Page 83 of Wicked Beasts
He’s right. I do know, especially after what he tried to do to me.
I just don’t want to believe it.
A long silence rests over us, both our tired eyes wandering to consider the concealed portrait.
“Who will Tr-Mr. Blackbe when he returns?” I finally manage to ask quietly.
“That’s the mystery, isn’t it?” Mortimer tilts his head, his eyes narrowing, locking onto mine with an intensity that sends a chill down my spine. “Who do youhopefor?”
My blood runs cold, and the suffocating silence stretches between us. The words lodge in my throat, refusing to come as an unsettling truth claws at the edges of my mind. My gaze instinctively returns to the covered portrait and the looming mystery it holds. If I were to pull down the tarp, would it tell me who I would see? Would it reflect the man who lost? Who wouldnotwalk through that door? Would he be gone forever?
WhodoI hope for?
I struggle with the thought. The question feels like a weight in my chest, one I can’t answer. The obvious answer is Tristan, but deep down, I know there’s a part of me that refuses to let goof either. I know I should hate Dr. Shadow. He tried to kill me, didn’t he?
Or had he merely tried to kill Cordelia, the woman who broke him?
It’s not fair. She had both of them as one.
I want both of them too.
“Can I see him?”
“It is not safe.”
I draw in a sharp, deep breath.
It’sneversafe.
Seventy-Three
Ireturn 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 coverpresses 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 participatedwith 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?”
