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Summer had flashed by in the blink of an eye, and by mid-September, the exodus back to the neon heartbeat of the city was in full swing. Ethel was ahead of the curve, her feet itching for the concrete pulse beneath them. The resolve that had crystallized in her - to once again entwine her fate with that of the enigmatic young poet - left her no choice but to return to the urban maze posthaste. Her plan was meticulously crafted like a spider's web gleaming with morning dew. She wouldn't dare attempt a reunion with Ernest without first confronting Reginald, demanding that he dismantle the macabre shackles he had fastened around the boy's soul.

There was more than mere resolution fueling her quest though - a thread of curiosity wound its way through her determination. The bittersweet adieu she had bid Clarke all those years ago still echoed in her skull; he had been visibly shaken, an anomaly in his usually composed demeanor, and amidst his turmoil, he vowed that one day he would cast light on a truth that might redeem him in her eyes. Her retort had been swift and cold; words were wind where their history was concerned, and she professed a desire for their paths to stay forever diverged.

Yet time, instead of demystifying Reginald's peculiar essence, seemed only to knot it tighter, rendering his actions evermore inscrutable. Ethel caught herself, more than once, harboring a secret wish to confront him once again, to dissect coolly the enigmatic sway he had held over her. There was a caustic strength in this newfound objectivity - she recognized triumphantly that something indefinable yet essential he had possessed over her had dissipated like morning mist.

Therefore, when Walkham extended an invite to one of his infamous artistic soirees, Ethel saw it as a key turning in a long-sealed lock. Reginald's shadow over Walkham's abode had previously been an impenetrable barrier against her entry. But now things were different, and as familiar faces swam around her in Walkham's quarters - each more welcoming than the last - it stirred within her a strange cocktail of nostalgia and anticipation.

When at last Reginald made his entrance just past ten o'clock – his half-smile acknowledging the murmur of greetings – Ethel's heart thrummed like thunder against ribs too frail for such commotion. Nevertheless, marshalling every ounce of composure she could muster, she locked eyes with him from across the room. It wasn't long before fate or chance drew them both into the seclusion of a drawing-room alcove as the evening gradually unfurled its darkening wings around them.

Reginald's words hung in the air like an ominous echo, "This was always going to happen," he uttered, an edge of cold certainty to his voice. "It didn't take a prophet to see it coming."

Her response came as a whisper, thick with inevitability. "Yes, our paths were fated to cross again."

Memories flooded her mind like gushing waters breaching a dam. There he stood, exuding that eerie magnetism that had once ensnared her – only now she found herself resistant, maybe even immune, to his peculiar charm. The years had etched themselves into his face; the corners of his mouth were carved with cynicism, and his gaze held a metallic hardness. For an instant, as his eyes met hers, they warmed, melting into a pool of what seemed like old fondness. But it vanished quickly as he spoke, tinged with a certain melancholy: "Let's not start off tangled in untruths, shall we?"

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Ethel remained silent.

With a look that suggested awe and confusion mingling together, Reginald observed her closely and asked: "So your love for the kid has grown so strong that it eclipses your disdain for me?"

It struck a nerve. She tensed noticeably.

"Did he confess everything to you?"

He replied effortlessly, not waiting for her confirmation: "He didn't have to say anything."

It was almost as if Reginald possessed an uncanny ability to unravel the mysteries of the soul. With those piercing gazes that seemed capable of unveiling every hidden corner of one's psyche, why bother with facades?

"No," she retorted at last, her voice firm yet laden with complexity, "it isn't love I feel for him; it is pity."

"Pity?" His one word questioned was sharp and heavy.

"Yes," Ethel declared solemnly, standing her ground against his invasive stare. "Pity for someone who has suffered by your hand."

"You're asking me if I mean it?"

"Damn straight, Reggie!"

"I'm listening, spill it."

"I'm begging you here."

"Go on."

"You've done a number on someone's life."

A smirk crawled across his face like a contemptuous spider.

"Yes," she exploded with raw emotion, "you've wrecked it! Isn't that enough for you?"

"I've never gone out of my way to screw up anyone's life."

"But mine's in shambles because of you."

"Consciously? You think I did that on purpose?"

"How else am I supposed to interpret the crap you've pulled?"

"I gave you fair warning."

"A warning, huh? Like the kind a predator flashes before it strikes at the vulnerable. Your warning was as cold and deadly as a viper fixing its gaze on some poor, trembling mouse."

"Ah, come on now, who's been spinning tales that the serpent's the villain here? Ain’t it more like some arcane force etching its decrees with crimson letters on a slab of bronze that commands the cosmic rules we dance to?"

"As if that comforts the little bird. But enough digging through yesterday’s ashes. The here and now's what counts. Forget the boy, for heaven’s sake—let him grow without you choking out his spirit or branding him with your otherworldly notions."

"Ethel,” he said, a touch of hurt in his voice, “you’re not being fair. If only you understood—" It was then that something flickered in his eyes; a shrewd glint.

"What would change if I did?" she pressed.

"You’re about to," he replied with a sober gravity. "Can you handle it?"

"I can face down anything you throw my way. You can’t wield power over me—not anymore."

"That’s just it," he murmured, "no power at all. You sure have taken on a new shape. And yet, when I gaze at you, it’s like the dead days we left behind stir and wake up from their graves."

"People evolve. Here we stand on common ground—you've tumbled down from that pedestal where I once hoisted you."

"You think? Maybe for that statue standing aloft there, this here’s a breath of fresh air rather than disgrace. Being perched high and mute is a kind of hellish torment. Even the most closed-mouth folks get hit by this wave of... of needing to smash through the crushing solitude caging in their souls. That's what drives folks bonkers—to rip off their garb and lay their bare selves out for all to see in the town square. Call it madness, a passing fancy—I don’t have the faintest clue; but damn if it ain't a bit liberating letting you peek behind the curtain to see the truth."

"You swore one day you’d let me in."

"Well, today's that day—I'll honor that old vow. And I’ll drop another truth bomb that’ll probably knock you sideways."

"What's that then?"

"That time writ large in my past? I truly loved you."

The corners of Ethel's mouth twitched into a half-smile touched by disbelief. "Love's an old hat for you, isn't it?"

"No," he answered firmly. "Love—the honest-to-God kind? That’s only come around once."