Chapter Sixteen The Artisan
Chapter Sixteen
The Artisan
Rare steak with delicate fat marbling the flesh plated upon fine china, a matching silver set meticulously arranged in a specific order.
Only one of three wineglasses was full, one of the three forks used; I was unsure of when I would need the others or why they were present.
I didn’t expect so much cutlery to eat one damned steak.
Using fine porcelain under a meal that required a sharp knife was like some sort of cruel game. You either eat stress-free or leave a hundred-dollar mistake slashed across the smooth surface.
The juices of the meat dripped as it was sliced, mingling with the almond-roasted greens and buttery potatoes, endless steam teasing my nose as I leaned close, not letting a scrap go to waste.
It was hard to eat slowly, my stomach empty from the long day, insatiable in my current state.
It was like I could only focus on eating, all energy dedicated to such.
“Is the food to your liking, Mr. Kamenev?” Petronille’s mother asked.
She put up a quick smile by the time my glance made it to the end of the table.
A kick at my knee.
I swallowed hard, glancing across the candlelit table, my wife’s scowl cutting through. She raised a brow, cutting her steak slowly into a mouselike portion before pulling it from her fork between her teeth. Her brow twitched pointedly with a glare before she continued to peck at her food.
I straightened my posture, her father concealing a small gesture of amusement.
“My apologies.” I tried to seem gracious, whatever that would be. “It’s truly delicious. Compliments to the cooks.”
“Don’t be so hard on him, he’s a young man in need of real food. He is welcome to eat as much as the cook can throw.” Her father chuckled, offering a bit of a teasing look at her mother, who squinted at him, clearly unamused.
“Well, if Petre fed him, it would prevent the near choking he’s about to cause from such mouthfuls,” she muttered into her wineglass. “What do you feed him at home?” She turned her head to Petre.
She mumbled something.
“What was that?” her mother chirped.
“I haven’t had time to go to the market.” She didn’t bother to raise her voice, pulling a piece of meat off her fork sharply before chewing.
“Is your butcher out of town?” The tone seemed . . . mocking.
Petre refused to answer, becoming fixated on her greens and sawing away at the fillet.
“Or can you not afford such a delicacy anymore?”
Petre’s plate cracked; her mother flinched.
Petronille threw her cutlery down and kicked the chair out, emitting a horrid screeching sound as the legs dragged against the flooring, spending not a second more looking at us before she tossed her cloth napkin to the floor.
Then she left me with them.
Why must she make every gathering so painfully awkward? Now I’m stuck with . . .
“I suppose her temper hasn’t dampened.” Her father sighed, throwing his napkin beside his plate. Even with the attempt to salvage the awkward encounter, there was amusement in his tone, and it even brought a slight smile to her mother’s face as she finished off her glass.
Something about the way they pushed her made me lose all appetite, like watching a cat play with something half dead already.
Hopefully these visits would become less frequent, for the sanity of both of us.
Instead of a ballerina, Petre should have been a magician. She was good at disappearing, or just hiding. Or it could be the gratuitously large house with all too many rooms.
The staff was cleaning up the dining room, which meant our visit was coming to an end. I made my best effort to find her. It was bad enough being alone with her parents; the least she could do was help me entertain them for a little before we took our leave to avoid being accused of being uncouth.
Each door opened into a completely different scene, a new theme and display, lush with furniture that I suspected hadn’t been used yet.
I had worked on this house since they’d begun building it.
They had wide plans for entertainment, and were prepared for hosting and other things I didn’t have a clue about.
I still couldn’t wrap my head around having so many rooms and places to be.
I would get tired just trying to find the water closet at night.
I propped the last door open to find her mother tenderly clutching a glass of harder liquor. She tipped her head over and grinned at me.
“Arkady.” She sounded almost relieved, patting the sofa next to her. “Come. Do you enjoy bourbon?”
I glanced over my shoulder before entering the parlor. This room had a theme of deep greens and creams among a medium-stain wood. I sat in a chair rather than next to her. I was afraid she’d sink her claws in and take a bite.
“Have you seen Petronille?” I cleared my throat as a glass was shoved into my hand.
She patted my hands to make sure I wouldn’t drop the crystal, nodding as she leaned back on the arm of the sofa. “She’s around, I’m sure.”
The burning scent of the bourbon pinched my nose as I lifted the glass.
