Chapter Three The Artisan
Chapter Three
The Artisan
It wasn’t a chore settling into my wife’s townhome. While we did not honeymoon anywhere secretive, it was probably best for her to be somewhere familiar and comfortable.
Besides, moving into my studio would not be the best choice—even I would prefer the townhome. It mattered little that it was my wife’s.
I lay there on the sofa, the morning light showing the truly distressed state of her home. I couldn’t tell if the haze in the air was dust or the steam from my morning brew.
While the domain was expensive, it was ill maintained.
Aside from the runner on the stairs and select pieces of furniture, most of it looked like it only existed to hold collections of things like books and trinkets, rather than to serve its intended purpose.
It was as though her parents had gifted it to her, but she had no interest in keeping up with it.
Her shelves had run out of space for books a good while ago, stacks forming on the floor.
The tables were cluttered, yet each pile seemed to be a specific category, and only she would know the full extent of methodology.
The fireplace hadn’t held a fire in a long time, or she was very good at maintaining the cleaning, which I highly doubted.
The only other signs of life seemed to be the occasional flutter of a moth.
Though I shouldn’t complain. Sleeping on the cushions of her sofa was more comfortable than anything in my studio.
I checked my timepiece—not even seven in the morning, yet I couldn’t bring myself to sleep in. I supposed that was typical when settling into unfamiliar dwellings.
Up the walls, there were many pieces of art, though not many photographs of the family aside from one ovoid frame of, presumably, a younger vision of Petronille and her sisters.
She had a captivating collection of pinned butterflies, moths, and some other rare insects arranged lavishly in boxes memorializing their deaths.
In front of the window was a small table with two chairs, where we’d sat last night.
Atop a spare chair was what looked like her current project. A set of pointe shoes, the arch of one shoe snapped in half and preworn. The ribbon half sewn on, and the shoe itself serving as a pincushion for her threaded needle.
Draped on the back of the chair was a sort of costume bedazzled with small glass beads and tulle.
On another chair in the corner of the room was a pile of flowers well past their freshness beside a collection of letters with unbroken wax seals.
I suppose she had many admirers. A shame she didn’t bother reading them.
The flowers were not unlike the others that attempted to decorate the home.
On the mantel was a small bouquet, withered and dried from the air of time, only a spider finding them pleasing enough to make a home of them.
At least the spider earned her keep, trapping a single moth out of however many infested the place.
Peering into the gaunt hallway, I spied a runner ending at a sullen basement door.
The padlock dangling on the door a passing temptation to investigate scurrying and scraping from within my mind.
As I looked closer, I noticed the runner was more worn than any of the other carpets.
I did not know my reasoning for passing as carefully as I did, but the door was beckoning me forward, teasing as to what could be so important that it had to be fashioned with such security.
Despite the teasing questions, I ignored them for a more tempting mystery.
“Hello?” I called up the stairs.
No answer.
“Petronille?” I called again, her name awkward and new in my mouth.
The stairs rasped one by one until I reached the second floor and was presented with an open door to her room.
Within the area, a pale and peaceful pile of blond hair and blankets against a dark and dreary room.
She’s much different when she is asleep. Less argumentative. More agreeable.
I watched her from the doorway, the air so thick that I feared she would wake if I disturbed it. The dust fluttered past the windows, a band of glowing nymphs as the sun began to rise above the skyline.
Delicate streaks of light striped across her face, her rising and falling chest, making the silk of the bed and her nightgown glow under its touch.
A moment won’t hurt.
As I approached the bed, the floorboards whined in response to my steps.
I would say she reminded me of Sleeping Beauty, but based on her furrowed brow, she may have been more like the title character of “The Princess and the Pea.”
Her jaw ticked, her eyes rolling behind her delicate lids, her lashes fluttering occasionally. I was close enough to see the dewy sheen gathering on her skin.
Out of the shadows fluttered a moth. The clumsy flight path of the critter landed him on her pillow. The graceless form crawled closer, climbing through her hair.
What a curious creature.
As I leaned closer, the moth happily rested on her brow, then flicked his wings as he lapped the dewiness forming under her eye. A tear?
The powdery wings unfolded as my shadow crept over her face. They were a dusty white with the exception of a red splotch at the widest part of each wing.
