Chapter Six The Performer
Chapter Six
The Performer
The next morning was no different from the last. Arkady slept on the sofa, again.
I wasn’t sure he’d come home at all some days, as he was always at his studio. At least I assumed it was his studio. He returned by the time I was asleep and left before I woke. Completely separate schedules.
He didn’t speak much if I happened to see him, though it was like he reserved himself until he had something important to say. I admit, this was what I’d wanted, to be left alone. It was no different than before I was married, and he made sure of it.
It was like we were both unsure how to interact with one another, though his stubbornness was juvenile. Hesitation was expected between newlyweds, but was it supposed to be as severe as this?
My morning coffee was getting as cold as my bones. I swore I was never warm no matter how big the fire or however many layers I put on myself. The headache that prodded at my brain surely wasn’t helping my appetite.
The soft music on the phonograph beside me was supposed to help ease my tension, but it did the opposite.
“You’re up early,” Arkady pointed out as he adjusted his jacket, ready to escape the domicile.
I nodded, closing my eyes even if the light still perforated them somehow. A swell of unsteadiness threatened nausea, the piercing phantom pain in my left eye, my sinuses.
There was an awkward rustling of my surroundings, bouncing in and out of my auditory perception.
“Are you studying?” He made an awkward attempt at conversation.
“No, just listening.”
“Do you miss it?”
I didn’t answer.
“Which symphony is it?” He was closer now. “I’m not familiar.”
“Act two finale of La Sylphide,” I mumbled, leaning my face into my palms at the table.
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I don’t see why it would.” My tone would have been more sarcastic if I weren’t so focused on not gagging.
“Well, what’s happening, then?”
I sighed and lifted my head to the bleary image of him standing by the sofa, collecting things in a satchel for his day. What was the point of asking if he didn’t seem to care?
“The protagonist has removed the sylph’s wings in an attempt to have her, overcome by his desire. But in doing so, it kills her. One wing drops . . .” I paused, waiting for the sad shrill of the stringed instruments. “Here.” I waited for the next beat. “And here.”
“Is that the end?”
“Then she is carried off by faeries into the woods, escaping the desire of man at the cost of her life.”
“But is she not free?”
“I suppose that is one way to interpret it.” I lowered my head back into my palms.
“Are you well?”
I nodded.
Footsteps, louder as they approached.
A hand grasped my jaw and tilted it up. My eyes widened at the man peering down at me. His expression was critical, calculating.
“What?” My voice cracked, not entirely woken up from my slumber.
He used his other hand to pull my bottom eyelid down.
“Stop that!” I swatted his hand.
“You are anemic.” He gripped my face to keep me still.
“Yes.” I clenched my jaw. “Iron deficiency, I told you.”
His eyes seemed sharp, pupils constricting.
This may have been the first time I’d seen anything other than indifference, which was both relieving and terrifying at the same time.
The pads of his fingers were firm against my jaw.
My breath caught, heart pounding so hard I thought it would leap out my throat.
He finally let go, returning to his typical cool demeanor, and he did not comment before the front door slammed on his way out.
What was that?
I swallowed the lump in my throat, rubbing the skin where he’d grabbed. I supposed I could take some comfort in knowing I was right . . . there was something off about him. The more I saw him, the greater the threat seemed.
A watch was ticking, something would happen. My dysfunction was the fact that I was more curious than afraid. What will he do? What is he made of? I wished to find out.
“S?urette!” Cosette squeaked, rising steadily from her seat as she rested a tired hand on her belly, swollen with child.
The housekeeper let me in, and I glanced around the corner into the parlor room.
“Cosette.” I beamed. “I heard you were craving the blueberry scones.” I held up my basket.
“Yes! Sois béni!” She let out an exasperated sigh, pulling me into a hug.
I always wondered if I would have resembled my sisters if I weren’t the runt.
They were classic beauties: hair like rich hazelnut and an olive depth to their skin even though they were pale, which made their deep blue eyes stand out even more.
I shared nothing with them, as I was always sicker, paler, monochromatic—like my mother had forgotten to save that same vibrance for me.
I did not have many friends aside from Félice and Cosette, with the exception of Lorelei, and I liked to hear how their lives were, to live vicariously.
Our parents moved us from the South of France in our teenage years.
We joined a ballet in Paris. It was there we gathered our first prospects, connections for our parents to use at their whim.
