. Through glazed eyes, she threaded the needle, then pierced the fabric with fingers that no longer wavered. Then she pulled and folded, tightened and ruffled, again and again until what came to life in her hands was nothing short of perfection.

CHAPTER 23

Footsteps fell like hammers in the dark, and Phaedra ran. Walls flew by, their dreary colors draining until all that remained was a verdant pulse, urging her on with every beat.

Yet the steps came ever closer, ringing out now just behind her, the billowing darkness rushing before her the only sign that this time, she might just make it. Escape into the room, and lock it behind her. Fall into the emerald light waiting to set her free.

She gasped as hot breath streamed over the prickling skin of her neck, the thud of footsteps so close it could have been the sound of her own frantic feet. Gritting her teeth, she trained her eyes on the door.

She was almost there. A few more steps and she would be safe. Away from the menace pounding as if through her very bones. Away from whatever horrid thing he would have her do this time. Because this time she would make it.

The heat of an outstretched hand fell over her back, and still she hoped—believed—it could happen. That she could⁠—

Phaedra woke with a start, her heart hammering in her chest. Sunshine cascaded over her in golden waves, yet she could still feel the icy grip of the phantom hand landing on her shoulder, the heavy steps echoing into the high space around her.

She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, her head pounding with every footfall. Then they stopped.

“Miss Mercer?” The voice came as if through a fog, then the steps resumed a more hurried pace. Nathaniel dropped to his knees beside her, his hand grasping her arm in breathless alarm. “What happened? Are you alright?”

It was the distress in his tone that finally dispersed the remnants of her dream, and Phaedra blinked up at him, the ache in her head moving into her neck and shoulders.

“I… Where am I?” she croaked, her voice hoarse, as if long unused. As if she had been sleeping for a very long time.

She straightened, surveying the sun-drenched room around her, and was surprised to find herself in the ballroom, sitting by the fireplace. She slumped back into the cushions, her eyes fluttering closed. “I must have fallen asleep. What time is it?”

“Almost noon,” he said.

There was something so tender in his voice that Phaedra felt the need to open her eyes, to witness its trace in his expression before it could disappear. Then her gaze dropped to his hand still folded around her arm.

“Forgive me,” he muttered, carefully lifting his fingers from her sleeve. “I did not mean— I’m sorry if I startled you.” He pulled his hand into his lap, but did not get up. “I was worried. You did not come to dinner last night, and no one saw you this morning, and…”