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Her face softens. When anger and hurt and resentment aren’t hardening her features, the Zaro of old—my little sister who loved plants and flowers and would sit at the foot of my bed playing farming games while I read books out loud—comes melting through, making my chest ache.
“I love you too, big bro.”
Chapter 28
Anti-Ophelia
Zachary
ThomasAquinas,thepatronsaint of academics, believed that penance relied on three conditions:
Contrition—sorrow for sin.
Amendment—confessing sins without omission.
And satisfaction by means of good work.
All of those things sound reasonable—maybe even noble.
Sorrow for sins is easy because my sin resulted in Theodora’s hurt and anger and her avoiding me like a plague of blisters. And I’m not afraid to do good work. Work, good or otherwise, has never intimidated me.
But confessing my sins without omission is a Herculean mission—maybe even a Sisyphean task.
Because it would mean telling Theodora while I’m unhappy with her, why I lashed out at her, and why I couldn’t read a scene ofOthellowithout projecting us onto the characters. It would mean telling Theodora that I wanted to be the first person to kiss her even though she never promised me her first kiss, even though not a single thing in this world entitles me to her kisses except the fact I want them. I would need to admit that she hurt me, hurt both my pride and my feelings.
Being honest doesn’t bother me—I could confess to just about any sin in front of just about any person. But of course, Theodora isn’t just about any person.
Still, not doing the right thing because it’s difficult or because it’s embarrassing isn’t a good enough reason.
It’sacoldSaturday,cold enough for the wind to have chased away the clouds and crystallised the beads of moisture on leaves and window panes. Normally, whenever I need to find Theodora, all I need to do is to hunt her down in her usual spot in the library, but she won’t be there today.
Theodora’s use of social media is tactful: aesthetically pleasing and frequent without ever revealing much about her at all. Her friends, on the other hand, use their social media accounts very much in the same way as the Victorians used journals and letters—a medium in which to pour all one’s thoughts and emotions.
And Seraphina Rosenthal—the Rose of Spearcrest—posted a GRWM less than half an hour ago.
In it, she filmed herself doing her make-up and picking an outfit, and although my phone was on mute and I couldn’t hear what she was saying, her caption read,Get ready with me: tate britain girl trip edition.
I consider asking Evan if he’d like to come to London with me since he’s always good fun on a trip, but he’s been taking English lit more seriously since Sophie Sutton started tutoring him, and I don’t want to be the one to distract him. So I order a private cab and make my way to London with only David Hume’s collected essays for company.
I’m more than a little nervous—far more nervous than I normally am in any given circumstance—but luckily for me, David Hume’s stream-of-consciousness style of writing is dense enough to require all my attention, and I soon lose myself in his words.
By the time the cab pulls to a stop, I’m still on the same section I was on at the start of the journey, but I’ve highlighted one quote which stays with me.
“We speak not strictly and philosophically when we talk of the combat of passion and of reason. Reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions.”
This sentiment flies in the face of what I’ve always believed: that the whole point of reason is that it’s there to govern the baser aspect of our minds—our emotions. I’m not sure I agree with Hume’s assertion that reason has no other purpose but to “serve and obey” our passions rather than the other way around, but it gives me plenty to think about as I thank the cab driver and make my way into the gallery.
Once I’m standing inside, I pause. Above me is the white cage of the glass dome, which separates the icy-blue sky into squares like pale sapphires set in a lattice of bones.
I gaze into the sky and breathe deeply, steeling myself. I’m tempted to open my phone and find out Theodora’s location by checking the regular and numerous story updates Rose is doubtlessly posting, but I find that I don’t need to. I make my way through the gallery, chamber by chamber, and gaze at the paintings, looking for Theodora in each of them.
Not Theodora herself—but Theodora’s interest, her attention. What would capture her gaze?
Turner’s moody, shimmering depictions of nature, vivid suns seen through clouds like torn veils. The long-haired, unsmiling women of Rossetti’s paintings—a depiction of femininity not softened for male consumption. Draper’s fallen Icarus, with his brown skin and the tragic fan of his wings.
I spot Theodora before I spot any painting in the room she’s in.
My eyes fall on her as if she’s the artwork. She’s standing straight as an arrow, holding something against her chest. She’s in a short cream dress and an enormous pearl-grey cardigan.
