Chapter Eight The Performer
Chapter Eight
The Performer
“Will you continue to hide away, or will you invite the rest of us to meet your mysterious new husband?” Lorelei nudged me with her hip.
“I am not hiding, nor is my husband.” I knocked my shoulder against hers. “He doesn’t seem the social type.”
“Pfft! You are a terrible liar, Petre,” Lorelei scoffed, plucking a strawberry from a fruit stand and inspecting it. “Do you plan to leave us behind and become a hermit?”
“You? Never. The rest of the troupe? I could do without.”
We met at the market, as I needed to buy groceries eventually. I had been snacking on dried fruits, leftovers from the wedding banquet, or gifted foods from my family’s acquaintances.
“So when will you host as a couple?” She poked my arm. “It would be nice to meet the mystery man my best friend ran off with.”
I shrugged. “Whenever he is home long enough to receive something other than a cigarette.”
“Cheer up, it only means more time to yourself.” Lorelei looped her arm in mine as we walked beside the bins of produce.
The weather was cheerier than usual, the sun strong enough to burn through the typical gloomy clouds, uncovering the expanse of blue that hid away all season.
Crowds ebbed and flowed like an ocean tide through the market. Couples strolled arm in arm, gatherings of women looked on at their leisure, and children ran between the passersby.
Our argument from before never resurfaced, but I knew she hadn’t heeded my warning.
It didn’t take an inspector general to see that she had a new hat peaked with exotic feathers, lambskin gloves, and a perfume that stung the nose despite only using a few drops.
Such luxuries were impossible to afford, especially for a woman with no career, husband, or family worth noting.
I promised myself today that I would not stress, and that included all matters of Lorelei that were none of my business. Even so, I worried for her. No, it made me angry for her. But, again, it was no affair of mine—something I struggled to remember.
The rest of the hour was plain. Useless small talk about the quality of the fruit in season and how the weather forecast might affect next week’s goods. Incredibly menial, peaceful. No conversations that may burden the mind, no effort to exhaust the social senses.
Among the bustling people, you could disappear and become just another face.
Two women clothed in expensive shades of fabric picked at apples in carts.
A man in a rugged smock rearranged large fruit to pass the time.
Two men laughed together in front of a stand, leaning up on it as they puffed cigars together.
Then a shock struck me. It was Arkady.
I nearly didn’t recognize him. Not because he was dressed differently or because he was more cleaned up.
No, I didn’t recognize him because his smile was genuine and his laugh was melodic, joyful.
He wasn’t even dressed properly. No jacket, sleeves rolled to his elbows, clay covering his hands, arms, stained on his shirt and tan pants.
He had a bit smeared on his cheek as well.
I watched his mouth move and form words from a distance, but I couldn’t make out what they were talking about.
He seemed warm in the light, details that were lost in the dark now on full display .
. . like the freckle beside his eye on his cheekbone, the way you could see veins along the muscles of his forearms, or the green of his eyes alight like spring maple leaves instead of dark like pine.
The sharp dimple of his cheek flashed as he cocked his head, raising an inquisitive brow at his friend as he lowered his mouth to the cigar, puffing it before tilting his head back. As he blew out the smoke, his gaze snapped to the side, catching me in his peripheral vision.
“We should go.” I tugged Lorelei in the opposite direction.
“But we still have the rest of the market!”
“Petronille!” Arkady’s voice called from behind us.
I froze, my shoulders tensing as I looked over my shoulder.
“What a pleasant surprise.” He smiled, acknowledging Lorelei. “I see this is a good time for friendly introductions.”
Lorelei couldn’t hide her grin and held out her hand. “Lorelei Hertz. I’ve heard so much, yet so little, about my dearest friend’s new husband,” she said, flashing me a giddy look.
Arkady took her hand, kissing her gloved knuckle before a smile tugged again.
“Konstantin”—he gestured to me—“this is Petronille, my wife, Petronille.”
Wife.
I held my hand up. The stocky blond man smiled, his cheeks holding a fullness that made you want to pinch them. The type who probably gave good hugs and was kind to children.
He took my hand. “Ah, the elusive Mrs. Kameneva.” He chuckled, kissing my hand. “It is a true pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise.” I pulled a tight smile, glancing at Arkady.
