Page 7 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Six

T he weekend escapes me, and it’s Monday before I know it.

Gisella stopped by the library a few times throughout the weekend, and while I normally don’t like being bothered when I write, I found myself grateful for her company, particularly during the times I felt an unsettling presence in there with me, almost like lingering eyes.

I never voiced my concerns to her, though.

I don’t want to scare her. She seems spooked by the house all on her own as it is.

Part of me does wonder if she ever feels the same way when she’s cleaning a room by herself.

Does she intentionally seek out comfort from the living when she has an unnerved feeling in the pit of her stomach or a chilling prickle at the back of her neck?

Perhaps the times she came to keep me company were more for her own benefit than mine.

I readjust the strap of my leather shoulder bag as I make my way to Tristan’s study and pass Mrs. Wong in the dimly lit hall.

She’s dressed in a simple yet refined outfit, her presence commanding respect, her sharp eyes scanning every corner, as if by looking carefully enough, no secrets can escape her.

I make a mental note to never try lying to her.

She feels like a guardian of the estate, all-knowing and always watching. Her eyes lock with mine.

“Good luck,” she muses.

Her choice of words unnerves me slightly. I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to thank her as my brows furrow a little, so I don’t. I just nod, give her a forced closed-lip smile, and continue on my way.

As I step into the study, the scent of old books and iron lingers in the air.

Dim sunlight filters through the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across the mahogany desk, where meticulously arranged medical texts sit alongside peculiar anatomical sketches.

The walls are lined with shelves brimming with leather-bound books, and just like the library, their spines are worn, many titles unreadable.

I jump at the sight of a detailed skeleton model leaning against the wall and smooth my hand over my rapidly beating heart in an attempt to calm my nerves.

This house and my imagination twisted together make me oddly jumpy.

I slip into the chair closest to the door and wait for Tristan as I lower my bag to the floor.

I lean forward, curiously observing the medical diagrams and texts highlighting regenerative medicine and cell biology, but most of the words are too long and foreign for my comprehension, much too difficult to understand.

My work history for this job specifically involved being a teacher’s assistant in college.

However, my actual degree was in English, and I am slightly intimidated by the sheer quantity of medical paraphernalia scattered around the room.

My interview hadn’t specified what exactly Tristan Black was researching or needed assistance with, and my knowledge of the sciences is supremely limited.

I really want this job—both for the freedom it supplies, and, well, there’s definitely a small part of my brain that wouldn’t mind getting to know Tristan a little better either.

I’ve always been impressed by scientific fields.

As a more creative person, I often struggle with the details of the sciences, though I certainly appreciate their significance.

If Tristan is willing to pursue a degree in anything related to the countless books in this room, it certainly solidifies his dedication to hard work in my mind.

Surveying the desk, I try to decipher one of the medical diagrams. I can’t make sense of any of it, so instead, I sit back in the chair and pull my bag into my lap as I wait.

A moment later, my phone buzzes.

It’s Tristan.

Good morning, Miss Amara. Please head over to the library and pull every book I have on biochemistry. I fear there is something I’ve overlooked.

Of course. Would you like me to leave them in your study?

Please.

After a few seconds, I find myself frowning at the messages.

Is this how he intends to interact with me? My heart sinks as I force myself up from my seat and readjust the strap of my bag over my shoulder, slipping my phone back into my pocket. I wonder if I made him uncomfortable when I first arrived.

Did I say something wrong?

Did I offend him in some way?

My mind reels with the possibilities as I trudge to the library alone.

Our exchange had been so brief, I struggle to come up with an explanation as I push open the heavy library door.

I am instantly met with the familiar scents of old parchment and polished wood.

They ease my nerves regarding Tristan, if ever so slightly.

As I consider, I wonder if perhaps his studies and research keep him so busy, he simply cannot meet with me. Although disappointed at the lack of personal interaction, I can perhaps appreciate a desire to save time.

I fish my phone back out of my pocket to open his text message thread.

Biochemistry .

I put my bag on the chaise lounge and start scanning the shelves.

I run my fingers along the spines of countless volumes, each one a silent keeper of knowledge I’ll never learn.

Many titles are faded, their words barely legible, while others snag my attention with their dark bindings, gleaming with a strange allure.

I’ve always loved books. There’s something extraordinary about the way lines, squiggles, symbols on a page translate to worlds of meaning when we read, its own brand of magic.

I trace the elaborate details adorning the shelves as I wander between the bookcases, wondering about the artist and the stories they wanted to tell.

Everything shelved in the library, I assume, was passed down through generations, and the obvious age of the books has me wondering how long the manor has been in his family.

My gaze lingers on a particularly imposing tome, its cover cracked and embossed with symbols that seem to shimmer with an otherworldly charm.

