Page 33 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)
We leave our slabs in the library, ensuring Arthur can’t track us. Arm in arm, Braxton and I quickly move down the hall, reminding me of the early days when Jago insisted we walk together like this.
Back then, I resisted, refusing to partake in what I saw as a dumb, outdated ritual. I vowed to reject all of Arthur’s antiquated rules, until Jago said: if you’re smart, you’ll choose your battles wisely, because there’s no use fighting a match that’s completely rigged against you.
He also said to think of Arthur as a curator of the past, picking what he wants and discarding the rest.
It’s almost like he was hinting at what I’m just now confirming as true. Combined with what he told me about time back in Versailles—that every moment has already been lived and continues to be lived—I wonder just how much Jago might know.
“Where are we going?” Braxton asks, snapping me back to the present.
“Following a hunch,” I whisper.
As we reach the front entry, I notice it’s pouring outside. Grabbing two rain slickers and an oversized umbrella from the bin beside the door, Braxton ushers me out into the biting cold.
Beneath the canopy of the umbrella, which admittedly isn’t doing much good, we turn toward the Tarot Garden. My gaze instantly finds The Magician , The High Priestess beneath it, and The Wheel of Fortune where it all culminates.
A fleeting image of the girl in the red cape, a mirror image of myself, flashes through my mind. With my hood drawn over my head much like hers, I’m briefly overcome by the unnerving sensation that I truly have been here and done this before.
With the rain pounding overhead, I turn to Braxton and say, “Do you ever get the feeling that you’ve already lived this?”
“You mean like, déjà vu?” He wipes raindrops from his cheek.
“More like déjà vécu,” I say. “The sensation that you’ve not just seen it, but actually lived it.”
He shakes his head slowly, though his gaze sparks with curiosity.
“Ever since I met up with my dad, I’ve had this unshakable feeling that I’ve already lived this. Then today, in the middle of an Unraveling, I swear I saw myself—or at least, a girl who looked just like me—racing through the old labyrinth beneath my window.”
We walk together in a contemplative silence. After a while, Braxton asks, “Are you familiar with the Coffer Illusion?”
I glance up at him, shaking my head.
“It’s a visual phenomenon created by Anthony Norcia, a psychologist and vision scientist. The image is composed of shades of black, white, and gray, creating the illusion of a series of rectangles. At first glance, all you see are straight lines, angles, and rectangles. But, if you look closely, you’ll notice there are actually sixteen circles hidden within the pattern. Once your brain finally adapts, you can’t unsee it.”
“Meaning?”
“The illusion illustrates how we tend to perceive certain aspects of sensory data, while ignoring others, based on expectations or familiarity.”
I take a moment to absorb that.
“I guess what I’m trying to say,” he continues, “is that we expect time to be linear, so we perceive it as linear. But what if it’s not?”
“So, you think it’s possible that I really have lived this before? Like Arthur might have me trapped in some sort of loop without my even realizing it?”
Braxton shrugs. “Considering everything I’ve seen here at Gray Wolf, I’d say just about anything is possible. Sometimes it feels like time doesn’t move quite the same way here.”
We continue beyond the gardens. When we reach a place where a narrow path cuts through the rock, I squint through the wind and rain at the barren expanse of nothingness.
“Are you sure this is the right way?” Braxton asks.
I shake my head. “I’m not sure of anything,” I admit. “I just desperately hope that I’m right.”
Ducking our heads, we continue our battle against the onslaught of wind and rain. Just when my leggings are soaked from my ankles to my knees, just when I’m beginning to question my sanity, we turn a bend, and I let out an involuntary gasp.
How on earth could I have possibly missed this?
Then again, Gray Wolf is brimming with so many secrets and mysteries—so many spaces and rooms I’ve yet to explore.
I run a sweeping gaze over the collection of monstrous sculptures, as intrigued as I am horrified. This eerie, disturbing place was a source of inspiration for two of my favorite artists, both Salvador Dalí and Nikki de Saint Phalle.
“The real one is in Northern Italy,” I say. The story of this place rises to the surface of my consciousness, begging to be told. “It was created during the sixteenth century. Commissioned by Pier Francesco Orsini, to express his grief over the death of his wife, Giulia Farnese.” When I hear myself utter that name, I abruptly stop.
Wait—Giulia Farnese?
A surprising link begins to form in my mind. This Giulia Farnese is a relation of the Giulia Farnese, known as La Bella, who was the mistress of the Borgia Pope. And strangely enough, I recently dined with the Pope’s son Cesare in Renaissance Italy.
Everything is connected , my dad’s words echo in my head.
Passing several sculptures and temples representing enormous mythological creatures, monstrous animals, mythical subjects, and enigmatic figures, all carved from bedrock, we pause before the most famous of them all: the gaping mouth of the Orcus, bearing the inscription: Ogni Pensiero Vola , which translates to: Every Thought Flies.
It reminds me a lot of the inscription on the plaque fronting Gray Wolf: Panta Rhei , or Everything Flows.
As I stand before it, chills prickle my skin, though the weather is only partly to blame. This park, with its remarkable collection of statues, was designed to astound—and it definitely succeeds. The creased brow, vacant hollow eyes, and gaping mouth of the Orcus is the perfect expression of grief.
As my gaze wanders, taking in the wide assortment of statues from the mythical to the mystical, it becomes clear each one carries its own message.
The Orcus Mouth, also known as The Mouth of Hell, represents the Roman god of the underworld.
The Tortoise with a Winged Woman contrasts the slow march of time against the fleeting passage of life.
The Dragon Fighting with Lions symbolizes the eternal battle between good and evil.
The Leaning House with its deliberate tilt serves as a metaphor for the disorienting impact of grief.
And on it goes, encompassing over twenty sculptures in all.
In Italy, the statues are embedded in a lush, natural landscape. But here on this barren island, they seem to emerge seamlessly from the rock, as if sprung from nature itself.
“I know it’s not the real one,” I say, “but that doesn’t make it any less powerful.” My eyes sting, and my cheeks are flushed and wet, though it’s not entirely due to the rain.
In the midst of this garden, it suddenly becomes clear Freya was right—Arthur Blackstone did love someone, and according to this place, he must’ve lost them as well.
It’s a grief that feels hauntingly familiar, mirroring the heartache I bear for my father’s death—a loss that can be traced straight back to Arthur.
How many others will suffer because Arthur has yet to find a healthier way to deal with his anguish?
Turning to Braxton, I’m overcome with the sudden urge to kiss him. Not like the first time, because while that was nice, wonderful even, it was a bit too tentative for what I have in mind. No, this time when I kiss Braxton, it’s like the second time, the third time, and all the other glorious kisses we’ve shared combined into one. Drawing away, I peer into his bottomless blue gaze.
“What brought that on?” he asks, his hand gently caressing my rain-soaked cheek. “Not that I mind, of course. Just wondering.”
“I’m not sure,” I admit, still a little breathless from the kiss. “Part of it’s this place—this monument to grief. And part of it’s because I was worried when you didn’t reply to my text.”
“Sorry,” he says. “I left my slab back in my room when I met with Oliver, Finn, and Keane. Looks like we have a team, by the way.” He grins. Then, directing his gaze back to the statues, he adds, “So tell me, why are we here?”
“This place,” I say, voice holding a gravity that claims his full attention, “is going to lead us straight to Arthur’s weakness.”