Page 20 of The Tyranny of our Longing

And of course, there was always the possibility that in the end, their venture would come to nothing. That there would be no secret, no truth to Nathaniel’s doubts. Only the fancy of a guilt-ridden soul.

With a sigh, she turned the brilliant knob and pushed open the door, carefully balancing the tray in her hand. Her steps rang out as she traversed the marble dance floor, the sound echoing into the wide vault of the ceiling. She set the tray on the mantelpiece, then turned to survey the parcels stacked around the table.

They were many and varying in size, and as she set about opening them one after the other, she found Nathaniel had spared no expense.

While Phaedra was used to working with quality materials—had indeed made it a point at the start of her career, lest her art pay the price she would not—what she had before her were supplies unmatched in their superiority. The wax was smooth and thick, the vials of pigments pure and rich, the various instruments made with the best craftsmanship one could find.

She traced her fingers over the containers, over the brushes, knives, and tools now neatly arranged on the table before her. Here lay the perfect foundation to create something truly memorable. The rest was up to her skill.

She unwrapped a large mahogany panel, surprised not only by the repeated superior choice in material, but also to find it already prepared, in need only for a final sealing before the first layer of wax could be applied. This would speed up her work considerably.

She lifted the panel onto the easel, her chest heaving from the unexpected exertion.

“Right,” she breathed, then turned toward the mantelpiece to retrieve her pad from under the plate of fruit. She flipped it open and placed it onto the table, examining it with what she hoped were fresh eyes. A shaft of warm yellow light fell upon the drawing, the gray clouds of the previous days finally parting beyond the window.

Phaedra smiled at the charm of this heavenly display, as if the skies themselves had a vested interest in their endeavor. She followed the path of the light concentrating on the figure of the sister standing motionless, transfixed by the magnificence of the fabric before her. Everything else seemed to fall into shadow—the room, the furniture, the very form of her parents, their presence of no consequence, their strange dynamic nothing more than a backdrop to her wonder.

Phaedra cocked her head. She supposed that could have been indeed the case, at least from what she could surmise from the single entry Nathaniel had shared with her thus far. Ana’s person did feel as if caught inside a bubble, her perceived invisibility in the eyes of her parents—or at least of her father—creating a barrier around her, leaving her to exist in any way she chose fit, without the knowledge, judgment, or even perception of the outside world. But as she would weave her own existence inside that cage, its walls would separate her in another way as well. She herself would not notice the things happening around her, in this inconsequential framework to her own fantasies. Yet, there was a story there too, in those shadows.

Phaedra’s eyes narrowed as she studied the two figures frozen on the cusp of leaving the room. It almost seemed as if they would step out of the frame, the urgency of the departure evident in the lines of their bodies—lovers reunited, fleeing into privacy.

The words of dedication in the poetry book flashed through her mind, the breathless adoration that resonated in the very ink staining the page, and Phaedra suddenly knew she was correct in determining their destination. Yet, there was something else hiding in the fringes of her mind, something Ana’s words had alluded to without being aware of its meaning. Something on the paper before her, straining at the edge of the blinding light clashing into fathomless shadow. An expression of almost⁠—

There was a sound, and Phaedra lifted her head to the doors on the other side of the room, then froze, mesmerized by the beauty that had invaded the space without her noticing.

Slanting rays charged through the windows, dividing the space with intermittent shafts of light and darkness, the room seeming to lose its form, the air itself softening into a dreamy haze around her. She stared as something—someone—moved, their form emerging into light, only to pass through shadow once more, as if seeking their true manifestation, their real identity in a divided world. Their steps fell muffled, as if they too were made of the same elusive substance as the light, careful yet radiant. Longing yet fearing to be captured.

Then the sun was pulled back behind the looming clouds, and the room regained its natural character along with the man now standing before her.

“Good morning, Miss Mercer,” Nathaniel greeted her with a warm tone. “I see you have found your supplies.”

Phaedra blinked, the swift dissolution of the vision leaving her dazed.

“I…” She looked down at the table before her, trying to rein in her unraveling thoughts. “Yes. Yes! Thank you… Mr. Hawthorn.” She shot him a smile she hoped looked genuine.

He raised a brow. “Is everything to your liking?” He stepped up to the table, his eyes following hers to survey the neat order she had placed everything in.

“Yes,” she said. “It is. I was just… about to get started.”

She turned back to her drawing, the ceaseless flutter of her heart making her self-conscious. Her hand was stiff as she moved to tear the sheet from the pad, but then she froze.

“Would it be alright if I stayed a bit to observe?” Nathaniel asked behind her. Then, when she did not answer, he hurried to explain. “I do not mean to intrude. It is only that I have never seen your technique executed, and I must admit, I am very intrigued. I promise I shall keep out of your way.”

But Phaedra still did not answer, his words blending into the background as she stared at the pad and, on it, the sketch she had not touched since the previous evening.

She knew the lines she had drawn, indeed could redraw every single one from memory in perfect likeness. And she knew even better the ones she had deliberately chosen to omit. The very thing that had started out as insecurity in her early years, and had since grown into nothing less than a sacrament at this point in her professional life. She did not sketch faces.

“Miss Mercer?” Nathaniel’s words came to her muffled, as if she were adrift deep underwater, the cold current pushing against her body from all sides, her thoughts floating anchorless in her mind.

An expression.

It was there in the look of the eyes, the shape of the mouth, all blending together to form⁠—

“Is everything alright?”

It was the light touch of his hand on her arm that finally broke the spell, and Phaedra blinked, her thumb moving over the paper, over the smudge of dark charcoal she had mistaken for something it could not have been.

She let out a breath, bracing herself on the edge of the table. “Yes”, she said finally. “Do forgive me. It seems I have not slept as well as I imagined.”