the impression of a bed in the middle. Drawers, closets, standing wardrobes on the side. Something that might be a vanity, with a large oval shape, reminiscent of a mirror behind it.
The light from the fire behind us reaches into the room. Our shadows are thrown on the floor like those of haunted spirits. Even with Jeremy at my side, even with him taking the lead, it feels like I’m trespassing. Worse than when I stumbled into Jeremy’s secret surveillance room thinking it was his office.
It feels like I’m intruding on a sacred place. Almost like this is a temple in which I don’t belong.
“Jeremy…” I say.
“I would never have done this without you,” he tells me. He takes a step forward, and—for a moment—seems almost to stagger.
It passes in less than the time it takes to blink. But Jeremy—Jeremy Stonehart, always so firm and sure of himself—actually misplaced his step.
He releases my hand and strides across the dust-covered floor. Almost as if to make up for the momentary weakness.
He stops before a long set of drapes and flings them open.
Dust flies everywhere with the disturbance. And suddenly we have pale moonlight shining in, clashing and contrasting with the warm orange glow of the fire.
Jeremy opens the window, and a draft immediately blows past him. The cool air sweeps through and cleanses the room.
And then Jeremy turns around, and begins to methodically, silently, take the sheets off the furniture.
I move to help him. We work in an understanding silence, neither of us saying a word, but neither of us needing to, either. Knowing his mother’s influence on him, I can only begin to imagine what coming here must mean. I wasn’t even aware this was his family’s house, and not something he bought only after he became Stonehart.
It takes us a good half hour to restore the room to its former grace. Jeremy does not just throw the sheets on the floor after he’s uncovered the furniture. He folds them all, in tight, compact squares.
I don’t know why he does it. But I’m not about to interrupt his reverie. There is an undeniable softness to his motions. A gentle tenderness. He functions in an almost dream-like state.
Finally, there is only one white sheet left. It covers the mantle of what must be another fireplace. I noticed Jeremy purposefully avoiding it before. Now that it’s the only one remaining, it cannot be ignored.
He stops before it and regards it for a moment. “Come here, Lilly.” Those are the first words he’s spoken since we entered. “This is something I want to do with you.”
I glide up to him. While we were working, I’d intentionally averted my eyes from any personal belongings. The figurines on the shelves, the items inside the drawers and the paintings on the walls would be pointed out to me by Jeremy, in time, if he so chose. I did not want to spoil the first impression by reading anything into them.
“This is important to you?” I state, more than ask.
“Very,” Jeremy says. “I did not think I would be capable of returning here, ever again. This room…holds so much meaning. There was so much pain. These walls have known so much suffering. But there was also good. There was love. And kindness. It could not overcome the darkness, Lilly. But it made it just a little more tolerable.” He looks at me. “Does that make any sense?”
“Of course,” I answer him, slipping my fingers through his. “But whose pain, Jeremy? Yours, or…”
“ Hers ,” he says. With that, he pulls down the last remaining sheet.
It flutters to the floor slowly, like a silk ribbon caught on a breeze. I understand immediately why Jeremy left this sheet for last.
Above the fireplace, atop the mantle, is a glorious portrait of a beautiful woman. She looks a queen, sitting straight-backed in a gilded chair. Long black curls fall just past her shoulders. The ebony tresses cover the bit of skin exposed by a low-cut dress.
It’s impossible to guess her age. She might
The light from the fire behind us reaches into the room. Our shadows are thrown on the floor like those of haunted spirits. Even with Jeremy at my side, even with him taking the lead, it feels like I’m trespassing. Worse than when I stumbled into Jeremy’s secret surveillance room thinking it was his office.
It feels like I’m intruding on a sacred place. Almost like this is a temple in which I don’t belong.
“Jeremy…” I say.
“I would never have done this without you,” he tells me. He takes a step forward, and—for a moment—seems almost to stagger.
It passes in less than the time it takes to blink. But Jeremy—Jeremy Stonehart, always so firm and sure of himself—actually misplaced his step.
He releases my hand and strides across the dust-covered floor. Almost as if to make up for the momentary weakness.
He stops before a long set of drapes and flings them open.
Dust flies everywhere with the disturbance. And suddenly we have pale moonlight shining in, clashing and contrasting with the warm orange glow of the fire.
Jeremy opens the window, and a draft immediately blows past him. The cool air sweeps through and cleanses the room.
And then Jeremy turns around, and begins to methodically, silently, take the sheets off the furniture.
I move to help him. We work in an understanding silence, neither of us saying a word, but neither of us needing to, either. Knowing his mother’s influence on him, I can only begin to imagine what coming here must mean. I wasn’t even aware this was his family’s house, and not something he bought only after he became Stonehart.
It takes us a good half hour to restore the room to its former grace. Jeremy does not just throw the sheets on the floor after he’s uncovered the furniture. He folds them all, in tight, compact squares.
I don’t know why he does it. But I’m not about to interrupt his reverie. There is an undeniable softness to his motions. A gentle tenderness. He functions in an almost dream-like state.
Finally, there is only one white sheet left. It covers the mantle of what must be another fireplace. I noticed Jeremy purposefully avoiding it before. Now that it’s the only one remaining, it cannot be ignored.
He stops before it and regards it for a moment. “Come here, Lilly.” Those are the first words he’s spoken since we entered. “This is something I want to do with you.”
I glide up to him. While we were working, I’d intentionally averted my eyes from any personal belongings. The figurines on the shelves, the items inside the drawers and the paintings on the walls would be pointed out to me by Jeremy, in time, if he so chose. I did not want to spoil the first impression by reading anything into them.
“This is important to you?” I state, more than ask.
“Very,” Jeremy says. “I did not think I would be capable of returning here, ever again. This room…holds so much meaning. There was so much pain. These walls have known so much suffering. But there was also good. There was love. And kindness. It could not overcome the darkness, Lilly. But it made it just a little more tolerable.” He looks at me. “Does that make any sense?”
“Of course,” I answer him, slipping my fingers through his. “But whose pain, Jeremy? Yours, or…”
“ Hers ,” he says. With that, he pulls down the last remaining sheet.
It flutters to the floor slowly, like a silk ribbon caught on a breeze. I understand immediately why Jeremy left this sheet for last.
Above the fireplace, atop the mantle, is a glorious portrait of a beautiful woman. She looks a queen, sitting straight-backed in a gilded chair. Long black curls fall just past her shoulders. The ebony tresses cover the bit of skin exposed by a low-cut dress.
It’s impossible to guess her age. She might
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