“This is more than you owe me. And I won’t finish the fresco.”
“I know. It’s all right. Take it. Go somewhere else, somewhere away from this. Paint. Write. Create something beautiful. Whatever it takes to make you happy. I don’t really care.”
He stared, and I feared he’d give the money back. “I still don’t understand. How can you not care about any of this? How can you be so cruel? Why did you do it?”
I studied the fire again. Humans, I realized idly, liked to burn things. Objects. Each other. “Because men cannot surpass the gods. Not yet anyway.”
“Prometheus never intended his gift to be used like this.”
I smiled without humor, remembering an old debate of ours about classical mythology, back during our sweeter days. “No. I suppose not.”
We said nothing else. A moment later, he walked away, disappearing into the darkness. For a heartbeat, I considered telling him the truth, that much of his treasure was still safe. I’d paid well for it to be smuggled out of Florence, away from this mad destruction.
In fact, I’d actually sent the goods to an angel. I didn’t like angels as a general rule, but this one was a scholar, one I’d met in England and tolerated. Heretical or no, the books and art would appeal to him as much as to me. He would keep them safe. How ironic, I thought, that I would turn to the enemy for help. Tavia had been right. Sometimes good and evil were impossible to distinguish from one another. And if she’d known what I had done, my existence would probably be over.
So I couldn’t tell anyone. The secret had to stay with me and the angel, no matter how much I wished I could share it with Niccolò and comfort him. I had to live with the knowledge that I had taken his life, soul, and hope. He would hate me forever, and it was a sting I would likewise carry with me forever—one that would slowly make my existence more and more miserable.
My world dissolved into darkness. I was back in my box, still cramped and uncomfortable. As usual, I couldn’t see anything, but my cheeks were wet with tears yet again. I felt exhausted, even a little disoriented, and my heart ached with a pain that I could never put into words. I didn’t see the Oneroi, but something told me they were probably around.
“That was truth,” I whispered. “That really happened.”
As suspected, a voice answered me in the darkness, and I suddenly knew the real reason they kept showing me true dreams.
“Your truths are worse than your lies.”
Chapter 13
I woke up next to Seth, and for the space of heartbeat, I thought I truly was waking—waking up from an awful, awful dream about the Oneroi and everything else that had happened since Seth and I had broken up. He lay asleep in bed with the sheets tangled around him, his light brown hair glinting reddish in the morning sun. He slept only in boxers, and his chest looked warm and smooth and perfect for cuddling against.
His breathing was even, his posture still and relaxed. I drank it all in, all the little Seth details I’d been missing for months. I swore that I could even smell him. Did dreams have smells? This one did, I was certain. That soft woodsy-apple scent wrapped around me like an embrace.
After a few moments, he began to stir and sleepily open his eyes. He squinted at the light and rolled onto his back, stifling a yawn. I wanted to roll right over to him and snuggle against his warmth, telling him all about the nightmares I’d been having.
Then, I realized there was no way I could go to him. I couldn’t move. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. There was more to it than that. I just didn’t have a body. I was an observer only, like the invisible camera I’d been with Roman and Jerome. This apparently was not a dream I was active in, and the realization of that drove home the terrible truth: this was still an Oneroi dream. I hadn’t imagined them. I hadn’t imagined Seth and me breaking up.
He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. It was such a familiar, nostalgic sight. Getting up was always hard for him, largely because of the bizarre writing hours he kept. He glanced over at the clock, which was near the direction from which I was “watching.” His eyes passed right over where I would have been. Yes. I was just a ghost in this. But what was “this” exactly? Truth or lie?
The time on the clock—nine in the morning—must have been motivation enough for him to drag himself out of bed. Still in boxers, he stumbled into the bathroom, miraculously not walking into anything in his sleepy state. While brushing his teeth, he noticed a note on the counter. I immediately recognized the writing because I saw it all the time at the bookstore.
Went in early today to get a few things done and should be done by six. Bring Brandy by, if you can, to try on those shoes.
Love,
Maddie
Seeing Maddie’s name jolted me out of the Seth Fantasyland I’d been living in as he went through his morning routine. Expanding my vision now, I saw changes to his bathroom—things that hadn’t been there when we’d dated. Another toothbrush, for one thing. Makeup in the corner. A pink robe on the bathroom hook. On the books, Maddie was still sharing a place with Doug, but we all knew what the reality was. That pain that hadn’t really left since my last dream grew tighter within my chest. She was all over this place. She had left her mark everywhere, everywhere in this space he and I had once shared together. I had been replaced.
Seth went through the rest of his routine, including a remarkably fast shower. He was notorious for staying in there forever while plotting some story line. I tried hard not to focus on the sight of him naked and wet and instead pondered where he might be going today. If it was just to write at the bookstore, he wouldn’t have been moving so briskly.
He easily found clean boxers and jeans, but the hardest part of his day came next: what T-shirt to wear? When we’d been together, I’d loved watching this. I’d lie in bed—after all, I had no urgency to ever get ready—laughing while he deliberated and deliberated over his massive T-shirt collection. Each had its own hanger, displaying some bit of retro or pop culture novelty. Vanilla Ice. ALF. Mr. T cereal. He flipped through them all, studying each one carefully as his hand touched each sleeve.
Then, his fingers suddenly brushed against a sleeve longer than the others. His closet wasn’t all T-shirts. There were a few sweaters and pullovers crammed into the sides. There was also a flannel shirt; it was what he’d stopped and noticed. Pushing the other shirts aside, he took the flannel off of its hanger and held it up, his motions almost reverent.
Even without physical form, I had the sensation of my heart going still. I knew this shirt. It was one he’d given me to wear a long time ago, the night I’d passed out at his place from too much alcohol. I’d met his family the next day, looking ridiculous with the flannel over my strappy party dress. Even while dating, I’d totally forgotten all about that shirt.
He held it there between his hands, and the look on his face…there was so much there, I didn’t even know where to start. Seth was so good at keeping his expression neutral and could be extremely short-spoken when he chose. But here, alone, he was unguarded. There was sorrow on his face. Sorrow and regret. And when he held the shirt up and rested his head on it, I saw longing as well. The whole mood was rounded out with a sort of helpless resignation. He inhaled deeply and then hung the shirt back up. As he did, I caught the faintest whiff of tuberose blossoms—the leftover scent of my Michael Kors perfume. Seth had never worn or washed it again, I realized with a start. He’d just kept it like some sort of treasured artifact.
After that, he simply grabbed the first T-shirt his hand came across, without even looking. It was an old favorite of his, showing the Tasmanian Devil from Looney Tunes. Seth’s mood had shifted considerably, down to something a little more solemn and thoughtful than when he’d gotten out of the shower. My observations didn’t go into his head, though. I could only judge by outside signs.