Page 9 of The Tyranny of our Longing

She sank her face into her palms, a relieved breath escaping between her fingers.

Nightmare. Just a nightmare.

There was no one coming for her, no danger, immediate or otherwise, and despite the primal fear still thrumming in her blood, she was safe in a room, in a house, in a time far removed from harm. And the beat that reverberated as if under her very skin was nothing but the rap on her chamber door made invisible by the wardrobe concealing it from view.

She brushed the hair out of her face, and called in the direction of the door, her voice regaining some of its steadiness, “Come in!”

She heard it open, and a young woman emerged from behind the wardrobe.

“Good morning, miss!” she said, curtsying in her direction. “My name is Matilda, and I shall be assisting you this morning.”

Phaedra stared at the girl, momentarily stunned. Assist her? Assist her with what?

Matilda must have recognized her confusion, for she added, her gaze lowered, “I have been appointed as your lady’s maid. For the duration of your stay.”

“Oh,” Phaedra said. “Of course. I merely— I wasn’t expecting… Thank you.”

She slipped from the bed, her discomposure fully evident in the color rising into her cheeks. Matilda curtsied again, seemingly unaware, and stepped to the vacated bed to make it.

Phaedra moved out of her way, and opened the wardrobe, but Matilda whirled toward her at the sound.

“Please, allow me, miss.” She pulled out a dress, its dark hue striking in the pale morning light.

“No, it’s fine,” Phaedra said, taking the dress from her. “Please, carry on.”

She moved past the flummoxed maid, and pulled out her undergarments from the chest of drawers before stepping behind the dressing screen. She listened as Matilda quickly found her bearings again, continuing her work with unhurried yet practical movements.

Phaedra pulled the nightgown over her head and draped it across the top of the screen, then watched as, in a moment, it disappeared to be folded and laid neatly on her bed.

She had been truthful about the unexpectedness of the situation, indeed she did not remember Nathaniel mentioning such a thing, nor was it in her contract. She imagined it could well be but a sign of his courtesy, yet even so, Phaedra could not help but feel ungainly and very much in the way.

She wondered if it was strange to feel so strongly, as she herself had a housekeeper in employ in her own home. Yet somehow, a lady’s maid felt different. Much different.

When she finally emerged from behind the screen, Matilda gave her no time to reach for the button hook, but made quick time of the dress herself, before ushering her toward the vanity.

Phaedra sat, dazed, and watched as the maid quickly undid her dark braid, the long strands draping over her shoulders and down her back.

“How would you like your hair this morning, miss?” Matilda asked. There was a practiced cheer to her voice, one that, in her own discomfort, Phaedra had failed to notice before. And when she raised her eyes to the maid’s, she saw that she had been right.

There was a blankness to what should have been the warmth of an amber gaze, a kind of silent retreat, as if she were not truly part of the world around her. Absent behind the veil of her duty.

Phaedra wondered why the cheer was needed. Who the facade was for. If it was but an old habit not yet shed, because even if time would have allowed it, her surroundings would not.

A pang of sympathy moved through her, and she pulled her lips into what she hoped was a kind smile. “I… don’t really know. I think something practical would suffice.”

“Very well, miss.” Matilda bobbed her head, then set to work.

Phaedra tensed as the girl’s deft fingers weaved through her hair, combing and pulling and braiding, and despite the gentle nature of the motions, she could not help a feeling of intrusion settling upon her, as if what was happening was somehow wrong. As if she would be experiencing a thing far too intimate to be done by a stranger.

Her gaze slid from the glass, unable to remain on their reflected image, and she made a mental note never to ask Matilda to do this again. Ideas ran through her head, excuses she could make, ranging from the most thinly veiled to the most outlandish, but as her eyes landed on the wall beside the gilded frame of the mirror, all thought vanished from her mind.

Awestruck, she stared at the rich green color of the wallpaper, the hypnotic design consisting of elegant geometrical forms weaving around vines and leaves and blooms, the desire to choke or support them unclear. It felt almost alive, the way it rippled in the gathering light, bleeding emerald into the very air around it.

It seemed an impossibility that Phaedra would only now notice it, this sublime beauty wrapping around her room. That she had somehow previously imagined it to be but the backdrop of things far more intriguing. How wrong she had been.

Her heart slowed, easing into the rhythm of its shimmer, and she put out her hand, unable to resist, wishing to immerse her fingers into⁠—

“How is that, miss?”