Chapter169 – Tell me the truth
They spent about an hour exploring before Clarissa finally felt her legs start to ache.
Atticus brought her to a door and gestured toward it. “Open it.”
Clarissa hesitated. “Should we?”
“It’s fine,” Atticus said calmly. “Let’s rest in here for a bit.”
Trusting him, she pushed the door open.
A gust of wind brushed against her face, carrying a delicate floral scent. Inside was a grand, quiet room, anchored by an old piano beneath a high ceiling.
Clarissa stepped in, brow furrowed. “What is this place?”
Atticus wheeled himself in beside her. “Used to be for entertaining guests. See that little stage over there? Musicians would play during dinners. That piano’s older than either of us.”
He steered his wheelchair toward the built-in bar, its shelves still stocked with polished bottles of expensive liquor. Clarissa followed, eyeing the array warily.
“Don’t drink,” she warned.
Atticus chuckled. “I’m not going to drink. I’ll make something for you. There are some good things here.”
He began selecting bottles, mixing with effortless flair. The way his hands moved—confident, smooth, practiced—kept her silently mesmerized. The glass spun between his fingers as if it were weightless.
By the time he set the cocktail in front of her, ice clinking softly inside, Clarissa looked impressed.
“Since when do you know how to do that?”
“Learned it from watching others.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Just from watching?”
Atticus’s smile deepened. “I went out a lot with Maximilian and the others during college. Dinner parties, afterparties...”
Then he added, a touch smugly, “Clarissa, I’m an adult. Don’t look at me like I’m a kid.”
She rolled her eyes, picked up the drink, and took a cautious sip.
The flavor bloomed on her tongue—sweet, slightly tart, with a complex floral note and the warmth of fine spirits. It was unlike anything she’d ever tasted.
“What is this?”
“A traditional wine cocktail from a minority tribe,” Atticus said. “Made with two rare flowers and local white grapes. Supposed to be good for the skin. You should drink more.”
Clarissa blinked. “A minority tribe?”
He nodded. “They used to give a single jar to girls before their weddings. It was that precious.”
“Why so rare?”
“The flowers only grow in very specific conditions, and they’re near extinction now. The tribe treats them as sacred. If it weren’t for the Loxley family’s... influence, we wouldn’t be tasting it.”
Clarissa set the glass down slowly, her curiosity deepening. “Atticus, is there something you’re not telling me?”
Atticus met her eyes. “Like what?”
“Like... Gabriel asking you for help. For something beyond his illness.”
Atticus leaned back slightly, studying her. “What do you think?”
Clarissa thought for a long moment, then shook her head. “Even if you can’t cure him, just slowing it down is already a miracle. No—his wish must be something else.”
A grin tugged at the corner of Atticus’s mouth. “You’re smart.”
Too smart, he thought silently. Sometimes he wished she wasn’t.
Clarissa pressed on. “So what is it?”
Atticus’s smile faded slightly. “I’m not sure you want to know.”
“Atticus—”
“Clarissa,” he said gently, his voice lower now, “do you know why wine this rare ended up in the Loxley family’s collection?”
Atticus leaned in, his breath warm against her skin. “Because when nobles want something, they don’t care who gets hurt in the process.”
Clarissa’s stomach turned. Her gaze dropped to the elegant glass on the table—just moments ago, it had seemed beautiful. Now, it looked sinister.
Suddenly, she didn’t want another sip.
Atticus could easily read the shift in Clarissa’s mood. Without a word, he reached out and let her lean against him, gently stroking the back of her head as he spoke softly. “Gabriel… he’s not as simple as he seems.”
He applied a little pressure with his hand, waiting for her to resist.
But to his surprise, Clarissa didn’t move. She was quiet.
When he looked down, her eyes met his with a mixture of uncertainty and intensity that made him pause.
Atticus frowned slightly, about to speak—when suddenly, Clarissa grabbed the collar of his shirt.
“Atticus…” Her voice was low, almost trembling.
He held her gaze. “What is it?”
She didn’t answer him directly, just clung to his collar, her knuckles white. “Tell me the truth. Have you… done something bad?”
“Bad things?” Atticus blinked, his tone feigning innocence. His dark eyes gleamed as he said calmly, “Sis, what are you talking about? These past few years, I’ve either been by your side, studying with my teacher or spending time with Grandpa. Where would I even find the time to get into trouble?”
Clarissa tilted her head and studied his expression. His gaze was open, his smile relaxed—too relaxed. No guilt, no signs of deceit.
“Really?” she asked, unsure.
“Of course it’s true,” he said without hesitation.
“Then how do you know so much?”
Atticus chuckled. “Clarissa, please. My teacher is Phoenix. With Wraith’s intelligence network, what can’t I find out? And it’s not like this is top-secret stuff. Even Lady Rose knows about it.”
Something in his reply made Clarissa exhale. Maybe she was being too sensitive lately. Maybe it was the castle. The place felt like it was smiling at her while hiding a knife behind its back.
And then there was Atticus—his recent behavior unsettled her. Subtle things. Words that didn’t quite fit.
The original novel always described him as emotionally detached, as someone incapable of loving the way normal people did. Cold. Calculating. Dangerous.
Was she truly capable of changing someone like that?
Clarissa told herself again: no one is born evil. People are shaped by their environments.
But as she sat in silence, Atticus looked at her from the side. The look on her face made something in him tighten. He hated that expression.
His lips thinned, and a shadow flickered in his eyes. Then, without warning, he stood and grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet.
“Atticus?” Clarissa looked up, startled.
He said nothing, simply guiding her toward the grand piano in the room, the polished wood glinting in the low light.
“Sis, I want to hear you play,” he said softly, smiling as he lowered himself onto the bench beside her. “Play something for me.”
Clarissa hesitated, glancing between him and the instrument.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone shifting ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t want to?”
“No,” she murmured, lowering her gaze. “I just… don’t know what to play.”
Atticus reached for a nearby sheaf of blank music paper and flipped through it carelessly. “Then write something. You always say you like composing more than performing. It will help you feel calm!”
He handed her a feathered pen, his fingers grazing hers.
Clarissa hesitated, but then nodded, slowly taking the paper and settling into the creative silence.
Atticus didn’t speak. He watched her instead, eyes tracing the curve of her neck, the way her brows furrowed in concentration. The look of pure focus on her face softened something sharp in his chest.
Half an hour passed. Clarissa set down the pen and exhaled.
Atticus leaned in to look at what she’d written. It wasn’t much—just a short passage, more like a beginning than a finished piece. But it was enough.
Clarissa set the sheet on the stand, placed her hands on the keys, and gently tested a few notes.
Then, slowly, the melody began to flow.
Soft, tender, and haunting—each note echoed through the old room like the sound of a distant memory returning home.
The piece was short—just two or three minutes long. But even after it ended, Atticus sat in silence. He seemed momentarily lost in thought, staring ahead as if the music had pulled him somewhere far away.
Finally, he turned to Clarissa. “What is it?” he asked, voice soft. “That piece… what’s it called?”
Clarissa tilted her head, a faint smile on her lips. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t named it. Still working on it. Do you… like it?”
Atticus nodded. “It’s beautiful.” He looked at her, his gaze unusually calm. “Play it again. A few more times.”