NOVEL NEXT Chapter 34: Impatient
Nicholas didn’t think twice as his hands gripped the window frame, ready to make the jump. He had been here only once before, dragged into the house, hand in hand with Eva. Eva was adamant about having the two meet, but there was an unsettling feeling to the house that he could not decipher then. It was only today that he decided to look through the house. The wood was cold beneath his palms, flaking paint catching beneath his nails. He hadn’t planned for it to be this way—not exactly. But planning was for people who feared the outcome. Nicholas had never been one to worry about what came next. Rules existed to be questioned, authority to be tested. The world was too full of locked doors for him to leave any unopened.
The window stuck halfway, the hinges groaning in protest. For a moment, he stilled, listening. The street outside was silent, save for the occasional gust of wind rattling loose branches. He gave the frame another shove, forcing it open just enough to slip through. A sharp ache went through his shoulder, the bullet wound sending ripples of pain across his body. For a moment, he considered letting out a blood-curdling scream. He knew no one was at home. Charles was not going to be home for a while. He had known this. But he could not risk bringing any attention to himself at that time. The movement was awkward, but his feet hit the floor with barely a sound.
The guestroom was small, almost cramped, with furniture arranged neatly, as though no one ever used the space. A faint scent of lavender lingered, old and slightly stale. He let his gaze travel over the bed, the wardrobe, the nightstand. It was unremarkable, at least at first glance. Yet Nicholas didn’t trust first glances. If there was one thing he’d learned in his twenty years, it was that the most important things were often the ones tucked out of sight.
He moved with care, his boots silent on the rug as he crouched by the side table. His fingers brushed the edge of the drawer. Locked. Of course. A brief smile flickered across his face. Professor Orson always seemed so controlled, so deliberate. It made sense that even his furniture wouldn’t give itself away too easily.
Withdrawing a slim blade from his pocket, Nicholas worked the lock loose. His movements were quick, practiced. He wasn’t a thief—at least, not exactly—but he’d learned long ago how to open what others tried to keep shut. The lock clicked, and he pulled the drawer open, careful to keep it from creaking.
The letters inside were a disordered pile, some tied with string, others loose and folded haphazardly. He pulled out the first one, his breath catching slightly as he unfolded it.
He skimmed the lines, his heart racing in that way it always did when he stumbled upon something hidden. This wasn’t a love letter or an invitation to tea. There was weight here, though he couldn’t yet tell what it was. He devoured the second letter, then a third, growing bolder with each one.
Bought a gun—provided a receipt—dated 1922.
The thought of Orson’s name—spoken without the title—made a voice in his head laugh. No one had ever managed to keep Nicholas in line.
His reading was interrupted by the sharp slam of the front door. Nicholas froze. For a brief moment, his heart stuttered in his chest. Not fear, exactly—he didn’t fear consequences, not really—but a sharp awareness of the risk.
Quickly, he returned the letters to their drawer, sliding it shut as footsteps thundered down the hall. He pressed himself into the shadows of the room just as the door opened.
Professor Orson entered like a man pursued. His coat hung unevenly on his shoulders, his hair wild, his breath quick. Nicholas remained perfectly still, watching as the professor dropped into the armchair by the fire. Orson clutched a small bundle of letters, his fingers trembling as he struck a match.
Nicholas’s eyes followed the flame as Orson touched it to the first letter. The paper curled, blackened, and disappeared into ash. One by one, the professor read each letter, then tossed it into the fire.
The professor’s muttering grew louder, his voice cracked with some emotion Nicholas couldn’t quite place. He was frightened, somewhat concerned with what he was reading. Nicholas shifted slightly, his instincts screaming at him to leave before Orson saw him. But another part of him, the part that had climbed through the window and picked the lock, refused to move.
He would wait. He would watch. But there was little time before Charles would discover the open window. Today the breeze had been exceptionally quick and heavy. There was a moment when Nicholas felt the need to remove himself from the house, but a flicker of hope arose in his mind when Charles stood from his seat and walked away from the furnace, some of his letters still catching flames. Soon, he was out of sight, his footsteps fading into the distance as he climbed to the upper portion of his house.
Nicholas made no movements till he heard the door to Charles’s room close shut. He reasoned still to get himself out of the place, but he was not afraid of contradicting his reasoning. He walked out of the guestroom, scanning the stairs where Charles had gone up before he carefully made his way to the furnace.
The remnants of a letter smoldered, but much of its contents were left untouched. It was his own handwriting. It was his own letter. He had written it only today.
"My beloved Minerva,
I have longed for your presence—"
The remainder of the sentence had been burnt away.
"But you must know that my intent—"
"Love for you was always greater—"
"I miss you dearly, for you I have—"
Nicholas was confused. The words in the letter burned away, and he didn’t make an effort to help it. He did not understand why Charles Orson would write such a short letter to his deceased wife.
For a while, Nicholas stood bent over the furnace. A part of him wondered if she was still alive. Or, he wondered, if a man as sane as Charles had deluded himself into believing that his wife was alive.
Nicholas knew, however, that the bizarre conclusions were only that—bizarre. The simpler answer was that Charles had missed his wife.
The receipt for the gun he had bought was an odd find. The thought had only just occurred to him when he heard Charles’s voice, hitched with disbelief and anger.
“What are you doing in my house?” he questioned Nicholas as he pulled him by his collar, staring him dead in the eye. He hadn’t been sleeping, or he had been crying himself to sleep. Nicholas couldn’t tell.