Chapter Six The Performer #2
“I know it’s silly”—I shrugged, placing my cup in its coaster—“but I love to dance. Everything else can go except the art itself. It’s a shame that the two halves are exclusive.”
“I have to agree, I loved the music.” Cosette sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Oh! And the costuming! I’ve never felt so beautiful. I wish we could wear such beautiful things every day.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Well, I’m sure Mother would throw a gala just to make that request come true, just for you,” I teased.
Félice nodded exaggeratedly, taking a long sip of her brew.
An air of nostalgia wove its way into our conversations, and our morning continued quietly as we finished up our breakfast.
With all of our lives being so different, it was important to me that we all gathered when we could.
In my sisters’ own odd ways, they were still as supportive as they could be.
It was just a blessing to be with them without our parents hovering.
Even as adults, we half expected them to be right around the corner, listening in, making sure we were presenting whatever image they wanted us to.
Sometimes it was nice to slouch, to laugh, to be louder, to take up space together in private—away from scrutinizing eyes.
My stomach pinched and growled, whining for something to eat other than cakes and finger sandwiches.
I didn’t want to cook anything too labor intensive in case Arkady came home early. So far, he had stayed late at his studio and hadn’t shown any signs of changing his habits yet.
The keys at my hip chimed as I stepped up to my front door and fiddled with them to find the correct one for the lock. Not only had the walk exhausted me, but just the front steps had rendered me slightly out of breath. My headache wasn’t doing me any favors all the while.
Upon entering my domicile, the familiar smell of my home calmed me, just not enough for me to ignore my other senses.
The earthy colors of the walls reminded me more of a cottage than a city home.
The sage-green furnishings were soft on the eyes, even softer now that they had been well loved by my family, then just myself.
The mid-tone wood gave the room a whisper of warmth as if welcoming me with a familiar embrace, like an old friend asking to catch up over fresh tea and old memories.
It was as quiet as ever, a peaceful place where time went to be stolen. A place to lie down on the sofa and rot away in its stillness. Memories are a sort of ghost, and this house was teeming with them. They said ghosts were for keeping people away, but I believed they breathed life into a home.
After shedding my coat, I draped it on a coatrack before letting my shoulders slump, stretching my neck from side to side. The fluttering of a moth greeted me as my coat disturbed it.
My stomach pinched again. A steadfast craving bloomed on my tongue like a lost memory, leaving an acidic taste in my mouth.
The carpet under my shoes seemingly stretched, pulling my eyes in the direction of my basement door. It was like the more I stared, the farther away the door got. Whether it be pinholing or lightheadedness, I wouldn’t know. I just knew I was hungry.
With the key pinched firmly between my fingers, I approached the door. The lock was sturdy, a simple brass shape keeping all my secrets safe. The golden glow of the metal was worn down to a muted patina, revealing everywhere it had been touched during the last twenty years.
The steps to the basement floor disappeared halfway down, the only light present from the hallway.
Much like the other stairs in the home, these creaked too.
The only difference between these stairs and the others was their tune.
While the others moaned, these steps screamed.
They whimpered and cried upon contact until they were finally relieved of the weight, making the step onto the ceramic floor all the more jarring when everything silenced.
The basement was small, utilitarian. Mechanical forms hid away in the corners, though I wasn’t sure what their functions were.
The tiles on the floor were a black-and-white checker.
Three of the walls were finished with lath and plaster, the last one bare brick and stained with a buildup of lime.
The ceiling was mostly finished except for the places where water damage slowly discolored it.
At one point my parents had tried to finish it as a utility room for staff, but then they settled on the idea of building their own custom home farther into Manhattan.
Small boxes were tucked under the stairs in large stacks, a couple of items perched on top for lack of better placement options in the barren room. The pipes groaned a bit louder down here, like witnessing the beating heart of a home in the most clinical sense.
The tenement was a time capsule, burying our history with it. It had been our first home upon arriving to this new city before my parents came into their fortune and outgrew it.
They even left the old icebox, short enough where I could knock my knee if I tripped on it in the dark. The wood was a dull green, pieces splintering and the paint peeling from wear.
