Darling Belle

Twenty

MAISIE

Saccharine laughter cracked through the paper-thin walls as Maisie's moonlit gaze traced the oxblood hieroglyphs smeared over the bedroom's ceiling. She'd only noticed it once a drop of blood splashed onto her cheek. It was raining scarlet, again. Quickly, she switched her phone on, illuminating her startled expression as her fingers moved rapidly against the keyboard.

Egyptian alphabet. She wrote, eyes frantically scanning for similarities as her heart pounded. In her Art History course, they'd briefly gone over the archaic writing system. It was a very interesting and informative class, yet challenging at times.

It made her think.

Think. Think. Think.

Her screen loaded further, Maisie switched to images. A burst of vivid colors blind her momentarily before her brain whirrs back on and her eyes adjust.

No.

No.

Wait, maybe?

She looked up at the crudely drawn red script, lifting the glowing device to further reveal the pictorial symbols. Then down. Close enough. It was a match.

An eye or a folded cloth? R.

A snake? U.

A zigzag scribble or ripple of water? N.

RUN.

She shut her eyes. Her stomach churning, the rind of hope rotting within her, parasite-ridden. Breath quick and fractured.

A swirl of skirts, chiffon, violet fabric, and a close up of full lips-blackberry lipstick.

Ma.

'Maisie,' whispered He, an attempt at consolation in the margins of His hollow voice.

She blinked.

Pearl dragged her body to Him, touch-starved, craving, his arms slipped around her naturally. Warm. A lovely raven-haired, elfin beauty. A heart-shaped bone structure. Black diamonds for eyes, delicate lashes.

But she hadn't been prepared for it, His soulful gaze that peeled her open like an unripe fruit when she lifted her dazed stare. It wasn't time. He wasn't supposed to see her so clearly, so completely. He hadn't given her enough time to mature, she wasn't ready and He...

He pressed his temple with hers, then.

An owlish blink drew out of her.

Autumn opus.

'Nico,' she gasped out at last.

NICCOLO

It was strange to hold her in the context of his deceased mother's bed. He'd had half-formed fantasies about this exact scenario. However, the current setting and circumstances diluted the romantic aspect of it.

He frowned, retaining her attention with a swipe of his thumb over her cheek, smudging blood as he whispered, 'Claire will clean it up.' Nico moved off the blanket, onto his feet, fingers lacing with hers. Then, he made a swift decision and led her out into the hallowed hallways.

Vincenzo Vale, his father, was hosting a dinner party for work and the crackling of child-like giggling, barely fading into developed voices, were incessant. He presumed that the children were Ivan's younger siblings, two girls. And perhaps Atwood's son. He didn't care to check for himself.

With Maisie's hand in his own, they tip-toed down the hall, somehow zipping past Tobias's chambers unnoticed. Silently, they slid through a door, soundlessly clicking it closed. But when they approached the brimful room, his presence was demanded.