Page 52 of The Shadows Beyond
Cinn
The imposing grandfather clock in the middle of the corridor loomed over Cinn. Five minutes to six. His fisted hand wavered over Julien’s door. At least, hehopedit was Julien’s door. Julien had shown him the way before dropping him off at his own room earlier, but his elaborately sprawling mansion was impossible to navigate.
The door swung open.
“Why are you standing there like a lemon, as Darcy would say?”
“How did you know I was there?” Cinn crossed his arms.
Julien leant forward, sniffing, to say, “You smell like a lemon, too.”
Cinn scowled, tugging his beanie down lower on his head. “It’s the only shampoo the corner shop sold.”
Julien motioned for him to come in. Crossing the threshold, it became evident that ‘Julien’s room’ was actually ‘Julien’s suite’—the living room he currently stood in housed four separate doors leading off it.
The centre of the room was airy and spacious, whereas the walls were jam-packed—rows and rows of bookcases, a half-filled wine rack beside a globe drink cabinet, a handful of small sculptures in display cases. The largest Persian rug that Cinn had ever seen covered the hardwood floor, its light blue and mustard yellow adding subtle dashes of colour to the dark room.
Eyeing the glistening chandelier in the centre of the ceiling,Cinn said, “This is… nice.”
Julien smirked, eyes twinkling. “Oui,nicewas exactly what I was going for.”
“What do you want me to say? To be fair, I just spent the day at the Louvre. My standards are higher now.”
With a laugh, Julien walked backwards, gesturing for Cinn to follow him through the nearest door. “If it’s more art you’re after, I put all of my favourite pieces in my bedroom. Come see them.”
Resisting a joke about being lured into his bed, lest he encourage Julien’s line-crossing, Cinn followed Julien to find the space just as opulent and luxurious as he’d imagined. The queen-sized four-poster bed hardly took up a fraction of the floor—in fact, Julien’s numerous wardrobes dominated the room.
Remembering he was here to see the art, he followed Julien to the far wall, practically a gallery in its own right. He wasn’t sure what sort of paintings he’d expected to see hung on Julien’s walls—more classical pieces, perhaps—but these surreal and abstract canvases surprised him.
Cinn’s eyes magnetised to a painting where eerie shadows danced across a desolate landscape, the skeletal remains of twisted structures looming in a haunting display of despair.
He moved down the wall. Each piece, clearly by the same artist, contained abstract settings, intimidating creatures, and distorted forms. A gathering of skeletons around a crackling fire, bones bleached white, eye sockets staring out at the viewer. A monstrous head with a gaping maw, out of which humanoid spiders were clawing their way. A large, gnarled tree with many skeletal hands emerging from its trunk and branches, reaching out in different directions, as if grasping at something unseen.
Cinn reached out to hover his fingers a few centimetres away from one canvas’s brushstrokes.Julien, why the fuck do you want these in your bedroom, you absolute freak?
“They’re a bit… doom and gloom,” Cinn said, moving to the final painting, which featured predominantly red hues. The nightmarish,dystopian tableau reminded him so strongly of his visit to the shadowrealm, he clutched his golden bangle to make sure it was still there. “This one looks particularly similar to where I went when I tried to find Béatrice,” Cinn said. “Who painted these?”
“Zdzislaw Beksinski.”Julien’s hands ghosted across the canvas. “He once said,‘I wish to paint in such a manner as if I were photographing dreams’.”
“Well, I love his use of expressionistic colour,” Cinn said, sounding very smart indeed, but Julien snorted.
“Good job listening to me and Darcy today. For five minutes, anyway, before prattling around with Elliot.”
“What’s this one called?”
“He left most of his works untitled. So as not to impose a specific narrative on them.”
“Sounds like something you would do.”
Julien’s infectious cackle made Cinn’s heart beat ever so slightly faster. His laugh was quickly becoming like a drug to Cinn—he was unable to resist chasing it, knowing how it would light up Julien’s eyes, cause his nose to scrunch up slightly, deepen his dimples.
Cinn inched closer to him. “Don’t you want all this in your Talwacht apartment?” Over the last few weeks, Cinn had found himself increasingly curious about where Julien went after he dropped him off each day.
“Eventually. I don’t really like the apartment, though.” Julien’s lips pursed, and he flinched as if he’d said too much.
“Why don’t you take Béatrice’s old room at Darcy’s cottage?” Cinn regretted the stupid question even before he caught the look of horror that flashed across Julien’s face. “Sorry, sorry, ignore me.”
Julien walked out, with Cinn awkwardly following him to the sumptuous chaise longue in the middle of the sitting room. He really should be on his best behaviour now, but he couldn’t resist touching a large ring-bound sketchpad lying on the coffee table.