Suddenly, I was hit with a wild vision, a strike of inspiration.
While she may be brash and unpleasant past her soft exterior, I could not deny that Petronille was visually pleasing.
The ideas puttered around in the back of my mind . . . I had to go to the studio as soon as I finished my day’s arrangements.
As much as I would like to continue watching her sleep, the moths, I am sure, would be better company.
Man and Wife Missing Three Weeks.
“I’m so exhausted, I can’t even remember where I put the body!”
Please alert the metropolitan police if you identify these individuals.
“I tag them all, the logs are accurate, but I cannot for the life of me remember doing it. I’m just thankful that even when running on fumes, I can still do my job—like muscle memory!”
It is unclear at this time if this missing couple is connected to the Bardugo and Smith disappearances.
“Mm-hmm.” I underlined the heading of the paper with my pen, absently staring at the block of text, only able to return to the headline.
“Arkasha, did you hear me?” Konstantin stared expectantly.
“What is it, Kostya?” I spoke back.
“You haven’t said a word since we got here.”
“Not in a talkative mood.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Everything is perfect, actually.” I folded over my paper. “How’s the baby? The wife?”
“Always crying,” Kostya groaned, taking an exasperated gulp from his morning beer. “Both of them.”
“Ah . . .” I sipped my coffee. “So, nothing new?”
“I suppose.” Kostya sighed, leaning in his seat and anxiously tipping back the chair. “I’m awful, aren’t I?”
“Why would you say that?” I raised a brow, setting my paper down. It seemed the complaint was his way of opening a conversation.
We sat at the café’s outdoor tables, early enough that we had our choice of seating and Konstantin could make it to work on time. He tells his wife that his shift starts two hours earlier than it actually does so he can find some peace and quiet.
“I love my wife, and my daughter, they are the most precious things in my life,” he started.
“But?”
“But I am exhausted. I am awake all through the night helping Emily, I pull longer shifts for peace and quiet—dead men don’t cry!
Thank Christ!” He pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a breath to calm himself.
“I feel like I am constantly awake, riddled with anxiety in my waking hours as well as my sleeping ones, if you can call that sleep.”
“You’ll be fine, infants grow fast. How is Emily?”
“She is phenomenal with the baby, I don’t know how she does it.”
“I meant recovery.”
“Oh? Yes, she is fine. A bit weak, but that’s expected.”
I nodded, hoping it would be the last of his complaints. Kostya hadn’t been the same since the birth of his daughter. It could be sleep deprivation. It could also be the nature of his work.
Kostya worked as a deputy coroner. He saw many terrible things, and those sights tended to project when you cared about others who would one day, eventually, be on the table as well.
“You aren’t too far behind, you know.” He gave a light chuckle, smoothing down his neatly groomed mustache. “How are you and the new Mrs. Kameneva?” He put extra emphasis on the feminine-ending vowel.
“She’s fine.” I forced a smile. “Her couch is more comfortable than the mattress on my studio floor.”
He stared blankly at me, frowning when he realized I wasn’t attempting to be funny. “A couch, Arkasha? What in the world did you do to her to be cast out to the couch so quickly?”
“I didn’t have to do anything—we just talked.”
He dragged his palm over his eyes, then the rest of the way over his face with a groan. “You wouldn’t know how to swing a cat, dear friend. You are lucky to be born with looks, at least.”
“I make my own luck.”
“Ah yes, can’t forget about that stubborn ego.” He clicked his tongue.
I rolled my eyes and finished my drink, then set the cup down. I picked up my paper again but found myself only able to stare at the underlined ink at the top of the page.
An entire section in the newspaper for people who may not even be missing. I wondered how long it would take for the search to end and police to announce they’re gone, suspected dead—or worse, used as scapegoats for miscellaneous cold pursuits so authorities can say they’ve saved the day.
Would someone look for me if I disappeared? No.
If my wife disappeared? Without a doubt in my mind.
Something about it tickled the back of my head.
My thoughts have gathered a new pace lately, between my environment and my new union, new home.
They’ve opened my eyes to some things, to alternate lives and social classes that I thought I understood.
My new muse may end up teaching me things I never thought to learn.
There are muses for all who dare to feel.