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The painstaking care Arthur has taken in this arrangement, the sadness and beauty interwoven in this private shrine, speaks of such profound loss that for a fleeting moment, I find my heart breaking on Arthur’s behalf.

“Ah, the Ghost Orchid,” Braxton says, coming to stand beside me. “It’s exceedingly rare, endangered, in fact. One of the most intriguing and sought-after orchids in the world.”

“Which seems only fitting that Arthur would have so many of them,” I say, trying to imagine him coming here, making a daily pilgrimage to partake in a solitary ritual of remembrance. It’s a scene that’s nearly impossible to fathom.

“They’re typically found in swampier climates like Florida and Cuba. But of course, Arthur has found a way to cultivate them here. He has an entire greenhouse filled with them.”

“So, you’ve seen them?” I ask, transfixed by the sight.

“I have,” Braxton says, his voice so low it’s almost as though he’s talking to himself. “Before today, I never understood what they meant. But now, it’s all starting to make sense.”

I turn to him, eager to hear his perspective. “So, the Orcus, the ghost orchids—how exactly does this connect to Arthur? What do you think it means?”

Braxton takes a deep breath. “It’s a bit unimaginative, but bear with me.”

I give a half grin and nod for him to continue.

“I think Arthur broke some sort of oath, and he blames himself for whatever punishment or loss followed. So he comes here to appeal to Orcus, hoping for forgiveness and a chance to right his wrongs.”

It’s definitely obvious, yet it all seems to make sense. Sometimes the simplest explanation is the one that sits directly in front of you.

“Take a closer look at these murals.” Braxton gestures toward the collection of cherubic-faced angels and horn-headed beasts, the vividly blooming flowers, and dead, barren trees. “See this one here?”

I stand beside him, captivated by the face of a woman whose beauty seems otherworldly. Her hair, a cascade of golden waves, drapes elegantly over her shoulders, discreetly veiling her form. Her eyes, a striking shade of azure, hold a depth of serenity, while her pale white skin glows with a soft, inner luminescence.

There’s a tranquil confidence in her expression, her gaze subtly averted, embodying a purity and grace that seems divinely sculpted. She stands against a backdrop of calm seas and unblemished sky, her very presence a timeless ode to an idealized beauty that seems to elevate her far above this mortal plane.

“She reminds me of Botticelli’s Venus,” I say, breathless from the depth of care and love that went into creating her.

“Well, I’m pretty sure Botticelli painted this one, too.” Braxton turns, giving me a significant look.

“Do you think that’s her?” Directing my flame toward the mural, I lean in for a closer look. “Do you think this is the mystery woman Arthur is willing to remake the world for?”

A wry grin plays at his lips. “Most likely,” he says. “But who does she remind you of?”

I study the mural again. My gaze inching over the beautiful woman’s face…as an impossible recognition begins to nudge at my brain.

“My God,” I gasp, as my whole body involuntarily shivers. “It’s—”

With my heart practically pounding its way out of my chest, I glance between Braxton and the exalted face of the woman in the painting before me.

Then, I watch as he directs his candle to the place just below it, to where a young girl with the face of an angel gazes toward an unknown horizon.

“I—” My tongue is frozen, incapable of forming actual words. I’m left only to stare, as my mind spins with the undeniable truth now laid bare.

“You see it, too?” Braxton glances between the image of the young girl and me. “I haven’t lost my mind?”

“N—no,” I stammer. “It seems so impossible to believe and yet, it makes perfect sense. Elodie really is—”

I turn back to the painting, eyes wide with disbelief. But before I can put a voice to this startling revelation, the hidden rock door begins to creak open, and I look to Braxton in a panic, unsure what to do.

Someone is here.

And we’re surrounded by walls, with nowhere to run.

Reaching for my candle, Braxton quickly extinguishes the flame. Then grasping hold of my hand, he pulls me behind the altar where we cower together.

When he snuffs his candle as well, we’re engulfed in darkness, left with the foreboding sounds of our own frantic heartbeats and the soft echo of footsteps that can belong only to Arthur.