Chapter Nine

The color drained from Ophelia’s face, her eyes widening in horror, her jaw going slack. It took her a moment before she lunged for the picture again, cutting her right pinky finger on the broken glass during the process.

She surveyed the picture again, this time noticing the difference in the shape of the eyes and the long scar that began from the tip of the left brow, stopping at the base of the upper lip.

A small, scrawny handwriting at the bottom of the picture caught her attention, and she squinted her eyes and read: Robert Clemonte & Arnold Bonavich (1961).

The sigh of relief came almost immediately, along with the pain in her pinky she didn’t notice at first. Little drops of blood dripped to the floor, mixing together with the broken glass and dust.

Ophelia retrieved a cloth from her room, disinfecting the wound and stopping the bleeding. Her whole body shook, and she didn’t know if it was due to the slight blood lost, the thrill of discovery, or a certain feline steel grey eyes she kept thinking about. The mess was cleaned before anyone came upstairs, and Ophelia tucked in both her pentagram necklace, and the vintage photograph into the pocket of her onesie.

-

The days moved, but Ophelia’s thoughts stayed rooted and rotating around issues that plagued her.

First, there was the thought of Seth. She contemplated if it was pure coincidence that he lived across the street from her and his grandfather knew her grandfather, or if there was a more sinister motive to everything and she was missing the complete, bigger picture. She also wondered if he was going to ever visit again, or if he thought of her…

Ophelia also found herself oftentimes asking her reflection “what now?” The loss of Grace was still raw, and weighed heavy on her heart, but the lack of direction in her life made the hole in her heart larger. It felt like the future she often imagined had blurred ahead of her since they moved to Westwend. Money wasn’t an issue to the Clemonte family –her grandfather; Robert had made sure of that. But Ophelia didn’t want to lead a life of redundancy and boredom, forever enclosed in the mansion, her youth rotting away like Florence had done. Yes, the rules and the danger the Clemonte name faced had demolished her chances of ever leading a normal life, but that didn’t mean she was condemned to never actually feeling alive and having fun. Grace had juggled working a nine-to-five job, following the family rules, and having fun. She had broken a few of the rules along the way, and one of it cost her life, but to Ophelia, a life like that was better than living like how she was doing now.

She likewise contemplated her brothers’ future, and how to fill the gap their mother, and now Grace, had left behind in their lives. Sam is a web designer when he isn’t consumed by his manic or depressive episodes, and most of his life is online, or in his head. That is his coping mechanism. Will was more complex. He loved the outdoors, and needed a childhood filled with fun, but most of it is being spent inside dark mansions and locked doors. He was slowly becoming more depressed in the mansion as the days went by, and even his online teachers had noticed the gloom surrounding him. They spoke to David and he promised to do something about it.

At this point, Ophelia’s train of thought usually stops, and rotates back to Seth. She was curious and badly wanted to know what his grandfather’s relationship to hers was, but at the same time, was dubious about investigating and going deeper into it. Her family history was full of hidden skeletons and fragile webs of lies, hidden behind polished doors, and it had been established to her at a very young age that talking about the dark past and asking questions regarding the family history and the evil trade her grandfather made was strictly forbidden.

Rule number thirteen: Don’t dig into the past. You may be digging your grave.

Telling her father about the photograph wasn’t a good idea, and asking aunt Florence about it was out of the question. She could almost see the furious face aunt Florence would contour, and hear the enraged outburst. But Ophelia’s curiosity stubbornly stayed, not wavered by fear or reason.

Ophelia sighed, dropping the paintbrush in her hand and cleaning her fingers with a cloth stained with splashes of paint. The large portrait of Grace Clemonte she was working on was almost complete, the only part left to be finished being the natural brunette hair Grace was born with, before she dyed it black.

The warm and vibrant emerald eyes of the painting stared back to her, the corners of the peachy full lips slightly upturned in a smile. The smile bore a striking resemblance to the Mona Lisa and Ophelia did a double take at her own work of art.

Grace continued smiling like she knew something Ophelia didn’t.

For a fleeting moment, it seemed like Grace’s eyes almost twinkled with life, compelling her sister to go ahead and satisfy her curiosity.

Ophelia grabbed the denim jacket off the rack, smoothing down her hair. She had recently added a bit of orange and pink dye to the red, and it gave it the overall appearance of a perfectly aesthetic gradient.

Her room came to life with vibrant sunflower patterned wallpaper, a plush white faux fur carpet that covered almost the entire surface of the room, hiding the old floorboards underneath it, and a fancy chandelier suspended from the center of the room, brightening it up beautifully. Her works of art completely took up the wall above her bed. Ophelia had kept most of the furniture that seemed antique and priceless to her, banishing the rest of the old and depressing ones to the storage room in the basement. More modern pieces filled the spaces that were left, and overall, it gave the room a clean and fashionable look, and a bright and fun air, staggering between vintage and contemporary.

Ophelia fixed her grey oversized t-shirt, taking a good look at the vintage knee length skirt she was wearing. After a brief decision, she tucked the folds of the shirt into the skirt, and shrugged into the denim jacket.

Her eyes were already framed by mascara and winged eyeliner, so she only added a layer of lip balm. Sliding the mirror cover into place, Ophelia wiggled into a white sneaker and trudged down the stairs, and announced “I’m going for a walk” to her father who rested on a large sofa, reading Shakespeare’s Hamlet in the main sitting room.

He murmured a reply, too engrossed in the book to notice the fast pace at which Ophelia fled out the door, avoiding any questions.

The scent of flowers wafted through the air and Ophelia made a mental note to make sure she fixed the garden together with William. The sun was still tucked away behind the clouds, but its rays peaked through little spaces, giving the morning air a chill, but pleasant feel.