Chapter Twelve The Performer
Chapter Twelve
The Performer
The bed was cold that morning. It was like no one had ever been there to begin with.
I rolled over, burying my face in the neighboring pillow. The scent of him lingered. His collage of scents teased my nose, the only proof he had been there at all.
It was nearing noontime now, a bit later than my normal sleeping schedule. The rain was steady like a dribble, but the clouds allowed for brief blessings of sunshine, the most beautiful of scenes just outside my window.
Motivation to dress was stronger today. I had nowhere to go, but it couldn’t hurt to appreciate some of my less-worn wardrobe. I was tempted to do my hair, to take a full bath with some oils I never used, or maybe to prepare something sweet for later.
Did it matter to him if I made such changes? Or would he laugh?
After dressing, I went along with my routine. Late breakfast was in order. I shuffled down the stairs to the kitchen, digging through some of my nicer bowls and silver, adding extra fruit to my cutting board.
It was only now I realized the coffee grounds were nearly nonexistent.
I suppose Arkady had been using them. Should I get more?
He’d never asked. It pained me that I could not be plain with him, that it felt like we danced around each other like two desperate birds of different species, misinterpreting every sign along the way.
Today would be for relaxation. I did not have any plans to move unless it was to fill my bowl of fruit or to grab a different book. I would wait for Arkady to come home.
I picked at my fruit, but it wasn’t satisfying me in the way that I hoped.
The craving was for something savory. I only had scraps, something simple for a stew or even a broth.
I hadn’t restocked my pantry since the incident.
It would be enough for my dinner, then I must force myself to the market tomorrow.
I was just so tired as of late, even that short trip was a burden on my body.
The rasping at my entryway startled me from famished thoughts.
I hoped the knock would be him, but I knew better.
Upon opening the door, a familiar face greeted me.
“Ms. De Villier,” the commissioner acknowledged from my doorstep.
“Mrs. Kameneva, now,” I said.
“Ah, yes, Kamenev.”
I held my tongue; too many corrections made men unreasonably irate.
James Hunt was a stiff man, no matter how kind he tried to make his face appear. A smile was unnatural on a weathered face such as his. My parents had voted for his office position, as well as donated handsomely to his campaign.
Some people were easy to read. The body was one to tattle on unaware users. He held his conviction in his posture. I already knew this visit was not a friendly one.
“How may I help you, Commissioner?”
“I don’t mean to disturb you on such a peaceful day.” He removed his uniform cap as his gaze flicked past me, into my home, before returning to me. “May I come in?”
I nodded, pulling the door wider.
His heavy boots stamped mud into my foyer. He didn’t bother to shake off his coat, leaving small dribbles on the carpets. To my relief, that meant this visit would be fleeting.
“Did I interrupt dinner preparation?” He pointed his nose to the air like one of his hounds.
“No.” I smiled, not bothering to correct his guess. “I was about to eat something light.”
“I won’t be too long.” He smoothed his graying-brown hair back as it dripped from the rain. “I wanted to ask you about a disappearance.”
My heart smacked against my ribs, and I could feel the heat rising from my neck, choking me the longer I waited to respond. How did one respond to something like that?
“A disappearance?” My voice was having a hard time relaxing, too squeaky for comfort.
“Yes, have you read the papers?”
“N-no, they’re too troubling for me. I prefer things that don’t burden the delicate mind.” I cleared my throat, brushing the fabric of my skirt as I went back to the living room. “Can I get you something? Tea?”
He waved his hand in a polite declination before glancing around the room. What was he looking for?
“Who is missing?” I tried to keep the conversation going, silence an unbearable sensation.
“A friend of yours.” He stepped into the living room, trailing wet boot prints on the carpet.
The sight made me grimace, and I tried to dampen it, but it was too late. He saw.
The commissioner flashed a slight grin. What an unpleasant thing he was. “Have you seen Vincent lately, Petronille?”
“No,” I said, leaning against the fireplace mantel, making myself small as he invaded on my home, my sanctuary.
“I was under the impression you two were close?” He approached, stopping in front of me. He was close enough that I could see the wiry texture of his mustache. The smell of cigar in his breath was grating, maybe a bit of liquor.
“I haven’t seen him.” I adjusted a knickknack on my mantel.
“I heard he was looking for you. You don’t seem to answer your door often, by the sound of his complaints.” He chuckled.
“I informed him that I was married and no longer in the ballet.”
“So you have seen him.”
“No.”
The commissioner nodded, glancing down at my dusty, unkempt mantel. “Congratulations, by the way.” He glanced back to me. “Where is your husband now?”
“At his studio. He’s an artisan.”
“Does this studio have an address?”
I looked away. “I don’t remember it. It is by the docks, I’m not sure which one. It’s all very confusing and congested down there. I haven’t been myself. I wouldn’t know.”
“Of course.” His tone of understanding poorly masked his air of annoyance. “How has your family been otherwise? I haven’t seen your father in a while.”
“He’s a busy man.” I massaged my thumb against my palm.
There was an awkward pause, then a sigh from my guest. “I have bothered you enough today, I suppose.” He placed his cap back on his head, giving a polite smile as he made for the front door.
