Page 46 of The Tyranny of our Longing

And then she saw it, a glint of silken green as the light of the fireplace reflected on it—a scrap of emerald fabric bound around his wrist.

He shifted on top of her, pinning her in place, and Phaedra grit her teeth, fighting the onslaught of panic surging through her veins. Then with the final dregs of her strength, she raked her fingers through the underside of his wrist, her nails breaking skin, the material catching. Yet it would not tear, her last desperate show of force meaning nothing to whatever power resided inside its unholy hue. But just as her vision started to darken, her body going numb from the quickly diminishing air in her lungs, she found the binding—a plain, unelaborate bow, mocking in its simplicity.

With barely functioning fingers, she worked it loose and pulled the strip from his hand. Then with a swoop of her arm, she threw it into the fire blazing beside her.

She did not know if it was Nathaniel’s gasp or the gush of her own breath returning, or even if it was but her own mind that had conjured up the muffled wailing erupting around her, but she did not wish to find out.

Coughing, she pushed herself up, Nathaniel moving out of her way in a daze. The world swayed around her as she got to her feet, and she snatched his hand, pulling him after her, her muscles aching as she rushed out of the study, through the foyer, and out the front door. And when they were finally outside, she sank to the ground, her breath wheezing, her body shuddering under the shock of her relief.

She barely registered as Nathaniel dropped to his knees next to her, but when she could finally summon the strength to look up at him, she could plainly see the horror chalked across his face, his knuckles white below the crimson of his wrist, clawed open and bleeding into the dark ground below.

CHAPTER 37

Phaedra watched the smoke rise into the pale gray sky, billowing like a funeral shroud tossed into the wind. There was a tightness in her chest that she could not shed, not even as the house slowly crumbled away under the gnawing maw of the flames.

The windows had given in first, glass shattering in a spray of glittering crystals. Then came the roof, its beams tumbling into the rooms below, crashing through floor after floor with deafening abandon. The walls had held out the longest, still standing as morning turned to midday, yet she knew that inside, nothing would be clinging to them but ash. The thing she had come to fear would be no match for such devastation. And it would not be long before everything would succumb, and Brackenhurst Hall would be no more.

Frigid wind picked up around her, pulling flyaway strands across her face, its wheeze as if summoned to join the chorus of crackling wood and collapsing debris. She tucked her hair behind her ears, noting how, in much the same manner, that solitary peal of loss hidden inside her yearned to join the song that should have been the anthem of their salvation.

All that beauty, lost.

The Treasure Trove yawning empty, first doomed by whatever cursed items had made their home inside its walls, and now… The embellished books, the ornate furniture, the priceless cache of valuable trinkets, the irreplaceable art lining the walls of so many rooms and hallways. The wonder that could have filled years of study—all gone.

Her heart ached for the time—the opportunity—she had wasted, for allowing her attention to be pulled where it should never have landed.

She waited for the first signs of delight to weave themselves through her grief, for the darkness within her to rise and revel in this most glorious waste, but nothing came. For once, it seemed woe would be enough.

She exhaled slowly, the sorrow flowing out and into the awaiting flames. Because that was all she would permit herself today. A momentary acknowledgment of her silent lamentation before she would force her mind to reign over her heart once more. If only she had done so sooner, maybe they would not be here right now.

But as things stood, this was the right thing to do. The only safe—even if not exactly sane—option. Nathaniel had made the right choice. And despite her ambivalent emotions, she was glad to be here to share in the endeavor, if only for her own peace of mind.

When they had broken out onto the front lawn the evening before, Phaedra had had no plan, no idea other than to get themselves away from under the influence of that unholy thing, by any means possible. And when she had witnessed Nathaniel pull himself together, only to march back up the steps of the house, her heart had almost choked in painful defeat. But to her utter relief, he had not gone inside, but instead had pulled at the bell until the whole house echoed with the shrill sound ripping through the gathering night. Then, with the confidence and poise of a man with far more experience in life, he had gathered his staff and had told them they were leaving.

Phaedra had not heard the explanation he had given for the need of this sudden departure, but it must have been something thoroughly convincing, for all of them had promptly complied without a word spared for argument.

Left to themselves, Nathaniel had offered her a room at the Claribelle Inn, and Phaedra later wondered if she had not owed him an explanation, would she have accepted.

They had ridden in silence, the tension around them almost suffocating in the confined space of the carriage. She had seen the struggle in every line of his body, the way his jaw clenched tight against the things he had yearned to say and the questions he would only dare ask in private. But the thing that had finally shattered what little remained of her splintering heart had been the haunted look in his once so vivid eyes, and the way he had clasped his hands together, as if afraid of what they might do would he not keep watch.

After they had arrived and taken their rooms, and Phaedra had finally told him everything—both the things known and those merely suspected—he had still not been able to look at her. He merely jerked his head in a nod, then with a voice dark and hollow like a howling abyss, he had said, “Please, forgive me.” And with that, he had left, seeking refuge in his bedchamber.

Phaedra had watched him leave, the rusted bite of her guilt chafing as it lingered. And even after she had retired to her own room, and sat for what had felt like hours before her vanity, she had still been unsure of how and what she should be feeling. She had stared at the darkening marks around her throat while a myriad of thoughts foundered in the swamp of her mind—fear and relief, dread and hope, heartbreak and longing locked in battle with no possible sign of a victor.

And when she had heard his restless steps on the other side of their shared wall, she could not help the recurring fancy of what would happen should she go to him. But this time, all her fantasies had ended the moment he would open the door, her mind unable or unwilling to render her true belief of what comfort there was to offer and to whom. Whether either of them were capable of it at all.

So she had forced herself to lay down in her bed, but could not force sleep to claim her exhausted body. Instead, she had stared at the ceiling, her eyes seeing shades of deep emerald playing within its shadows, and wondered what it all had meant.

The effects of the fabric—and indeed every inch of wallpaper growing along the walls—had been irrefutable. Yet the meaning behind it, the mystery of its inner workings, still eluded her.

Why had it affected them in the way that it had? What was it about the people it had mesmerized that it would manifest such behaviors in them? Had it created these unyielding desires and cold aggression, or had they always been there, hidden away, waiting to surface under the right opportunity or through a capable force?

And what part of her own feelings—her own attraction—had been true, and what part manufactured by a will that had not been her own? And had that same will moved Nathaniel in all his actions, both the kind and the cruel? Had it stoked the flames of his desire as well as sharpened the edge of his hostility? Or would he indeed be more like his father than he would care to admit?

She wondered what he would do with everything he had learned, how he would cope with the anguish of all that had happened. The certainty that this time they would not forget had cemented itself with each passing hour, and Phaedra could only guess that it was the shock of the experience that held the memories in place, its claws dug in deep, denying them the chance to disintegrate. To become undone.

When morning had finally come and Phaedra had met Nathaniel in the breakfast room, she could at least ascertain that he had also not had a restful night. His face had been haggard, the bruise of dark circles under his eyes, but there had been something new to his movements—the agility of a decision made.

When he had told her he wished to destroy the mansion, she had felt all of her emotions pull back, leaving her empty and waiting. For what, she had not known, not until he had asked her to join him. Relief had flooded her then, like a river breaking from its dam, and when she had thought she could bear no more, the fragile smile of his own solace threatened to shatter her anew.