Page 28 of The Tyranny of our Longing

Phaedra straightened. “For me?”

His smile widened, and he bent to pick up a parcel from the table, one she had not noticed before. He extended it toward her, and she took it almost mechanically, her brow creasing with confusion, waiting for him to supply more information. But he merely said, “Open it,” before sinking into the chair opposite hers.

Still uncertain, Phaedra examined the package, then opened it carefully. And then she could do nothing but stare.

CHAPTER 20

The reinforced notion of having stepped into the scene of the journal never made it into Phaedra’s conscious mind, her every thought consumed by the sight before her.

Nathaniel had been right. The green she had used in her painting had indeed been entirely wrong. And as she stared at the contents of the package in her lap, she wondered how she could ever have thought that it would not make a difference.

The parcel held a length of cloth decorated with a pattern so delicate she could mistake it to be but the glimmer of the light dancing across its surface, the fabric soft and smooth under the tentative touch of her fingers. But it was its color, one that seemed to radiate in the semi-darkness of the library, that made her unable to look away.

She had never seen anything quite like it before. It pulled at her gaze as if it wanted to be the only thing to behold in this world, the only thing worth looking at, its shimmer pulsating in tandem with her very own heart.

But as she watched it in rapt fascination, she slowly became aware of a muffled sound somewhere in the distance, and it took her a few moments to realize it was Nathaniel, speaking to her. She raised her head to him, but her eyes were reluctant to follow, to leave the glorious sight that felt almost debased by such mundane packaging.

“… and when I finally found her, she seemed unable to understand what I was asking. Even after I showed her the letter of receipt proving that she must still have some of the fabric in her possession, she still hesitated before agreeing to search her stores.”

Phaedra furrowed her brows. “I’m sorry… whose stores?”

Nathaniel opened his mouth, his confusion rivaling hers. Then his eyes dipped to the open parcel in her lap and her hand molding to the soft surface of the treasure within. His lips pulled into an amused smile. “Do forgive my rudeness, Miss Mercer. For here I am, prattling on with my tale, without giving you the proper time to get acquainted.”

Phaedra felt her fingers curl into the folds almost protectively, yet she did not allow her gaze to follow his, not at all certain she would have the strength to lift it again. Her voice was a mere breath as she said, “It is exquisite.” Then she cleared her throat, hoping the act would bring some clarity to the fogging of her thoughts as well. “You were saying?”

“Right.” He straightened. “The dressmaker my father hired. When I finally convinced her to go and check, she came back from the storage room a changed woman. She suddenly remembered everything as she lay down the cloth on the counter. Remembered my father, how he himself had brought in the fabric and the measurements of my mother. Fawned over the man who had been so very much in love with his wife, that he would perform such a menial task otherwise delegated to mere servants.”

Phaedra froze, the world—even the thing of sheer beauty breathing beneath her fingertips—fading as word after word of the afternoon’s study resurfaced before her eyes. She forced herself to blink, then to pull her hand out of the box, the dormant dread awakening in the pit of her stomach.

Because despite his derisive words, Nathaniel did not know the truth of it. Did not even suspect. And the thought of blackening his already tarnished memories seemed to burn through her like acid.

She did not want to do this. Not yet. Not until it was necessary.

She pulled in a breath as she folded the package closed, the lure of the fabric intensifying as if with the knowledge of being shunned. But as it disappeared from her sight, another thought emerged from beneath the turmoil of her guilt.

She sat up, placing the parcel on the table between them, as if the distance would release her attention back to where it was needed. “Your father, he had a dress made… for your mother?”

Nathaniel nodded. “That is what the dressmaker said.” But then his brows furrowed, uncertain from the look of confusion on her face. “Why do you ask?”

“Because the dress—in the end, at least—belonged to your sister. In the portrait it is her and not your mother who wears it.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You’re right. How did I miss that?” He raked his fingers through his hair, and Phaedra found her eyes following the movement. But before her imagination could conjure images of her own fingers gliding through the golden strands, she dropped her gaze, forcing herself to think instead.

“What do you suppose happened?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But maybe my sister can tell us.” He pulled his jacket open to retrieve the journal from his pocket.

“Shall I fetch my sketchbook?” Phaedra offered, rising from her seat.

“No need,” he said, motioning to the table between them. “I have it here.”

Phaedra followed his gaze, surprised to see the pad and charcoal next to the parcel. She raised a brow. “Did you know we would have reason to continue tonight?”

“Not… exactly. Although I must confess, I am eager to read on. But it was your painting that convinced me that we may have a chance.”

Phaedra sank back into her chair. “My painting?”

He nodded. “When I was looking for you after my return, I went to your studio, and saw that you were finished with the first piece. So I was bold enough to take some supplies with me in the hope that we may move on to the next entry.”