I drift through the narrow aisles, my fingertips continuing to graze the cool, rough bookshelves.

The sunlight slipping between the cracks in the drapes has my shadow dancing around me.

A soft creak echoes in the silence, and I glance around, half-expecting to find a veiled presence lurking somewhere behind me, but there’s never anything there.

Hours slip away as I gather what I need to complete Tristan’s request. I pull them from their dust-laden shelves, sifting through the yellowed pages, feeling the weight of scientific knowledge pressing against my fingertips as I search for the particular word.

Biochemistry .

I’ve never been very good with science. I had to look up the meaning on my phone just to know what exactly I was looking for, but I’ll never admit that to him.

I glance at the impressive fortress of books I’ve assembled, a mixture of excitement and uncertainty fluttering in my chest. I hope he’ll be pleased with me.

It’s a childish thought, I know, but I can’t quite shake it.

Biting my bottom lip, I ponder how I plan to transport them all.

I could make the trip to his study with one or two volumes at a time, but that would stretch the seemingly small task into an eternity.

Stepping out of the library, I survey the empty hallway.

The silence feels heavy, pressing in on me as I glance toward the east wing, subconsciously led by my intrigue.

After another quick look around for the certainty I am alone, I skip across the vast foyer and approach the imposing door.

With a tentative hand, I jiggle the handle, hoping for a way in.

“What are you doing?” Mrs. Wong's voice slices through the air, sharp and accusatory, startling me as I instinctively retract my hand from the cold, locked doorknob.

“Oh, I’m looking for a cart or something,” I stammer, my gaze darting toward the library. “Tristan?—”

“Mr. Black,” she interjects immediately.

“Right. Mr. Black wanted me to get him books on biochemistry from the library. I was looking for something I could use to transport them to his study.”

“This is part of the east wing, Miss Amara,” Mrs. Wong says as she grabs the crook of my elbow and yanks me from the locked door. “You need to keep your distance from this side of the estate.”

“I didn’t mean any harm,” I start to say in my defense.

“No one ever does, do they?” she replies, her voice low and laden with a troubling weight, as if she knows far more than she lets on. I furrow my brows, curious what she means.

No one ever does?

Mrs. Wong leaves me momentarily before reemerging from the shadows of a nearby closet, pushing a creaking cart.

“Stay out of the east wing,” she scolds in warning, her tone sharp and unyielding.

The reprimand is quick to strike me, and I can’t help but feel as if I’m being chastised excessively.

Why does everyone act like I’m a child here?

I take a breath as I grab the cart and peer back over my shoulder at the locked door.

While the warnings and rules are undoubtedly supposed to deter my interest in the east wing, they’ve only stoked my curiosity, and my interest now blazes with fury.

I dump all of the heavy books—it must be nearly seventy in all—onto the cart and roll it carefully towards Tristan’s study. As I get closer, I feel my heart beat faster, and I know it’s in anticipation of seeing him again, which is wholly stupid.

What if I didn’t find all the books he was looking for? What if I brought too many?

“Calm down,” I chide myself. “Be professional.”

I take a deep breath and straighten my blouse before knocking gently on the study door. When no one answers, I carefully unlatch the door and lean my head in.

“Mr. Black,” I call. While the study is large, there aren’t any particularly obvious hiding spots, and I realize the room is empty. I try to ignore the disappointment in my stomach as I begin stacking and organizing the books on one of the tables.

As I stack them, I marvel at the thought of anyone taking the time to read them all.

Only someone particularly ambitious, dedicated, and intelligent would even consider such a task.

Even working for Tristan Black for only a few hours, I am fascinated by the mystery of him.

When I start a project, I often find my ideas wild and scattered—like writing is more a question of riding the waves of untamed inspiration than some meticulous, organized project.

Yet, here is someone with a clear goal, who is willing to spend hours diving deeper and deeper into a particular question until they are satisfied with their answer.

When done, I wait patiently in a chair by a window, but nearly an hour goes by without Tristan’s return.

I glance at the clock. It’s past noon, and Mortimer told me I was supposed to have a lunch break every day at noon. Begrudgingly, I take my bag and head to the kitchen, hoping to perhaps see my employer on my way there.

But the house is quiet, and I end up eating alone without seeing a soul.

I check my phone for any more messages from Tristan, and when I return to his study after lunch, I hazard a text:

Anything else I can help you with today?

After nearly another hour of waiting, I finally get a reply.

No. Thank you.

I can’t help but feel confused—and yes, disappointed.

I shove my phone back in my bag before wandering back to my room to spend the rest of the day writing.

My words come slowly at first, but before long, I find myself cataloguing each room of this strange house.

My sentences flex, stretch, expand as I try to make them encompass the feeling of being in this forlorn, almost sentient building.