“You would think she would have outgrown these fits once she was ready to be a wife.” She sighed, taking a long sip of her drink. “I guess it falls on me for not house-training her.”
The way she spoke about her daughter was jarring.
It was as grating as chalk across slate, a kettle screeching in my ear.
Family wasn’t something I was comfortable speaking about due to lack of experience, but I couldn’t imagine what would possess someone to say something so demeaning, like she were some house pet.
From what I knew about my bride, she wasn’t one to listen to or obey anything she didn’t want to be a part of. She was stubborn, tightly wound—but even I wouldn’t describe her this way. So why in God’s name did she stay around them?
No matter, we would make it a point to ween her off whatever she still needed from this particular familial connection. They weren’t good for her.
“You know, this is your fault too.”
My eyes snapped to Mrs. De Villier, but she was already sneering. “Excuse me?”
“I told her to pick a strong man, one with a firm hand,” she scoffed. “Oh, I had great suitors lined up for her. Several, actually. A duke, a statesman, those of the entrepreneurial spirit. I even considered the coroner, since I never knew how many Petre would chase away.”
My grip on my glass was the only thing keeping me from lunging at the hag.
“I shouldn’t have been so hasty. I just wanted her to be a wife, to come into her own, my sweet Petre. So when she said, I want the grimy simpleton who crafted the mantelpiece, who was I to deny her?”
My jaw nearly cracked from how hard I was biting my tongue.
“I would have thought someone who owns a mallet would know how to correct—”
“Perhaps the best correction is knowing when to sculpt rather than chisel,” I interrupted with a tense smile. “Why labor and hit dry plaster when you could guide the material while it’s still malleable?”
Her mother’s mouth fell agape, opening and closing like a beached fish.
“It is good to practice foresight, Mrs. De Villier. Or else we all may exert ourselves from ill preparation of due process.”
“My wife has had enough to drink, it seems,” Mr. De Villier spoke from the doorway, an edge to his tone that made Mrs. De Villier sit straight, like he’d yanked a string on a marionette. “It’s time you retire, dear.”
She blinked a couple times, eyes glassy from intoxication or embarrassment as she wiped a bit of liquor from the corner of her lips, suddenly overly concerned about appearances. Fear is, indeed, sobering.
“Arkady,” he beckoned, “come with me.”
The study was exactly as you would imagine. Dark and intimidating, all too clean for everyday use. The only part of the room used was the top of the desk; even the guest chairs didn’t look like they were as popular compared to the office seat.
The mantel was antique, possibly fourteenth century, yet the hearth was barely stained, not much evidence of experience to match the age of its facade.
“I apologize on behalf of my wife.” Petronille’s father grunted, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he sat on the edge of his desk. “She is better at public relations than private ones.”
“That’s a peculiar type of vice, especially in one so used to catering words.”
“The difference is that the words from her mouth are rarely copywritten,” he joked, beginning to pack his pipe.
“Sounds dangerous.”
Mr. De Villier lit his pipe, puffing to get the ember glowing. He never seemed in a rush to do anything, relaxation afforded to few. Yet, you would think it would reflect badly on how little he valued other people’s time. Mine was a dime on his dollar, and he didn’t shy away from the insinuations.
If I weren’t already a bit agitated from his wife’s words, his general demeanor may not have bothered me so.
His lips moved, leisurely puffing tobacco while not even bothering to look at me as he spoke.
I could grab him by the whiskers and pull as hard as I could, show him what a working man’s hands actually felt like as I buried them in his face, or plunge that exorbitantly gilded pen into his eye the next time he glanced sideways at me as if to check if I was lifting anything from his trinket collection.
“Did you hear me, boy?” He muffled a cough as he exhaled.
My eyes snapped to his, and for a moment I thought he could read my thoughts. His expression wasn’t one of fear, no, it was similar to the look you gave a child who you knew was about to scream in public.
“No, I was preoccupied with the craftsmanship of your study.” I smiled. “I can appreciate good taste. It’s rare that it is all in one place.”
“That’s because you’re one of the good ones.” He chuckled. “One is either wealthy in money or in skill, rarely both.”
I wanted to roll my eyes, but they stayed fixated on the ornate desk he sat upon. I approached the front, touching the carvings of the edge, the quality of the wood. The grain was fine, old. “Redwood?”