Climbing the industrial ladder until we had enough to move here and begin anew, with rapidly growing appetites and means.
I admitted, I’d been sad to leave the ballet then, and I was sad to leave again now.
My sisters had no trouble making friends. I, on the other hand, never found any ease in the matter. The best I could do was befriend the governess, the milkman, maybe a funny-looking pigeon.
“How have you been?” Félice hugged me next. “I hope everything is well with you and Mr. Kamenev.”
“It is fine,” I mumbled, “but I don’t wish to talk about me today.”
We gathered around the tea table. Assorted scones, clotted cream, and margarine paired with our morning tea. My sisters were predictable—black tea, imported. I’d grown to prefer Russian Caravan, since it was gifted to me by a patron years ago.
“You seem pale.” Félice reached over to place the back of her hand on my forehead.
“I have been forgetting to eat my fruit.” I swatted her hand. “The week has been a bit of a wrench in my routine.”
“I see.” She sat back in her chair, her hands returning to hold her cup.
“Thank you for the sweets. Charles refuses to give in to my cravings, he calls them unnatural,” Cosette complained, eating yet another scone.
She was pregnant with her first, so naturally Félice was here every day to help and support her.
One benefit of moving to New York was that we were all a stone’s throw away from one another.
Félice almost had a child once. It was stillborn.
Her husband expired soon after, though she was in no rush to find another.
The assets of her first husband were enough to keep her comfortable for the rest of her life.
Our parents always told us that hardship was the only way to find comfort in this life, as women more than anything.
“I was passing the bakery anyway, it was no trouble,” I lied. I’d left early with her in mind.
The two were almost comical next to one another. Cosette wore a soft-yellow gown with little bluebell flowers printed on the fabric, while Félice was wearing a nearly black violet one, as she was coming out of her first year of mourning.
Some days I thought Félice was relieved, but I shouldn’t have assumed such a thing.
I never saw her cry for them, even at their funerals.
It was one mourning period right after the other.
I don’t believe I had ever seen her cry; I couldn’t imagine it.
I supposed after such a sacrifice, you got used to it.
A maid replenished our tea before gathering any loose plates or empty trays.
“How is Mr. Kamenev?” Cosette asked me in French, giving a polite smile to the maid as she departed. All of our private conversations were held in French, as my sister’s help strictly spoke English.
“Fine.”
“You don’t seem very enthusiastic.” Félice raised a brow. “Is that why you are sick? He isn’t taking proper care of you?”
“He is a distraction.” I took another slow sip of my tea.
Félice scoffed, shaking her head. “I don’t like him.”
“Good thing he isn’t your husband.” Cosette rolled her eyes at Félice before looking back to me. “So I take it you had a less than eventful night after you left the ceremony?”
“It was eventful, but not in that way. He slept on the sofa.”
Both sisters grimaced, their noses wrinkling at the thought of whatever he did to deserve that. I was sure their expressions would be worse if I’d told them it was his choice.
“I know, I know.” I sighed. “He is painfully indifferent.”
“I suppose that isn’t the worst thing he could be,” Cosette said, offering her signature optimism. “Though, it is a shame. He is pretty.”
“Cosette,” Félice scolded, whipping her cloth napkin at her.
“No, it’s okay.” I placed my cup down. “I’m sure he is being gentlemanly.”
I didn’t know if my sisters’ expressions were confused or horrified.
“He isn’t taking your condition well?” Félice asked cautiously.
“It isn’t that. I haven’t told him.”
“You know he will find out.”
“He doesn’t need to know everything at once. Men are flighty things, I will tell him eventually.”
“He should know soon, you can’t hide it for long,” Cosette piped in.
“Based on how he reacted to the anemia this morning, I don’t know if I want to tell him right now.”
“What do you mean?” Cosette’s brows knitted together.
“He looked alarmed, almost angry, at my low energy.” I shrugged. “I’m not sure what he thinks, he is impossible to read. Maybe he was expecting more of a fight.”
“Even with the odd circumstance of your husband, it must be a relief to leave that musty theater.” Félice took a relaxed breath.
I didn’t comment, taking a closer inspection of my teacup.
“Come now, Petre, the ballet wasn’t going to be forever, right?” Félice took on a maternal tone. “We all did our duty, aged out, and gathered our means. This is a good thing, Petre.”