Chapter Six The Performer #3
Finally, I was alone.
My afternoon ritual could begin. A fresh brewing of a new malty black tea Cosette gifted me.
She said the hint of chocolate would pair perfectly with the dried apricots.
My favorite cups, the cream-colored ones with gold and deep-reddish-orange glaze in the designs around the rim.
I only had two, the rest long since chipped, worn, or discarded.
Within the living room, I settled comfortably on the sofa with a novel from the shelf.
The only decision I was keen on making tonight was whether I wanted to read a new story or reread an old comfort novel.
My own personal library must have been half made up of books I’d read more times than years living, new books I’d bought for how pretty their bindings were, or the small amount that were out-of-taste gifts that I would never touch.
Just as I was settling in, a loud, quite agitating rasping came at the door.
“One moment of peace, I beg,” I groaned, snapping the book closed again and tossing it on the table, making my teacup clamor in its saucer.
The door practically flew back, smacking me in the forehead, when I simply unlatched it.
“Did you really think you could avoid me? How quickly you move on, fickle thing,” the coroner scoffed, striding into my home like a debt collector.
I hurriedly caught the door and shut it.
“I wasn’t avoiding you, Vincent. Don’t be obtuse.” I was, indeed, unmistakably, avoiding him.
“You can’t just cut me out, you know.” He let out a cruel laugh, turning on his heel to snap his head at me, a few stray pieces of hair falling and bringing attention to how manic his eyes were, pupils wide like a feral pest. “Who else will help a depraved little thing like you? Your new husband? No, he would run at the very idea—”
“I didn’t cut anyone out,” I interrupted, hastily collecting the mail that the door had scattered and placing it on the hallway table. “My hands are tied, it wasn’t my decision,” I lied.
“You promised yourself to me.”
“I don’t know what you thought our arrangement was,” I started, busying myself slicing through one of the envelopes with the letter opener, “but I did no such thing.”
The tall man stalked forward, but I stood firm, propping up my facade of indifference with twigs. If my back weren’t turned to him, he may have caught the tremor in my hand.
“You know, just because you are free of the ballet . . .” he began, his stature hanging over me like a guillotine waiting to drop.
In the reflection of the letter opener, his eyes were dark, hungry.
“. . . does not mean you will be free of me.” He placed his hand low on my back, smoothing lower.
“Stop.” I crushed the letter in my hand.
“I don’t think you mean it.” He licked my ear, shoving his hand between my legs and squeezing.
“Stop!” I shouted, reaching down and digging my nails into his hand.
He squeezed tighter, yanking me backward and pressing his hardened bulge against my back.
“I said stop!” I screamed, whipping around to slap him with the blunt end of my letter opener.
My aim was miscalculated.
He was too tall.
I couldn’t reach.
It wasn’t my fault.
A hot sensation kissed my face, clouding my vision with red. The metallic tinge dripped to my lips. I ran my tongue over it, looking down at the bloodied opener and the crimson coating on my hands, spreading to my white tea gown.
A fine line across his neck, going from pink to red immediately. His expression might as well have been mirroring mine, the wound gaping similar to his mouth, spraying blood instead of the profanities I was used to.
He finally let go of me to press that same grip on his neck. He stumbled back but faltered before his back could hit the wall.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, wait—” I pleaded, kneeling before him, the front of my dress turning pink with every droplet that sputtered from the wound. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I wept, trying to press my hands to his neck, which only resulted in more smears and nicking him again with the opener.
I tossed it in horror, blood splattering as it clattered on the floor.
Thank God my carpet was already red. Did he get any on the wallpaper? Oh, of course, I’m wearing the new tea gown! It would be too embarrassing to go buy the same one again in such a short time. I wasn’t willing to part with it, but I was unaware of what would wash out blood.
His expression—pure and utter shock. It was alien to me, the behavior of a dying man. An awful, terrible, wet gasping coming from his mouth instead of his typical verbal abuses.
Then, the door creaked, the rush of rain showers hissing among the cobblestones.
No, not now!
Mr. Kamenev entered, not noticing the situation at first as his gaze was lowered.
Everything was quiet.
Everything was still.
Everything but my heart.
He shrugged off his coat, popping the collar onto the coatrack. He squinted, brushing some dust from the shoulder. Then, before removing his boots, his eyes followed the spray of blood on the floor until they settled on my patron, then on me.
I finally let go, my situation settling on me.
He slammed the door shut.
Mr. Carlisle reached out, mouthing pleading words.
I sobbed, “I’m sorry—”
Arkady snatched the letter opener from the floor.
I didn’t know what to do with the blood that stained my hands, so I held them palms up.
“Call the police—” Mr. Carlisle tried desperately to warn my husband against my transgressions, his mouth moving as fast as it could.
But it slacked when my husband buried the letter opener through the coroner’s eye.
Vincent’s mouth gaped open and closed like a jittering nutcracker, wide-eyed and all.
With a final shove, he stilled.
“Speechless” was too weak a word to describe what I felt. I wanted to say many things, but I wondered if reminding him of my presence was a good idea after what I’d just witnessed.
There was a long pause. From fear? A lack of an explanation? How would I begin to explain myself?
Why did you do that?
“Clean yourself, you’re a sopping mess.” Arkady broke the thick veil of silence, dragging his palm and the back of his hand down an unstained part of Vincent’s trousers.
“But I—”
“I said,” he repeated, looking at me over his shoulder as he rolled up his sleeves, “go get cleaned.”
“Arkady—”
“I will take care of it.”
All I could do was stare. I couldn’t move.
My husband turned to me. All I saw were the eyes of a dog with its lip curled and hackles erect.
Yet, in his face, there was no anger, no confusion, only a look that could cut anyone down to the bone. He tilted his head at me, brushing a piece of hair from my face, smearing the blood across my skin as he tucked it behind my ear.
“Petronille?”
“Y-yes.” I clenched my eyes shut, then opened again before clearing my throat. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
Is he angry with me?
“Yes.”
He nodded, taking my face in both of his hands, even leaning down to meet me eye to eye, his instructions slow and precise.
“Go run a bath, take time to settle down, and let me handle this. Do not call for anyone, do not leave the house, do not drink.” His thumb smoothed over my cheek. “No questions, no qualms. Understood?”
I nodded, trembling in his grip, trapped between the jaws of the hound.