Page 68 of Wicked Little Secret
This kind of longing goes beyond comprehension. Past reason and logic.
It runs deep.
All the way down to my fucking marrow.
Yet, if asked to explain, I’m not sure I could even put it into words. The only possible explanation I could begin to offer is that Nyssa Oliver is unlike any other person walking this earth—and I don’t mean that in a cheesy, eye-roll-worthy reductive way, like some platitude written on the inside of a birthday card.
I mean, at her core, she’s like a rare pearl that’s so special, it’s a wonder it even exists.
She’s beautiful, made up of soft curves and springy curls.
But it’s her mind that’s the treasure. Even as she browses, it’s hard at work, processing a thousand thoughts a minute.
She’s a mystery I’m desperate to solve. I hope someday to understand.
And for her to understand me—for her to get why I’m doing what I am.
I can’t walk away. I can’t let go of whatever this is…
The clerk at the counter greets her and the two exchange pleasantries before she makes a small purchase. A trinket of a necklace that she stores in the same bag she’d picked up at the art supply shop.
The drizzle’s hardened into rainfall by the time she’s exited.
Where I once stood near the door, I’ve retreated. I’m a few more buildings down, peering carefully through the sheets of rain to figure out her next stop. She holds her umbrella in one hand and her shopping bag in the other and starts the opposite way down the street.
I’m left to wonder where we’re going.
Is she meeting up with someone? Is she walking home? Why would she in the rain?
Two long, slick streets later, I stop short in stunnedsatisfaction at where she’s led us. On a late rainy afternoon, the few visitors of the Castlebury Metropolitan Museum of Art are on their way out.
Yet Nyssa is the opposite. She’s on her way in.
I am too, trailing after her with a chest full of heart palpitations. Anticipation reaches a fever pitch. I’m under her spell and I can’t fucking help it.
The museum’s normally lit by the bright light of the day.
In the midst of dreary weather, it’s darker, moodier than usual. The long halls stretch on endlessly, the walls lined with some of the most beautiful art pieces in the world.
Nyssa wanders among them, always headed deeper into the bowels of the museum. Every so often, she pauses long enough to admire a piece that catches her eye. The infamous Fall of Man painting depicting Adam and Eve or the Angel with a Crown statue many love.
After she’s moved on, I’m replacing her at the artwork. My eyes rove over the masterful craftsmanship of each piece, sensing it’s what she appreciated most. Then I’m carrying on in her wake, keeping to the shadows.
The museum empties to the point it seems we’re the last two. The cavernous space seemingly echoes with her footfalls. The breaths she draws.
It’ll be closing soon.
I’ll leave when she leaves.
Curiosity swims in my stomach as I drift after her and wonder which piece of artwork she’s seeking out.
A few seconds later, I have my answer. But only after another discovery—Nyssa knows she’s not alone.
As she enters the next hall, she casts the briefest glance over her shoulder.
Her shining dark eyes greet mine.
Then she continues, picking up her pace, venturing farther into the underbelly of the museum.