Page 58 of The Exorcism of Faeries

The cobblestones leading up to the manor were broken, like jagged claws coming up from the ground. Sonder produced a set of keys strangely incongruous with the old house and unlocked the heavy front door. The moment her foot passed over the threshold, Atta swore the house pulled in a breath, as if it were surprised to see her.

The feeling was mutual.

Sonder led her through the foyer of dark wood floors and wallpaper of midnight florals. He hung the keys on an antique brass hook by the door and took off his coat. Once it was hung on the rack, he offered to take Atta’s, and she slipped it off, making slow work for her marvelling.

Quietly, he led her into a room that took her breath away. One entire wall was made up of mullioned windows, interlocked with whorls of black ironwork. The rest of the sitting room was a masterpiece collection of art and oddities that would rival the Louvre or the Vatican’s archives. The walls were a charcoal so dark they were almost black, but there was almost no space between the shelves and paintings to see it.

Atta stopped first at a painting of a woman from behind, standing alone on the beach in the light of the moon, then onto one of a man, blurred, his face buried in his hands. She could feel Sonder quietly watching her, letting her soak in his home.

She wondered vaguely if he let women do this often—see inside his inner sanctum.

But all those thoughts drifted away when she passed one of two floor-to-ceiling bookcases to pause at the portrait between them. It was almost as tall as she was and at least four times as wide. A stoic man, very nearly identical to Sonder, but younger, stood next to a lovely woman. The epitome of romance she was, in her olive dress, her auburn curls draped elegantly over one shoulder. Where he was stoic, she was radiant, her smile the kind that could light up any room, and Sonder had her captivating hazel eyes.

“Edmund and Olivia Murdoch,” Sonder said softly. “My parents.”

Atta turned to face him, gauging the sadness in his voice. “They?—”

“Died of the Plague.”

Atta’s heart cracked. “Sonder, I’m?—”

He held up his hand to stop her, a gentle smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s all right. I suppose my obsession with the Plague makes more sense to you now.”

She nodded, turning back to the portrait to give it another look before moving on. She came to a massive sculpture of a nude woman, her head thrown back in pleasure or agony, it was difficult to tell. Her arms were limp at her sides, a kneeling man holding onto her waist and shoulder with all his might, muscles straining, his head bowed against her abdomen as if he were holding her to the earth.

It moved Atta to tears. “What is this?” she breathed.

“Ruperto Banterle’sFleeing Soul. A replica.” Sonder came up next to her. “The true piece stands sentry over the Monumental Cemetery in Verona.” They stood in silence for a few moments, looking at the sculpture that felt as if it were alive.

After several moments, Sonder finally said quietly, “I like to think her soul was ascending, and he couldn’t bear the loss of her,”

“So he attempted to hold her here with him,” Atta finished, feeling the same sentiment when she looked at it.

Sonder made a sound of acknowledgement deep in his throat and wandered off to the other side of the wide room of gilded baubles and ornate rugs in deep hues.

“Would you like some tea? It will give you more time to peruse while I make it.” He said it like a joke, and he was smiling when Atta looked over her shoulder at him. She had the most peculiar feeling, looking in his eyes across the room, as if she was becoming the heroine of a Gothic novel.

It thrilled her, though a warning sounded in her heart that those never end without tragedy.

?μαρτ?α.

Hamartia.

To err, to have a tragic flaw.

With Sonder standing there in his childhood home, looking at her, she knew in her bones they were both hamartia embodied. The main ingredient for a tragic end.

“Tea sounds nice.”

As soon as he left the room, she felt cold, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.

With one last look at the sculpture, she followed the direction Sonder disappeared in, passing a room of deep green silks and an old, square grand piano, as well as a billiard room before finally locating the kitchen.

Sonder was lighting an ancient gas stove. “Did you tire of Banterle?”

“Never.”

“There are many more sculptures around the grounds. I’d be happy to show you. My mother hadThe Abduction of Persephonecopied, quite illegally, and placed in the garden. It was always a crowd pleaser, though the artist obviously fell short of Bernini.”

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