Chapter Seven The Performer
Chapter Seven
The Performer
After three baths, I was sure the blood was gone.
But what if it isn’t?
As I sat there in the basin the next morning, the water ran clear, my skin chapped from the scrubbing and lye. But I could have sworn I saw just one drop, maybe a smudge of blood on my hands, that made me think I was not yet clean.
I sank into the lukewarm water, hoping some of it would soothe my aches, my anxiety.
If I emptied the tub now, I might still have time for my fourth bath since last night.
The smell of rosewater and eucalyptus was so sweet to my senses, it was nearly nauseating. Light from the window pooled into the water, highlighting the faint figure of my legs lurking between clotting bubbles.
I’d awoken in the night many times, paranoid about having blood in my hair, my ears, somewhere I missed. Even after his death, I could not rid myself of Vincent. I’d always known him as some sticky leech; I did not know he would be the mess that became of him.
The morning was so painfully normal, all things considered. You would never have guessed we’d murdered a man the day before. Except for the blood on the floorboards and the wall.
The sun still rose above the skyline, the newsboy didn’t lose his voice, the invoices still pushed through the mail slot.
Arkady had disappeared for the night with Mr. Carlisle. Like it was all some inconceivable nightmare, the wool pulled taut over my eyes.
Out of sight, out of my mind.
He’d even abducted my favorite hallway runner; I really loved that rug.
The call came close to dawn, requesting my presence at the botanical gardens. He said to wear something pretty before leaving me hanging on the static of the receiver. That boy needed house training; lessons in a proper conversation should be first.
The only remaining itch at the back of my brain wasn’t even regarding the murder.
What scared me more than my deadly reaction was the way Arkady had seemed completely and utterly unfazed.
His expression had been something I would expect if I’d burnt dinner or forgotten to extinguish a candle beside the drapes.
Why would you bind yourself to me, Mr. Kamenev?
There were a million and one ways to handle that situation; finishing the job was, admittedly, not the first to come to my mind.
It was an accident. It wasn’t my fault. Had he done this before?
I had no way of knowing if he would be any good at hiding a body.
Could it have been panic? What if he didn’t dispose of the body efficiently?
I could only hope I didn’t have any gumshoes knocking their batons on my door.
Of all the things I thought would stress me about my marriage, wondering whether or not my spouse was skilled at body disposal was not one of them.
What if he is turning me in at this very moment?
As a sitting dove, I’d failed to consider that I might very well find out how well he could hide a body, intimately, if I weren’t careful.
No, he would have finished me right then, with the same weapon, giving me the same demise as my patron.
I am important, I reminded myself. Not to him, but to his survival.
Surely, I was not in any danger of death, at the very least.
If I simply never left my shelter, I couldn’t make any more mistakes. Lord knows how little room I had for them now.
How dare the sun shine on a day like this?
The city conservatory was popular around this time of year, bursting with the excitement of spring beginnings. The glass cathedral of the greenhouse made it feel at least midsummer.
I was sweating. Well, I had been restless sweating before, but now it was just plain sweat.
The dress I chose hadn’t been used in quite some time.
The color remained a glossy cream, a perfectly soft buttermilk fabric against my skin.
The collar came midway up my neck, the skirt skimming completely to the floor.
The make was liquid in texture, even more so with the subtle train behind me.
The sleeves came down quarter length, white gloves would cover the rest. My hair managed in a twisted plait, the humidity calling out some strays that curled to kiss the dew of my face.
The heavy pearls of my earrings made me all too aware of the textures and sensations of the outfit, but one must endure to look perfect.
I didn’t like crowds, or people—leaving my home was never preferred either. There were too many different noises, too many conversations, too many smells. Patrons were only tolerable as an audience, forced to be quiet with their attention only on me. The public stage was not as fun.
It may be that I’m a miserable person, after all.
The flowers were in full bloom, planted promptly in the fall to greet us by early spring, maturing by the time pleasant weather joined us in May.
Exotics were popular; there was hardly a reason to see native flowers when a garden as grand as this existed.
I pitied those who didn’t live near such privileges.
A small butterfly crawled along a bloom. I slipped off my gloves to offer it my hand, and it grasped my finger, its proboscis slapping happily along my skin.
