Page 26 of The Tyranny of our Longing

The silence of the stacks dropped on her like a welcome weight, slowing the rush of her blood, and she took a moment to breathe in the scent of paper and ink, of polished wood and faded ash.

There was a gravity—a finality—to what she was attempting, and she looked up at the gallery, wondering if this was indeed the right thing to do. Because if her suspicions were proven true, it would completely change their understanding of what the life of this family had been like.

Hesitation clung to her limbs as she climbed the stairs, her fingers brushing along the spines. And as she closed in on the shelf where she had previously deposited the poetry book, she found herself uncertain whether she should tell Nathaniel at all.

She knew he would see it in her painting. That he would notice and he would ask. But perhaps she could feign ignorance and claim that it had simply been the guiding hand of her muse. To maintain that she herself did not fully understand, and thus delay what would most certainly be a devastating discovery. After all, he was already guilt-ridden from abandoning his sister to a household merely deemed cold. What would it do to him to know the ordeal his mother had been through?

Her fingers were rigid as they bumped against the ornate spine, and with a deep breath, she pulled the book free. She turned and walked past the large windows and down the stairs, the urge to lengthen the time before certainty almost overwhelming.

Apprehension weighed deep in her stomach as she finally sank into one of the chairs by the fireplace. She stared at the worn cover, the soft leather invitingly smooth beneath her fingers. Then, with a jerk of her wrist, she flicked the book open, the pages parting at the poem so frequently perused.

Captivation of You

My love, your need does push me to madness,

The heart that beats against my chest,

For unrelenting is this wildness,

As you pull and I too press

Against the will that binds your hands.

And though the hunger does subside

The urgent ardor once released,

The craving stays, this aching void

Only serves this ragged beast,

Your shudders, your cries its only feast.

My love, I know the blood of your heart,

Know every breath that you may take.

Defy me now, and you will know

All that I may care to break

Just to soothe this battered ache.

For only within you I am sane,

Tattered, frenzied, buried, entwined.

And within you I am whole,

In your soul I am enshrined.

Phaedra stared at the words infused with such longing, her breath ragged in her chest. It felt as if a blindfold had been ripped from her eyes, the light and color of the world beyond suddenly too vivid. And the words she had once mistaken for the ode of one overtaken by passion now held another layer of meaning—one that spoke of a different kind of need. The kind that would not be denied.

She swallowed against the tight knot forming in her throat, the description of Mariana’s ailment echoing in her mind. How she used to have such violent nightmares that her cries would carry even through the walls. That even Ana would flee into the safety of her brother’s chamber.

She flipped back to the beginning of the book, the sweetness of the dedication almost taunting. Then she turned the page to the first poem, hoping still that she might be wrong.

CHAPTER 19