Page 13 of The Tyranny of our Longing

“Yes,” he said, the word no more than a breath. He watched her a moment, his features guarded, as if waiting for her to say something else. And when she didn’t, he added, near bashful, “I know it may seem rather excessive, but⁠—”

“Please.” She held up her hand. “You do not need to explain. It is your prerogative.”

A hesitant smile lit his somber features, his shoulders losing some of their tense bearing, and Phaedra could not help the hollow ache pulsing through her heart.

She wondered what it could have been like for him to grow up, to go into the world with such an affliction. What it had meant in the perception of others. The possible—probable—ridicule or sheer dismissal, all because of something he had no control over. As if life with such a hindrance would not be difficult enough.

But then again, she was reminded as he finally pushed the doors open, wealth had a way to cushion all falls.

CHAPTER 8

Phaedra followed Nathaniel into a ballroom, the sight stopping her in her tracks.

Large windows lined the northern wall, the cream velvet drapes pulled aside to allow the muted light of morning to spill onto the white marble floor. Veins of gold and lapis snaked beneath the gleaming surface, pulling her into the room like the current of some fairy-tale river. Brass filigree sconces were affixed to the walls at intervals, and looming below a frescoed ceiling was a row of three grand crystal chandeliers. They hung like burnt-out jewels over the empty space of the dance floor, reminiscent not of times more merry, but rather a fall into decadence—a reminder that even grandeur ends.

A shiver of delight passed over her, and Phaedra pulled her eyes from the glittering crystals swaying on a phantom wind to find Nathaniel standing by the marble fireplace at the far end of the room. A large gilded mirror hung on the wall above the mantel, reflecting her solitary form in the grandness of the room.

She stood a moment, awed by this clear contrast of her own dark figure to everything else around her. Yet instead of feeling out of place, she had the sudden sense that she was the only real thing there. As if everything else had blurred together, their lines, their edges and forms fading until all that remained was nothing but ashen mist. And she, the only thing of substance left.

Her eyes slid to Nathaniel, who watched her with a curious expression, as if he too would be contemplating the same thing. But then she blinked, and the room slid back into its natural state, the strange lines melting from his face as if they had never been.

“If you would find it acceptable, I would like to offer you this space as your studio,” he said, motioning around himself. It was only then that Phaedra noticed the ballroom was not entirely devoid of furniture.

There was a plush wingback chair with a low table in front of the fireplace, as well as another larger table, an easel, and a stool set before the windows.

“I am told artists need a lot of light,” he continued. “And I believe the lay of the room would provide you with the most this house has to offer. But if it is not to your liking, I can make arrangements to⁠—”

“No!” she interjected. “It’s perfect.” She flashed him a smile, then went back to examining the supplies he had already laid out for her on the table.

“It is not much as of yet,” he said, stepping to her side. “These are things I already had on hand that I thought may be useful. Please feel free to discard anything you find the opposite.”

Phaedra nodded, her fingers moving over a sketchbook, a case of charcoal pencils, some brushes, rags, and a few bowls. There were two metal pails under the table, one for water and one for waste. Then her eyes slid to the wall opposite the windows, and she froze.

Three portraits hung side by side, large and solemn, and the prickles that darted across her skin were no longer from the chill of the long unused room.

“Ah, yes,” Nathaniel said, following her gaze. “I did not wish to leave you entirely without assistance.”

There was a hint of a smile in his voice, but Phaedra only shook her head, not knowing how she could have missed this display when first entering the room. Or indeed their purpose there, instead of their original location in the drawing room.

Nathaniel seemed to have guessed at her unspoken question. “As far as I’m aware, you have not met my family in person.”

“No,” she murmured. She found it difficult to look away, the faces, somehow more stern than she remembered, capturing her attention in a vice-like grip. It felt as if they were watching her in turn, the expectation in their eyes eerie yet unmistakable.

“These portraits were commissioned in the last year of their lives, each for their respective birthdays. It is the closest likeness I can offer you, and I find them quite true. The ones of my parents, at least. My sister, I can only guess. But knowing my father, I am certain he would not settle for anything less than perfection.”

She nodded absently, her eyes glued to the grim expressions, no hint of smiles or good humor. Flashes of the other paintings crossed her mind in blurred yet vivid color, and she tried to reconcile what she remembered to what stood before her. And when her thoughts finally settled on the question of which rendering would reveal the true nature of their subjects, she felt she finally understood Nathaniel’s pursuit.

“They look so very solemn,” she said. “Is this how you remember them?”

The question left her lips before she could consider their propriety, and she clenched her teeth, stifling a groan. When Nathaniel did not answer right away, she added, “I apologize for my blunt question. I did not mean⁠—”

“No, it’s quite alright,” he said, musing. “I was merely contemplating if that would be the most appropriate word to describe them.”

“And have you arrived at a satisfactory conclusion?” she asked, peering at him. Her effort of finally tearing her gaze from the portraits was rewarded with a half-smile, quick and sharp, one she knew could snare the heart of any naive young girl in the blink of an eye.

“Maybe,” he said. Then his smile faded, his brows drawing together in thought. “My mother,” he motioned toward the painting on the left. “She was often… fretful. Jittery. As if she would always sense some kind of danger looming just outside our view. And whatever she did, however calm or collected she tried to appear, it always seemed… feigned somehow. But in a way, I understand. At least, I do now. Did you know my father was not her first husband?”

Phaedra blinked, the question catching her off guard. “I… did not.”