As the last golden gleams of afternoon light sliced through the gaps in Ernest's curtains, they found him sprawled on his sofa, locked in a heavy, death-like siesta that seemed impervious to interruption. It was a kind of sleep that had a thickness to it, like fog over a desolate graveyard. Right there with him, yet somehow worlds apart, stood Reginald Clarke. The man loomed like a statue sculpted in ice: cool, detached, with no sign of the fiery exchange he'd recently shared with Ethel marking his well-defined features.

With an eerily serene grin, Reginald expertly pinned an orchid into his lapel—its color a deep purple shade that seemed to swallow light rather than reflect it. He appeared alive in ways that made ordinary existence seem trivial by comparison—vibrant, almost crackling with an energy peculiar to him alone. Leaning over Ernest's inert form, he appeared reflective for a moment before smoothing his elegant fingers across the young writer's brow in what could have been mistaken for a tender gesture.

At this contact, Ernest shifted restlessly. His face contorted in anguish when the touch lingered too long. Moans escaped him—the kind that might seep out from beneath the weight of anesthesia; audible signs of battling against that thin veil separating full awareness from entrapment in one's own subconscious labyrinth...or something darker. A feeble sigh clawed its way past Ernest's lips followed by another more forceful one until at last words took shape amidst his tormented mumbling.

"Please," he gasped within the grip of sleep, "take your hand away!"

Abruptly, Reginald's benign demeanor shattered like glass struck by malice. His smile twisted into a grotesque replica of itself as something predatory and wild snarled within his gaze. Withdrawing his hand as though singed, he retreated silently through the door left satisfyingly ajar.

No sooner had Reginald vanished than Ernest snapped out of his trance. His eyes darted around his room—wild, cornered—until recognizing the mundane safety of familiar walls prompted a flood of relief to wash over him. Coiling inward with fatigue and discomfort, Ernest buried his face into trembling hands just as a discreet tap tap tap at the door preceded Reginald's reentry into the dim room; composure perfectly reconstructed.

"I'll be damned," Reginald declared with manufactured lightness as he observed Ernest's disheveled state. "You've been catching z's like one blessed with virtuous slumber."

Groaning softly at the intrusion yet oddly comforted by it, Ernest managed to muster an apologetic grimace as he lifted his head. "It's not sheer idleness," he rasped out hoarsely while wincing slightly against the throb in his skull. "I'm grappling with an infernal headache."

Maybe those daytime snoozes aren't the best for your health, huh?"

"Could be. But lately, it seems I've had no choice but to steal some shuteye from the daylight since the night's been stiffing me. I'm guessing you're right about that indigestion theory. It seems like the belly's at the root of all life's troubles, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, and all the joys too. Those ancient Greeks even thought our gut was where our soul hung out. You know, I’ve always said you could tell a lot about a poet just by looking at what he stuffs in his face."

"No joke. A guy who kicks off his day with a greasy hunk of steak probably won’t be cranking out any love sonnets by lunchtime."

Reginald chuckled and added, "Food shapes us—shapes our minds—just as it shaped those who came before us. I reckon the blandness of American verse can be blamed on the old pancake breakfasts of those Puritan folks. Wish we could dig deeper into this now, but I've got myself an invite to a little dinner where I'll be doing some field research into how those fancy French sauces mess with my poetry game."

"So long then."

"Till we meet again." With a casual flick of his wrist, Reginald drifted out.

As the door clicked shut, Ernest's mind veered toward darker roads. Their recent banter had just been a well-played act on his part. These past weeks had been hellish; monstrous nightmares had clawed at him during his nightly rest and cast creeping shadows over his days. They had grown more vivid with each passing night, more twisted in their intensity, more grotesque in their form. Even in this moment, he could see them—the elongated, well-manicured fingers that prowled through his mind every night like serpents in tall grass—slithering over every crevice of his brain as if seeking something vile hidden within its labyrinthine folds.

The torment was excruciating, nearly unbearable. A human brain isn't some lifeless chunk of rock; it pulses with life, and with that life comes the capacity for intense suffering. What secrets were those probing digits after, delving into the recesses of his psyche? Hidden gems, precious stones buried deep within his own mental labyrinth? His mind, a fragile mine of human experience, shuddered with each metaphorical strike of the pickaxe, each footstep of the invisible prospector. And that prospector – merciless, diligent, and unyielding – he mined each cerebral vein, extracting the wealth of thoughts as if they were tactile ore.

Small wonder, then, that the lad was a bundle of raw nerves. Every time a timid idea began to coalesce amidst the neurons, that specter-like hand seized it ferociously, shearing away at the delicate meshwork linking one notion to the next. Come dawn's light, how profoundly his head throbbed! Not with the sharpness of a fresh wound but with a deep-rooted, relentless pounding.

Time and again, Ernest tried to persuade himself that these episodes were nothing but mere morbid obsessions. But he knew all too well – much like the unfortunate soul who believes his limbs have been torn from his flesh might as well be limbless. The mind has the power to demolish barriers; yet is equally adept at constructing them. For Ernest, who was no stranger to psychological theories, it wasn't hard to seek rational explanations for his torment in some passing thought or inadvertent prompt – that gripping fixation that shadowed him every waking moment and polluted his dreams. But intellectualization is no panacea; understanding an affliction doesn't strip it of its claws. Even for Ernest – astute in his psychological insights and sharp in intellect – there were moments when fear's ancient and forever unreasoning shadow could eclipse reason's light during periods of vulnerability for even such sophisticated minds.

Ernest had kept his mouth tightly sealed about the nightmares that shook him from sleep; horrifying visions so vivid he could swear they drew breath. Lately, those twisted dreams mingled with the bizarre belief that it was his mind, not Reginald's, that had conjured the surreal tale of "The Princess With the Yellow Veil." To confess these dark delusions, he feared, would light the fuse of doubt in Reginald's eyes—a doubt about Ernest's very grip on reality. In a flash, Reginald would likely ship him off to a place white with sanity, stripping him from this dwelling of creativity. Though a patron saint in every other deed, Reginald was an unforgiving god when his own sacred work was at stake—his retribution swift and devoid of compassion.

For the first time since what felt like forever, thoughts of Abel Felton crept in—another soul cast out into the void by Reginald’s uncompromising hand. Where had fate swept that poor boy? Ernest vowed silently he wouldn't loiter for the command to leave; he'd vanish into the night before anyone noticed. But that truth clashed with another: wasn't there a warmth in Reginald’s eyes when he looked upon Ernest—something that resembled affection?

His brooding broke as a clatter arose at the front door, splicing through his thoughts like jagged lightning. With a metal click and a turn, someone uninvited was breaching the threshold. Could it be him so early? Confusion twisted into curiosity as he made his way to investigate this unexpected return. Upon prying open the door, not Reginald's expected frame filled the gap but that of a woman shrouded in theater silk—a phantom maybe from an act just finished or maybe anticipating an audience with Reginald.

Ernest readied himself to slip away unseen when the harsh gleam of hallway lights unveiled her face. His heart stumbled over beats as recognition sank its claws deep.

"Ethel?" The name escaped on a gasp. "Is it you?"