Page 28 of Reflections of Silence

“That’s not a nice hobby. Poor man,” I muttered under my breath.

Minette frowned at me. “Madame?”

“Nothing.” I waved her away, my awkwardness returning along with my embarrassment. She frowned again andretreated, leaving me with a clutch of food and a cup filled to the brim.

Guilt washed over me. Inside my head, Sebastian laughed.

“Don’t laugh. They put up with enough from you,” I snapped tartly. I had the impression of his disapproval before Sebastian’s presence disappeared, and I was left to myself.

By the time I sampled most of the plates, plus refilled my coffee for the umpteenth time, I knew I had to get up or risk sleeping through the day. As much as I wanted to see Sebastian again, I didn’t want to replicate his nocturnal habits. Sunlight was still important to me, though I experienced a wave of guilt at sampling its warm pleasures alone.

Is that why you’re so cold?

The wayward thought took up residence in my head, but I didn't believe that was his reasoning for not seeing sunlight. Maybe his library would hold more information on the topic. But right now, that wasn’t where I wanted to be.

Shifting everything from my bed to the floor, I stood, waiting for the room to start spinning again, but the one thing that dropped was my overfull bladder. As I relieved myself, I made a note to thank Minette—she’d known exactly what to do for me.

How many others had she helped?Wasthere a string of women he fed from, or did he prey on the staff alone? I shuddered at the thought of him as he was last night with me, with another woman—frankly, with anyone else at all.

I waited for his snarky comment as I dressed. Minette had laid out a gorgeous pale-green day dress for me that matched my complexion to perfection. I fingered the scalloped hem, waiting for a response but my headspace remained my own.

I’ve upset him.

Deeply.

And in turn, that upset me, too.

I wandered through the halls of the upper floor, conspicuously absent of life in any form. No flock of servants assaulted me today. Even the bugs didn’t bother me here. The questions I should have asked my husband began to bombard me, instead.

Why wasn’t I afraid of him? Why had I adapted to this life, to a man I’d met days before? My God, I didn’t even know what day itwas.

Why was I not more homesick? I loved France, missed my father, broken man he was. This place seemed so different, though I had been outside for very little time.

Eventually, I found myself pacing the gallery. Sebastian’s many faces stared at me through centuries worth of time. How old was he? They must have all been painted before he had relocated—ahh, yet another question to ask my absentee partner.

Why, why, why?

I was never going to be able to hold a significant conversation with him at this rate.

I wandered to the far end of the gallery where the portraits began to show the passage of time. Though my husband still appeared the same, paint crinkled at the aged edges, dust heavy on the frame as though no one dared to clean it, lest it dissipates beneath their hands.

Time, it seemed, was more fragile than the monster it held within.

Heavy drapes lined the windows right to the edge of the hall. What I thought was the end of the hall, until a sprinkle of gold caught my eye. A gilded edge peeked from beneath the drape. Idrew it back with caution, not wanting to destroy any further art, but the hall continued a few steps into deep shadow.

Returning to the center of the gallery, I collected a small lamp from the opposite wall—one of many present in each room—and returned to the curtained end of the corridor. Foreboding filled me, but I pressed into the darkness, heedless of the lick of fear that flickered along my spine in a ghostly touch. Sebastian’s presence, something older than the man I knew, shrouded around me like a cloak, neither hot nor cold, but lacking in any sort of comfort.

I lifted the lamp to view the hidden portraits. Four descended into the dim light, ending in a dead-end, the final picture facing me but too dark to see. I started at the one to my left, working my way forward.

This painting was much like the others in the gallery. Sebastian stared back at me, his face younger than I had seen before. Rather than the roundness of boyhood or teen years, his face was all angles, lacking in fullness. His eyes set deep, widened, as though in panic.

He looked...starved.

I blinked, uncomfortable beneath the still gaze of his haunted eyes, and moved to the next portrait, lifting the lamp high. This painting was set in deep reds and blacks, his flesh stark, lifeless against the open collar of his shirt. His face drawn, he appeared the same age as in the prior painting.

But his eyes—those dark orbs that pinned me in place as he taught my body how to please his, those held a tinge of demonic red, piercing as though they tracked my every step. I blinked, backing up a pace, and collided with a very warm body.

The lamp tumbled from my fingers.

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