“Do I need to confiscate Coleridge?” I stopped and looked up at the grand staircase. Hawkes sat midway up the stair, as if it were a perfectly normal thing. He was looking tired in a way he had not since we arrived. Some deep internal recess opened to a glimpse behind his eyes, and Hawkes said softly, “But in one quiet room we three are still together.” Dust motes and stillness and late, late afternoon sunshine. “It’s a rather sad line,” I replied. “Yes,” Hawkes said. “Breaking and beautiful. Have you spent much time with the portrait?”
Ok weird alternate theory… what if Hawkes is, somehow, the Roman. Or just like a guardian angel from heaven or something. Something about him seems so otherworldly… and how does he know everything?