At least someone enjoyed clammy hands.
Only when I looked closer did I realize it was not a butterfly but a hawk moth that had snuck in. I had no doubt it had happily eaten its fill of estranged conservatory nightshades. When your lifespan was only a single month, you might as well indulge. Who was I to judge such a thing?
“Those are invasive, you know,” a voice said in my ear.
I turned my head. Arkady leaned over my shoulder, looking less than impressed. I lifted the shuddering insect, the clumsy wings flapping and tickling his nose. “You two shall get along nicely, then.”
To say he was less than amused was an understatement. As someone pushed past us, he stood straight with a dimpled smile, affixing his public-facing mask. “Put your gloves on, it’s indecent.”
My eye twitched at his demand, but I reluctantly set the critter free before pinching the white gloves over each hand, not liking how stiff the material felt on my fingers.
Only after did Arkady offer me an arm, and I accepted.
“You look as pleasant as ever with such a virulent expression.” He kept a smile, but his tone was cutting. “Shall we walk? Play a bit of pretend?”
“Why did you ask me here?”
“Appearances,” he answered.
“What do you care about appearances?”
His shoulders physically tensed like a dog ready to snap at me for getting too close to his bone. “Typically,” he muttered in a low voice, barely moving his lips to speak, “the first thing you do to cover up a murder is create an alibi. Do you understand?”
I nodded, chewing the inside of my cheek.
A couple passed us, smiling and tipping their heads in greeting as they moved on to inspect the begonias.
He was right. He was right, and it was irritating beyond belief.
“All right.” I sighed. “You have a point.”
His face snapped in my direction, making me physically jump.
I released a short, irritated breath. “What is it now!” I hissed.
His eyes were wide, not unlike a doe’s. The simple shock on his face was enough to make me fear what had caused such a reaction.
“Nothing.” He blinked a couple times. “Could you say that again?”
“Excuse me?”
“Just that last part.”
My brow twitched when I realized he was teasing. “It’s bad enough as it is, don’t rub it in. Wouldn’t it be easier to turn me in?” I regretted the question as soon as it manifested into audible words.
He laughed as if I’d told a pleasant joke, flashing a smile as some people passed. “I would, but then I’d be back to sleeping on the floor of my workspace. You’re stuck with me now. We are stuck.”
“I married you willingly, knowing your financial situation. There is no need for blackmail!”
“Blackmail? No, dear, it’s insurance. I’m sure you understand.”
“Then make sure we’re never caught,” I hissed.
He glanced down, gracing me with a smile. “Just do as you’re told, and all will be well.”
I blew a breath through my nose and looked away.
The gardens were busy today, as it was one of the first pleasant days we had seen all season. The sun burned away the clouds, chasing any gloominess that remained from the sluggish morning.
“About yesterday—”
“No questions, no qualms.”
“You said that before. I don’t agree.”
“Then start to.”
“Arkady.” I pulled on his arm, stopping under the shade of a small tree.
He stopped but took a deep breath before turning fully to me. “What is it now?”
“Are we not going to talk about it?”
“No.”
“I think if we are going to be sharing skeletons in our closet,” I started, lifting my chin confidently to face him, “then we have to be transparent.”
His expression was utterly unamused; it was as if he were just waiting for me to finish speaking.
“Should we not play as a team?”
“Do you like sweet things?” he finally replied, ignoring my barrage, stepping to my side and leading me forward with a hand resting on my lower back.
He pulled me along, his grip firm as if to reprimand me.
We continued along the path, observing the curation of neatly pruned flowers and shrubs.
His face was as unreadable as his demeanor.
If anything, he looked more well rested.
I admit, he cleaned up nicer than I’d have thought.
The way he dressed was fashionable and young, finely tailored and undoubtedly paid for by my father.
Even under the shade of dogwood trees, his tanned skin brought more warmth to him than he deserved.
It was foolish to expect the outward expression to reach his core.
Even with his cold treatment of me, a small knot formed at the idea of melting it. It was a foolish thought, but something about him made me feel like I was safe and in harm’s way all at once, like a lion grooming a lamb.
Arkady was dangerous, and we were now bound by law, by God, and by blood.
As we came to the corner of the greenhouse, he stopped me by grasping my arm.