A Room With A View

Chapter Twenty-One - Phineas

September 17th, Sunday

Phineas stretched and straightened his spine. He was alone in his room. The smell of burnt candle filled the air, the sputtering smoke making shadows against the wall. It must have burned out while he slept. His father would have been furious with him. "God damn it, Phineas. How many times have I told you not to light these things? You'll burn the whole building down."

Let it burn, Phineas thought, the habitual response still flexing in his brain like muscle memory. But he hadn't meant that. Not really.

Phineas leaned over the stacks of books on the end table and opened the window, letting the candle smoke leak out into the cool September sky. The men had finished up the new garden yesterday. The landscaping was all in place, and the pots were ready for winter flowers. Ms. Margova had suggested some truly lovely arrangements that Phineas was looking forward to seeing. Other than the garden, the building was...done.

Of course, his father wouldn't have thought so. The Watley had been cutting edge at its grand opening. It had been filled with the finest features money could by. It had been one of the first buildings to introduce electric light, and, like the Dakota Building, had had a subway entrance installed just outside its front door. Every Watley family member since the dawn of time had strived to keep the Watley ahead of each and every trend, to keep up its sense of exclusivity and grandiosity, without foregoing any sense of decorum. That's why the elevators now used touch screens instead of buttons, yet the doormen still wore white gloves.

Making something of the roof space and touching up the outdoor landscaping was all Phineas could think to do at the moment. Brian—Mr. Cooper—had said something about Bluetooth speakers in the elevator that were programmed to play whatever was the rider's favorite genre, but Phineas wasn't yet ready to give up the friendly sound of Tchaikovsky.

Phineas checked his watch. It had a gold face and Roman numerals. The four was four sharp silver lines rather than the usual IV. Phineas had pointed it out to Alice at the Metropolitan Museum Shop when they were fourteen because he had found it odd. Alice had given it to him the following Christmas with a note that said, "Odd is good." It hadn't left his wrist since.

The cracked leather of the watch snagged on his eggplant-colored cashmere sweater.

"Damn," Phineas cursed under his breath. He rubbed his hand quickly across his chest, hoping to wriggle the string back into place. It worked, somewhat.

The time was 1:58 on a Sunday afternoon and Phineas had no where to go. He had never been allowed to go out, and when he had taken the helm of the Watley, he had been too busy to find the time. Eight years and twenty-seven days later, and all Phineas had to show for himself was an ill-used rooftop and a collection of superficial museum memberships.

You have the library, Phineas reminded himself.

"Ah yes," he said aloud, "a collection of dusty old tomes to keep the loneliness away."

Phineas looked again at his watch. It was now 1:59pm. He sighed heavily, letting his body slide down the plush leather armchair until his hips nearly touched the ground.

Well he couldn't very well sit around feeling sorry for himself. This was a reality of his own creation. If he held issue with it, then it followed that he should be the one to correct it.

With that thought in mind, Phineas stood. He smoothed his rumpled shirt, careful to keep his watch band away from the cashmere, and shut the window. The room smelled a little less like smoke, and a little more like mildewed parchment. Just the way he liked it.

Phineas picked up his keys and wove his way through the tottered books toward the door. He lived in the penthouse by birthright, and the hardwood front door was at the opposite end of a black-and-white tiled foyer. A grand staircase wended up against stained glass windows until it reached the landing above. Phineas still used his childhood bedroom. He hadn't felt quite right transitioning into his father's.