Chapter Seventeen The Performer
Chapter Seventeen
The Performer
“What’s wrong with it anyway?” I didn’t even bother watching as I kneaded a small ball of tawny clay.
“It needs to be patched. The pressure isn’t holding, and heat is escaping somewhere,” Arkady said, slathering parts of the bricks with wet cement. “It’s yearly maintenance. A kiln this big needs it. I can’t fire any of my new statues until it’s finished.”
“Right.” I nodded as if perfectly acquainted with the standards of the trade. “Is that what keeps you here so late?”
He gave a tired laugh, taking a break to sit on his ladder. He wiped his rough hands with a dirty cloth hung over his shoulder. It could be my ladylike hormonal nature—but why was he more attractive when he was covered in dirt and dewy from a light sweat?
“Petre.”
“Hm?” I blinked.
“Are you just going to play with that ball of silt all day?”
“What, do you expect me to help patch your kiln? You’re the one who repeats Don’t touch anything all the time.” I tried to mimic his stern tone.
He shook his head and sighed, turning back to his work as he realized I was probably right.
Arkady was the same in his studio as he was outside: focused, stern, task-oriented. It wasn’t a complaint, just an observation as to why he was the way that he was.
The studio wasn’t disorganized, it just looked that way because you could see lots of clay and dust. It was dirty, not messy.
Wooden crates categorized by scrap material, types of tools, even broken pots to be thrown back into the slick pile.
Tins of glaze, brushes, smaller sculpting tools organized in the drawers of a secondhand filing cabinet.
“Are you worried?” I began, pressing my thumb deep into the clay after rolling it into a near sphere in my palm. “About the commissioner digging? There isn’t much to find on me, not anything that he wouldn’t already know from his proximity to my father.”
“No more worried than I’ve been before.” He didn’t look at me as he scraped his pointing trowel against the brick. “At some point, the constant and steadfast threats become meaningless.”
“How does he know you?” I blurted the question quicker than I thought.
“I wasn’t the best behaved in my youth.”
“And you somehow are now?”
He threw a sarcastic smile over his shoulder. “You are full of jokes today. Does something have you in good spirits?”
“More like nothing has agitated me yet. Keep speaking to me and it will all be back to normal.” I tossed my clay mush back into the slick bucket.
He watched me for a moment like he was debating what he was about to say.
“I was violent, angry. I don’t entirely blame him for past reprimands,” Arkady admitted, “but I was getting old, too old to be a ward of the state, at least. I was just a kid who felt the world was failing him with every passing month. It isn’t easy, you learn a lot of hard lessons about life and its consequences on your own. ”
“So he has a grudge? Against adolescent actions?”
He shrugged. “You could say that. Prejudice, I am sure, played its part.”
I walked up beside his ladder, staring at his handiwork before my eyes wandered, finding some comfort now in the greeting gazes of his statues. Some covered in cloth, some under construction, a few finished.
“How do you get your ideas?” I touched the hand of one of the female forms. “Do you hire models?”
He hesitated to answer.
A piercing in my stomach, a jealous bile working up to burn my heart. He is a professional, I reminded myself.
“Sometimes, yes.” He stepped down from his high place on the ladder. “Though I mostly settle on sketches. It’s more efficient and financially responsible.”
A refreshing breath of relief cleansed my lungs.
“I could model for you.” I stared down at his shoes beside me, then trailed up to meet his eyes. “I won’t even charge you, since I am so kind.”
A quick smirk tugged at his lips. “Is that right? What has afforded me such charity?”
I shrugged. “Anything to help a starving artist.”
“You could just feed me.”
“You are hard to flirt with.” I clicked my tongue at him.
“Model for me now,” he said.
My heart fluttered, my head whipping toward him. “Now?”
“Why not?” He lifted his shoulders, retreating to the back of the studio to the stairs leading up to the overseer’s office.
The hairs on my arms and neck stood, my senses alight as the insinuations settled. I had to remind myself we were married, this was not scandalous . . . and I might be a prude, despite all my hard work as a retired escort.
I followed him, having to jog to catch up, as he was already halfway up the flight.
The overseer’s office from the building’s previous occupants looked to have been converted into a bedroom.
The loft area was high above the ground floor of the warehouse, viewable through foggy, stained windows. The lighting was better than expected; it almost made up for the dust.
This must be where he lived before.
The walls were brick, too poorly insulated to be tolerable.
There was a mattress on the floor in front of an impossibly large circular window, the crescent nearly floor to ceiling.
In the corner was a chewed-up chair that may very well have been considered nice once upon a time, if it hadn’t fallen into such sloppy hands.
A mess of shapes crowded the wooden shelves and scattered over one lonely, plain desk.
Hands, heads, incomplete busts, an animal or two—all in different earthy hues of gault and stone.
It would be cozy if not for the missing fourth wall. Just a foggy grid of windows with a propped-out pivotal pane for whatever airflow it could manage, even though it might as well be trading dust from one space to the other.
I imagined he would live in some measly dark hole. Well . . . it had rather exceptional lighting. But it was a hole nonetheless.
“On the bed,” he said, gathering a stool with a sketchbook and a compact charcoal stick.
“The bed?”
“Well, standing completely still for long periods of time is harder than it looks.” He picked up his pad and dusted off his seat. “It’s more comfortable.”
“Should I . . .” I stared at the bed, then pinched my skirts. “Do I undress?”
“Do you want to undress?” He smirked.
A frustrated blush burned at my ears. “No.”
“Then don’t.” He settled in his seat, one leg crossed over the other as the back of his sketchbook stared at me.
I sat on the corner of the bed, brushing down the sheets. “What should I do?”
“It doesn’t matter as long as you’re still,” he answered, an amused spark in his voice. “Look away, it’ll be less awkward.”
I huffed, turning to the side for a profile. It allowed me to get a better look at the view outside. The perfect scenery for a therapeutic watch—still, not entirely as to make it less alive in picture.
The scratching of the paper was calming, but the anticipation was what made it hard to sit still.
The temptation to ask, Are you done yet?
I wouldn’t. This was a rare opportunity.
He had allowed me into his space, his haven.
This was another step into his mind, this person, knowing him deeper than the skin.
I’d ruined many opportunities with my mouth lately.
I would practice keeping it shut for now.
“You’re doing well,” he commented, his voice tickling my ear, as he was out of sight.
“Because I’m speaking less?”
“I was going to say that you are a natural,” he corrected. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected less from a ballerina.”
My shoulders pulled back, my posture alert. “Really?”
“In the short time you’ve known me, have I ever falsely flattered?”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing a jackal grovel”—I caught him from the corner of my eye—“especially if it is me you get down on your knees to.”
“Haven’t I already?” I couldn’t fully see his face, but I heard the slyness in his tone. I simply smiled and looked back at the harbor.
He stopped scratching at the paper.
“Can I see it?” My posture unfroze.
“You can see it when I sculpt it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I’ll name it after you; you won’t miss it.”
“Please don’t.” I covered my face.
“Don’t worry, it will be flattering.” He laughed.
“I don’t trust you.” I tossed his deflated pillow at him.
To my surprise, his smile seemed genuine. Enough so that his dimple cratered in his cheek, and I could see that his natural smile was at a slight slant, a little higher to his left. The beauty mark on his cheekbone shifted when he squinted, his face contorting with authentic, unmasked emotion.
I could get used to seeing his face soft like this instead of placid like the stone he carved. It was like the entire world opened up at the slightest, simplest interaction.
I was starved of him, and it was, in part, my fault for creating the distance.
Just one taste could sustain me until he allowed me another.