For a moment, his mask was off, his expression cold and distant. But that didn’t matter, as no one was looking. When the other two looked toward him, the warmth returned to his demeanor like honey melting through a simmer pot.
“I will take our paths crossing as a sign that it may be time to return home, don’t you think?” Arkady looked at me, with a slight twitch of his brow.
“Yes.” I winced.
“Well, I’ll come by tomorrow anyway.” Lorelei smirked, pulling me into a departing hug. “We definitely have a lot to talk about.”
Lorelei departed as soon as Arkady gave his goodbyes to his friend.
Then it was just him and me.
The travel home was quiet despite Arkady’s cheerful demeanor only moments before. The walk, the coach ride, even when we entered the town house. Silence.
There was no cheery small talk, no silent expressions exchanged, not even questions about our days.
I retreated to my room the minute we arrived. The putrid feeling inside me was brought on by just the sight of him. I wasn’t sure if it was due to his presence or the fact that he was a reminder of what we’d done did. What I’d done.
The ornate mirror held a figure, mine, but she felt like a stranger. Staring back at me with such judgmental eyes. There was nothing remarkable about my thoughts as I did so, just that it was clear I needed time alone. Gradually, I worked at undoing the layers of my walking suit.
“Who was that?” His voice spoke from the doorway.
“A childhood friend.”
“The ballet?”
I didn’t answer, reaching behind my head to fiddle with the top few clasps of my dress.
The creaking of the floors accompanied his moving image in the mirror, his body towering behind me as he reached forward.
I flinched, but his hands brushed against the back of my neck, undoing the buttons with ease. With each button, the fabric became more lax until I could finish it on my own.
“Who was your friend?” I asked, but it was only because the silence was uncomfortable.
“Konstantin,” he said, the mirror cutting off the reflection of his face so I couldn’t gauge his reaction. “We are like brothers.” He offered the explanation without asking.
“Like brothers?”
“Yes.”
I nodded and moved forward, slipping the top of my walking suit off, the thin fabric of my corset cover leaving little to the imagination.
Arkady didn’t move, nonchalant in attitude. His hands were in his pockets, perhaps to hide a clenched fist?
I glanced at him over my shoulder, playing with the buttons of my skirt.
“Are you getting shy on me now?” He raised a brow.
I shrugged, popping open one clasp, then the next, letting the skirt begin to fall off my hips, the fabric of the petticoat peeking from under the hem.
Arkady took a step, but I turned around fully, stopping him with a glare.
He furrowed his brow, confused at the gesture.
I dropped the skirt, now only my sheer undergarments on display.
What kind of man was Arkady Kamenev? I still didn’t have a satisfying enough answer.
He stood straight, studying my posture, my movements.
I turned around again, pulling the cover over my head, the steel-boned corset on full display. Through the mirror, I could see his eyes, but they weren’t on the corset, the dress—no, his eyes caught mine, and instinctually my gaze went to the floor.
This is when he approached again, his hand reaching out to touch my shoulder, the warmth of his fingertips leaving a trail of fine raised hairs.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Just ask,” I breathed, glancing as his hand moved over my skin.
“The fruit,” he began. “Why are there three crates of apricots in the kitchen?”
“Oh.” I turned around. “That’s all you’d like to ask me right now?”
“Yes, they take up an obnoxious amount of room,” he said, though I caught his glance down. “The icebox in the kitchen won’t fit them all, it’s tiny.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” I mocked, furrowing my brow as if to listen to his concern as I popped open each loop of my corset down the front.
“You have a terrible diet.” He glanced at my fingers, raising a brow at me.
“Do I? I think I am faring fine.” I loosened the string of my petticoat.
“It can’t be healthy.”
“Is that so? Maybe you can take a look for yourself,” I said, the corset and the skirt slipping off and to the floor. There wasn’t much hidden, not much of my shape left to his imagination. Just a set of white combinations standing between his view and my skin.
His throat bobbed, glancing up finally to meet my gaze.
“Well?” I raised a brow. “Tell me, Doctor, what kind of shape am I in?”
A small hint of a smirk pulled at his lips, his demeanor settling into something more relaxed at the sight of my attempt at play. He began to circle me, inspecting. Something about being watched so closely, critically . . . it gave me a certain chill.