Page 21 of The Tyranny of our Longing

He nodded, his hand slipping from her arm. “It does seem a curse of this place, doesn’t it?”

Phaedra glanced up at him. “Have you slept badly as well?”

“Every night since I came back,” he said. His gaze wandered up the wall, landing on the portraits. “Although, in a way, it was to be expected.”

Phaedra nodded, then her brows pulled together, his words sparking a thought. “Did you know of your mother’s condition? Her… fits or nightmares?”

There was a moment of silence before he asked, his tone light, “Was that in my sister’s journal?” His eyes were still focused on the paintings, and Phaedra wondered if she should have kept the question to herself. Whether it would have been better to⁠—

“I do not know,” he began slowly, every word as if carefully mulled over, “if I ever consciously did. I was young when I left Brackenhurst Hall, and I…” He let out a slow breath, his brow creasing. When he spoke again, his voice was back to its usual detachment, the fleeting moment of his wavering gone. “When we were children, Ana would sometimes sneak into my room in the middle of the night, claiming she did not wish to sleep alone. She never told me why, only that she was frightened.” His jaw worked, and Phaedra could almost see the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place in his mind. “Her room was closest to my mother’s. And if my mother did have fits, it would explain Ana’s unwillingness to be alone on the other side of the wall.”

“It must have been dreadful,” Phaedra murmured.

Nathaniel’s lips pulled into a mirthless smile, his fingers twisting the signet ring. “I remember feeling sorry for her. Wanting to protect her from the horrors of the dark. And it never once occurred to me that my mother was the one I should be worried about.”

“You were a child,” Phaedra said, her tone soft. She felt her hand yearning to lift, her fingers to seek out his, yet she suppressed the urge, knowing the gesture too familiar, too forward for what they were.

“I was.” For a moment, he looked like he was going to say something more, but then thought better of it. He turned, and nodded toward the easel. “How long do you think you will need for the first painting?”

Phaedra folded her arms, considering it. “Perhaps two days.” Nathaniel shot her an incredulous look, and she could not help but smile. “I work quickly. And with your foresight in choosing the panels, the time will only depend on how long the wax will need to dry.”

“Alright,” he said. “Then I shall leave you to it.”

And with that he was off, leaving Phaedra to wonder why he had changed his mind about wanting to stay.

CHAPTER 13

Phaedra worked through the day, relishing in the mixing of the pigments, watching as the smooth, creamy wax melted into the colors. It calmed her in a way nothing else could, her mind adrift on each fluid movement as it settled into its final hue. Then she started on the panel, alternating between a brush to put in the base colors for the background and the small painting knife to carve in the details.

She went on without noticing the passing of the time or the shifting of the light as it once more began to rain. The drops fell softly at first, the rain gradually moving into a fury that pelted the windows like pebbles hurled from the sky. Then came the sound of something shattering, and Phaedra whipped her head toward the windows, surprised to find a world existed outside the one coming to life beneath her hand. A world that was now covered in crystalline white, shining bright under the gathering dusk.

Hail coated the grass, crushing weeds and rogue flowers alike, the frozen pellets stuck amid the tangling vines that were once meticulously trimmed shrubbery. The sky rolled dark and ominous as the rain finally stopped, leaving a leaden silence in its wake.

A cold draft rushed past her, rustling her skirts and snaking up her legs, and then she heard echoing footsteps tumbling toward her.

“Miss Mercer!” Nathaniel pulled to a stop behind her, breath wheezing in his chest. “Are you… all right? I heard… something shatter.”

“Yes,” she said absently. She stepped to the window, into the gust of icy wind whistling through the broken pane. Glass crunched beneath her slippered foot.

“Careful!” Nathaniel grasped her by the elbow, and she was gently guided back, her gaze slipping from the glittering shards to something smooth and liquid coating the floor. She turned to find one of her bowls overturned on the edge of the table, a shard of hail melting beside it, its water mingling with pale green wax dripping onto the marble.

Nathaniel followed her gaze, then grabbed a rag from the table, bending to wipe up the stain.

“Don’t!” Phaedra dropped to her knees, catching his wrist. He froze, his arm stiff under her fingers, his pulse hammering from the unexpected command. Phaedra pulled her hand back, the color draining from her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Hawthorn. Please forgive me. I— I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s… quite alright.” He did not look at her as he pushed to his feet.

Phaedra cursed under her breath, then rose as well, her other hand grasping the guilty one, as if it would prevent the reoccurrence of the offense.

“I did not mean to alarm you,” she said, searching his face. “Not over such a silly thing.” The lightness she had forced into her tone had done its job, and he glanced at her, curious. She pulled in a steadying breath, hoping her smile would fend off the heat of her next words. “It is simply that I am not used to… endless supplies. I always try to be as efficient as I can. To save what I can. And with wax, a spill is usually not a waste if one lets it dry.”

His brow furrowed as he digested this, his mouth opening without words, then he looked back at the hardening mound of green on the floor.

“I see,” he said finally. He placed the rag back onto the table, carefully as if it were a fragile thing. A wisp of chill air lifted the strands of his hair, and he looked at the window, remembering. “Right. I shall have that repaired as soon as possible. In the meantime⁠—”

His words halted as he turned back, his eyes landing not on her, but the easel behind her. The soft crease returned between his brows, and Phaedra’s heart sank.

She knew disappointment when she saw it. It was present in every line of his rigid body, the tensing of his features, the way even his breath seemed to halt, and she was sure it was only his impeccable breeding that did not let any word escape him until he was sure what exactly he wished to say.