Page 74 of Wicked Beasts (Lament Princess #1)

Seventy-Three

I return to the portrait room day after day, silently awaiting his return.

It remains covered, draped with the canvas sheet, and I find myself too afraid to unveil it.

I don’t know what will be revealed if I were to pull it down.

Fear keeps me rooted in place, unwilling to find out.

Instead, I stand before the mantle and stare up at the ghostly cloth, waiting in silence.

It wavers a little, moving from the breeze that drifts in from the window.

I’m not sure what exactly I’m waiting for—perhaps for it to fall on its own, for it to show me who will come back—but nothing ever happens.

I stand there alone, waiting for nothing.

When I return to my room, I’m still not used to the ornate mirror no longer hanging above my writing desk, my reflection no longer there to greet me when I enter.

The room feels emptier without it. I suppose my reflection offered a sense of company, moving just as I did, like the mirage of a friend.

Then, I wasn’t alone in this dark place.

Day quickly slips into night, and I find myself with my arms wrapped tightly around the tome of fairytales as I walk back to the library, ready to reshelve it.

It’s late in the evening now, but nobody’s enforced curfew in some time.

The book's cover presses against my chest, its warmth seeping into me as I clutch it close.

The manor is quiet, and I hear nothing but the sound of my own footsteps.

Mortimer tilts his head in quiet acknowledgment as he passes me in the hallway, the sound of his footsteps entirely nonexistent.

When I stop and turn to face him, he halts too, as though he already knows I want to speak to him, as if he knows an unasked question has been burning in my mind since that horrific morning I found Tristan.

.. Mortimer has always seemed more like a specter than a man—his ashen skin, hollow cheeks, eyes framed by dark circles that give him an almost ethereal quality.

The evenings make him much spookier. The way his suit seemed to melt into the shadows, blurring his form, often makes him appear less like a presence and more like a wisp of something not entirely there.

“Why didn’t you call an ambulance?” I ask, my eyes searching his face for a twitch in expression, anything that will hint at an answer I seek. “Why this… doctor ?”

Like a specter, he seems to read the context of the question directly from my mind.

“We’re too far from the closest hospital,” he says, his words drawn out and raspy but reasonable.

“They would not have gotten here in time. Dr. Wollstonecraft actually lives nearby. You might have seen Mr. Black walking to his house on occasion.”

My brows furrow, but only just. I did recall seeing him— someone —wandering off into the forest late one evening. But was it actually him? Or had it been Dr. Shadow?

I wonder now if he was somehow trying to ensure his survival.

I’m still not quite used to considering them the same person; Tristan and Dante, opposing sides of the same coin, two very different personalities occupying one body.

It did make me feel a little less guilty for my actions, but I still willingly participated with the thought they had been two different people, even fantasizing having both of them at the same time.

When I think about them now, the contours of their faces align exactly, and even the memories of their hands echo the passion or intention of the other.

I blink away the thought, trying to clear my head and focus on the present.

Calling Dr. Wollstonecraft did make the most sense. A normal doctor wouldn’t know what to do. They might have institutionalized him. It wasn’t just a suicide attempt, though it would appear that way to anyone who couldn’t accept the fact that he’d been separated into two selves.

“Are you sure that man can help him?”

He hesitates, narrowing his eyes slightly, as though expecting me to take back the question. I don’t. Instead, I only raise my eyebrows, patiently waiting for a response.

“Dr. Wollstonecraft isn’t… like other doctors,” he responds after a long pause, his words intentionally ambiguous, leaving the meaning unclear. “But if anyone can help Mr. Black, it’s him.”

More secrets.

I inhale sharply, my fingers tapping against the tome wrapped in my arms, catching Mortimer’s attention. “Returning something else you took?”

“ Borrowed ,” I sharply correct.

Mortimer dismisses me with a simple shrug before turning away and disappearing down the dark hallway.

I continue toward the library, the quiet of the house wrapping around me like a heavy cloak, its silence unsettling in the stillness of the night.

Before, the manor felt darker, with only Dr. Shadow in these halls, but now, without either of them, it just feels empty.

As I push open the library door, I'm greeted by the musty yet familiar scent of old books and aged parchment. The air feels thick with dust; the room has been left to gather silence and neglect in my absence. I spent so much time here in the beginning, but after returning the letter and the strange interaction with Manu, I haven’t stepped foot inside in weeks.

I quickly reshelve the book of fairytales, but I let myself linger, drifting between the towering bookcases, the soft creak of the floorboards the only sound as I wander through the shadows.

I’ve never felt alone in the library. At times, the feeling has been almost comforting.

Now, I feel someone hiding in the darkest crevices, eyes watching me from somewhere I can’t see.

I find myself looking over my shoulder when a cool draft caresses my neck, the hair standing on end.

But nothing’s ever there.

With a sharp inhale, I walk toward the desk.

The journal remains in the corner near the candlesticks, their frozen tears and everything else untouched, as though someone had gotten up in a hurry, but the desk always looked this way.

I’m certain that, at some point, it was properly used and clearly well-loved, the wood grain worn, ink stains and carvings deep in the surface.

I trace a few scratch marks with the tip of my finger; the edges have smoothed over time, and a light glimmer catches my eye.

That’s when I see it. Goosebumps quickly ripple across my skin, even beneath the nightshirt I wear, traveling quickly to cover every inch of me. It sends a violent shiver down my spine and takes hold of every nerve in my body.

There, just beyond the journal, sits the ornate mirror I knocked off the wall and shattered in my room, every jagged shard perfectly aligned, as though it had never been broken at all. My heart hammers in my chest at the sight of it, and suddenly, I am rooted in place, unable to move.

My thoughts spiral, each one more frantic than the last. How did it get here? Who could have possibly put it back together? The questions seem to multiply, leaving me dizzy with confusion. My heart pounds so loudly in my chest, it's the only sound I hear, drowning out everything else.

And then, a hand grips my shoulder from behind.