Page 112 of Poison Vows

Everywhere I look, it’s shelves upon shelves of books, stretching across the huge length of the room.

The ceiling is dome-shaped with an open glass window, like an observatory because right in the middle of the room is a raised platform with an elegant, expensive, and well-maintained telescope that looks so much like it’s out of a fantasy book.

Without thinking, I walk toward it, drawn by its luster.

Like a child in forbidden territory, I tentatively reach out to touch the telescope, knowing damn well that I shouldn’t, but I continue anyway.

It’s cold to the touch, but the majestic feel of it, coupled with the detailed notes on the table next to it are enough to show that someone uses the instrument regularly.

Something else catches my eye.

A huge black-and-white painting, twice my height, encased in a golden frame, and displayed in a glass case in the middle of two huge shelves next to the platform with the telescope.

This painting… it’s like the backdrop of an empire or a castle in ruins, with statues falling over the high walls… but some beings stand over it, watching.

At least that’s what I think I see. I might be very wrong.

In Emmett’s Westbrook Blues home, there are a few paintings like this one, all kept in a locked room.

I’m not sure of the artist, but I have a pretty good idea.

Emmett has made it a point to never let anyone see his work, no matter what.

Even when I popped in unannounced when we were kids, he’d quickly hide his work and ignore me when I asked to see his it… and now, looking at this, I’m pretty sure I know it’s his work.

“That’s my daughter’s last piece of art,” a sudden booming voice speaks behind me, shaking me out of my haze.

Quickly dropping my hand that was about to touch the glass, I turn around and spot Grandpa Armando seated silently in a high-backed chair by a fireplace that I hadn’t even noticed on the other side of the room.

He’d been watching me all this time.

A wave of unease goes down my back, but I pretend, as always.

“Uh, it’s incredible,” I say in a slightly louder voice, which feels like a violation in this sacred room. “I’ve never seen such art.”

“Well, she copied her own son.”

Amazed, I stare at the old man who flips to the next page in the book he’s silently reading, as if he didn’t just say the most absurd thing.

“You’ve never seen Alessio’s work, have you?” Grandpa Armando questions.

“I’m not sure I know who Alessio is, sir,” I murmur. This earns me a withering look.

“You don’t even know his full name? What good are you, then?”

My heart jumps in my chest.

This is bad! Very bad! How do I get out of this? And who even is Alessio?

“You have a gorgeous library!” I blurt out.

Grandpa Armando glances at me, silently observing before he speaks again.

“I take it you’re what they call abookworm, then?” he says grumpily. “Do you like it?”

“Sir, I don’t think there’s a bookworm in this world that wouldn’t fall on their knees for this place,” I say, turning to look around. “It’s simply breathtaking!”

“How long will you gawk then?” Emmett’s grandfather questions in a bored tone. Is he unhappy with me? “You’ll have plenty of time for that later. Now, come here.”

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