Page 35 of Chasing Eternity (Stealing Infinity #3)

In a panic, I reach for Braxton’s hand, only to find he’s no longer beside me. A chill courses through me as I call out his name, my voice echoing off the cavernous walls.

A moment later, the rasp of a match striking pierces the silence, and a flickering candle’s light bathes the space in a warm, unsteady glow.

“Here.” Braxton steps into view, handing me a lit candle before lighting another for himself.

With my candle held high, I survey the space. The ceiling and walls are adorned with breathtaking murals, painted by some of the world’s most illustrious artists. The turbulent brushwork of Van Gogh, the dramatic play of light and shadow of Caravaggio, Michelangelo’s deeply devoted brushstrokes, and the insightful genius of da Vinci are all represented here.

These walls are a treasure that would easily move an art historian to tears. Yet tragically, they are destined to remain unseen by the outside world.

“Why would he keep this hidden?” Braxton’s voice breaks the heavy silence, echoing my own thoughts.

“It’s a gallery of grief,” I whisper. “A private sanctuary for his pain. This must be where he comes to confront his demons, to bask in the beauty he can never fully possess.”

In the dim glow of candlelight, Braxton’s eyes meet mine, filled with wonder and sadness. “It’s incredible and tragic at the same time.”

I nod, my heart heavy with the weight of our discovery. “Arthur’s collected the world’s beauty to surround himself with what he cannot create or control. It’s his way of coping with the loss he can never truly overcome.”

You’ve been here before, done this before , a voice insistently whispers in my head.

“In Roman mythology,” Braxton says, “Orcus is a god of the underworld, tasked with punishing those who break their oaths. The Romans believed that breaking a sacred promise invited Orcus’s wrath—a sort of divine justice for failing to honor one’s word.”

The words settle over me as I stop before what looks to be an altar, carved from a massive slab of rose quartz, a stone renowned for its associations with love. Its soft pink hue glows in the candlelight, casting an ethereal light around the room, adding to the solemn, almost sacred atmosphere.

Meticulously arranged across the top is an otherworldly display of white flowers—their beauty so exquisite they seem to almost transcend this physical world. Held aloft by nearly invisible stems, they appear to levitate far above the altar, creating a spectral ambiance in the dimly lit room.

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.