Before I could retrieve any perishables from the little box, the bell sounded, followed by the front door’s heavy bolt unlocking.
He’s home early.
“Hello?” I called out, practically skipping steps to get to the first floor faster. “Leave your shoes at the door, clay is hard to scrub out of rugs!”
When the ground floor was on the horizon, there was no one in the foyer.
“Arkady?” I said, quieter.
I closed the door gently to push it into the frame without much noise.
My heart was in my throat, the anxiety a slow squeeze around my chest. I focused on the front door at the end of the hallway, just past the stairs.
There were no shoes, not even a new coat on the rack.
The moths high on the wall were never disturbed.
I treaded carefully over to the parlor room, taking a deep breath that did little to steady my frantic heart.
My father sat in the corner chair with his signature morose posture.
Despite sitting in the home of his daughter, he always held himself like he was wasting money the longer he was present.
Time is not money, time is worth much more, he would always say. I could practically hear him. His visual was helping with the immersion.
His head cocked to the side, his eyes focused on packing his pipe, not wasting a glance. He sat in his old chair; it remained unused unless he visited.
“You let yourself in,” I said.
“It is my house, after all.”
“What is the point of giving me the house if you invite yourself in whenever it pleases you?”
“Careful”—his eyes snapped to me—“you have very low leverage in this situation.”
I bit the inside of my cheek.
“I was kind to you. I could have used you for a more advantageous marriage.” He leaned back in the chair, lighting his pipe.
“But you didn’t.”
“Because I would need those investors relatively unharmed, for now.” He paused, puffing and watching the embers pulse to life with each breath. “I thought you would be more grateful, is all.”
“I am grateful.”
“Have you consummated?” He watched for my reaction carefully.
“Is that not my private business?” I managed a small smile through a clenched jaw.
His laugh was melodic, a lighthearted amusement if it weren’t for the topics at hand. “No, my dear, what you do with your body has never been your business.” He gathered himself again to take another inhale.
I only noticed I was making fists when my nails began to leave impressions in my palms, stinging as the blood attempted to recirculate.
“I take it that you’ve scared him off already?” He sighed, standing from his seat and neatly buttoning his jacket.
“We are getting to know one another.” My voice shook. “Have you considered he may like me for my mind rather than my flesh?” I didn’t know if Arkady could possibly see that in me, but my father didn’t know that. The only leverage I had was that we hadn’t shared a home in some time.
His head tilted to the side with a smile as if I’d said something foolish. “My dear girl, men are practically born craving the fruit of the flesh.”
“I am taking my time.”
“How funny, it didn’t take much time at all with your past patrons. And your sisters fared well.” He moved to pass but paused when he came up next to me. “I thought your experience would have made this go faster, but I am choosing to trust your process while you gather your footing.”
There was such venom in his words that an outsider would hardly believe they came from my father. He was collected that way, his perception a mere curation of what he wanted others to see.
Another ring of the doorbell.
“I’ll see myself out, it was good to catch up.” A pleasant smile graced his features before he squeezed my shoulder.
As I opened the door to let him out, I was nose to nose with my second guest of the day.
“Oh—I didn’t realize you had company. I can come back later.” Lorelei startled at the sight of my father.
A disingenuous smirk peeled across his lips. “I was on my way out.”
He stepped past with a tip of his hat, then flashed me a look before leisurely strolling down the sidewalk.
“How are you?” I mumbled, staring down at my shoes that were toe to toe with hers, only the wooden saddle of the door between us like a line in the sand.
“Could we talk?” Lorelei sighed. She was clutching her little purse, rubbing at the slightly worn handle.
She was never good at apologies, but she was good at coming back around.
I stepped aside, welcoming her into the home with a gesture.
Lorelei had already begun rambling about something faster than a racehorse through the gate, immediately making herself comfortable in the living room.
I leaned on the archway, her words becoming muffled as my mind wandered, gently being pulled toward the basement door, a loose lock dangling, mocking me as the keyhole stared like some malevolent eye watching over my day.