I followed close behind as he crossed the threshold, my fingers itching to grasp the handle and lock him out. The door sang a pitchy whine, a glimpse of the outside promising the interaction was about to end.
He turned back around, his foot stuck straight in the gap as the door bounced back on his rubber boot.
My knuckles were white, my grip on the brass the only thing keeping my hand from shaking.
“If you think of anything,” he started, slipping a card through the narrow opening, “you know who to call, yeah?”
“Right.” I hastily plucked the card from him, and he removed his shoe, allowing me to close and latch the door.
As soon as I heard his footsteps descending, my first free breath was nearly a sob.
I leaped for the telephone, rustling through the cards before I found the one for Arkady’s studio, then I pulled the dial until I heard the call trill to be put through.
My leg bounced fast, the tapping of my heel pecking at the floorboards.
Ultimately, the call went unanswered.
My fist ached as it repeatedly pestered the wood of the door.
I heard footsteps from inside, a pause, then the door was unlatched with a squeak.
I was shaking, and it wasn’t just from the rain drenching my clothes.
“Petronille?” Félice answered, more alarmed than confused at the state of me.
“I need help, is Father home?” I pushed past her, the wet walking suit heavy on my shoulders as the drips scattered over the glossy hardwood.
The living room was the first thing I saw. Cosette startled when I stormed through, nearly dropping her after-meal tea.
“What is going on?” Her eyes darted to Félice, who shook her head. “Did something happen?”
“I thought the commissioner was still on the books?” I said breathlessly. “Why was he at my home?”
“How should we know?” Félice’s brow twitched. “What sort of trouble did you cause if he’s at your door?”
The looks on my sisters’ faces were both alarmed, annoyed, and all around tired. I felt small again, like I did most of the time. Minuscule, the youngest child, the burden next to the two model daughters.
“Petronille.” Félice’s tone was sharp. She sounded exactly like Mother, eerily so.
I took a step back, my chest rising and falling, still catching my breath after the haste of walking here.
“Petronille.” She grabbed me by the shoulders, giving them a light shake. “What happened?”
“I killed Vincent,” I blurted.
“Well, you still have the body, right?”
I shook my head.
Her eyes grew wide, then they darted above my head. The blood from her cheeks drained, but there was a sympathetic look in her gaze when it returned to mine.
“What is this?” The deep, stern voice came from the parlor archway.
I turned to face my father, bracing myself. But nothing in his demeanor showed any haste, not even an iota of concern.
“I need help.” The words nearly caught in my throat.
“Oh?” His eyes held more interest than he’d ever shown for me.
The thing about my father was that he loved to be helpful. Help from my father meant striking a deal, and owing him even past paying your debt. My debt was endless, so what was another favor?
My sisters began to gather their things quietly.
“No.” Father’s voice cut through the room, enough to make them wince. “Stay, I’m sure this will be a lesson learned for everyone.” He smiled, taking another puff of his cigar before his eyes slid over to me and he raised his brow for me to continue.
“I . . .” I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, unable to control the blood dropping straight to my feet. “I don’t want the commissioner visiting me.”
“Why would the commissioner be visiting you?” It was a question, but not because he didn’t know the answer.
“I killed Vincent.”
A cruel smile broke across his lips. “Ah, my baby girl has finally grown up.” His tone was so sweet, undoubtedly laced with poison. “So now you want him gone? Just like that? Your old man fixes all your issues?”
I stared at the floor, waiting for the inevitable drop.
“Is that what you want, child?” He approached me slowly like a snake carefully moving through the tallgrass.
“Yes.”
“You know”—he stopped in front of me—“I’ve paid a lot of money for Vincent’s position, almost as much as I’ve paid for the commissioner’s. I was quite attached to him. Good for business.”
I glared up at him, but it only made his smile grow.
“Let us do some mathematics, it should be simple for you to understand,” he began, holding me at arm’s length by my shoulders. “If Vincent is good for business, and Petronille kills him, what does that make Petronille?”
Tears were gathering in my vision. I knew where this was going.
He tapped my nose playfully. “That’s right! That means Petronille is bad for business.”
I swallowed hard, my body aching from holding myself stiffly.
“You don’t seem to have a lot of conviction. I’ve helped your sisters because they do what needs to be done.” He sighed. “Now it is time to solve your own problems, instead of being a problem to be solved for once.”
The heat was only getting worse, a feverish anger that I hoped one day would be great enough to hurt him. But not today, not yesterday, not any of the times he had brought me to shame and anger.
Not yet, but I promised myself, one day, maybe I would.
I glanced at my sisters; they stood with averted gazes. Cowards.
My father looked down at me as if I were still an adolescent.
It further solidified my choice to leave, to refuse to take part in this family any longer, to wean myself from their influence.
They made me small, and I couldn’t afford to be small when my rage was only growing by the day and would inevitably consume everything if not smothered. All they ever did was feed it.
I knocked my shoulder against his as I left. Behind me, I could hear him laugh and mumble something snide. It all blended together as I slammed the door, the noises dampened by the sound of rain.
The sensation of the filthy rain was cool, ice over cast iron, cleansing. I could swear I would steam.
Someday, I would be outside this home, and there would be no more snide remarks left.
Not today, not tomorrow either, but someday.