Chapter Eighteen The Performer
Chapter Eighteen
The Performer
Drowsiness stung my eyes and made it hard to hold attention.
The cup vibrated in my hand, spilling the faintest drop of Assam tea onto the cotton napkin on my lap.
Every ripple of the sheer surface sent a wave of lightheadedness through me, making breathing more manual than ever.
The voices around me materialized as mumbles, then words, then my name.
“Petronille.” Lorelei placed a hand on my arm.
My friend, as well as friends by extension, were staring at me from all points of the tearoom table.
I stared at Lorelei, nudging her foot under the table to clue me in.
A fine dark brow shot up at me. “You must be tired. I trust we can assign blame to Mr. Kamenev.” She winked.
The girls surrounding us erupted into a quiet chorus of mousy tittering. I had to remind myself that I was the old one, these were just girls.
“Yes, not much rest to be had.” I set my unsteady china on the table before any more tea became a stain.
The blue details of the cup matched the rest of the Blue Moon tearoom, named for its famed wisteria blossoms covering the facade as well as the walls of the inside.
The droopy violet blooms hung above us as if listening in on all of the chatter.
You could see the vines through the stately windows, flowers swaying in the breeze.
The guests of the room were just as flowery, wearing whites and rich accents of color. Their perfumes mixed with one another and the blossoms; it would be overwhelming if the tearoom were any smaller.
“Does that mean you won’t return to the company?” Helen asked. Her expression was haughty, young and bright like a well-fed fire. I had seen her many times at auditions and rehearsals. The first time I saw her, she was maybe fifteen years of age. Time is a thief, but it was generous with her.
“No, I’ve retired,” I answered, turning my attention to a small snack on the table, my shaky hand pinching it between my fingers.
The girl’s impish grin flicked up when she saw me reach. “Clearly.”
Despite the chatter around us from our companions, her words interrupted me mid-bite, making me abandon the snack altogether. I looked at Lorelei, only to find her intensely focused on her tea, though I knew she’d overheard. I nudged her with my shoe again, but she ignored me.
Perhaps I’ve truly outgrown this group in more ways than one.
“Petre retiring is the only way you have a shot as The Sylph.” Lorelei’s tone was playful, but she meant it. “I would be thanking her for the opportunity. Or else you may forever be stuck in the background as a tree, not even a faerie.”
“You say that like you aren’t gunning for the same role. Keep up that manly footwork and you may find yourself in the role of Gurn.”
“Pardon me.” I cleared my throat, excusing myself from the table and making directly for the powder room.
The light from tall windows in the establishment trailed as I passed like a malfunctioning silver screen.
Faces looked at me, or were they looking away?
I kept my breathing deep and steady, reminding myself that not everyone was watching me like I thought they were.
I was being paranoid in a fit of uneasiness.
The powder room of the teahouse was green. The cold porcelain under my palms was the only thing grounding me, along with the hissing of the faucet. The room wasn’t spinning, but it certainly was vibrating. There was no stopping the tremors; my body was shaking no matter what I steadied myself on.
In the mirror was a pale face with a ghastly shadow cast from the gaslights lining the wash area. The shadows hung around my eyes and sides of my face, corpsifying me in some cartoonish expression of my deeper feelings.
Flashes of cold metal slabs bled into my vision. My face, the slabs, Vincent’s face, then all those draconian-looking tools.
I think I’ll be sick.
Cold water hit my shoes, soaking through to my stockings.
I stared down at the overflowing sink before grasping to turn it off. The front of my gown was drenched.
The mirror was reflecting true now, just an unwell girl in a green bathroom.
The apothecary air nipped at my sinuses, the finer scents piercing deep, enough that I could taste them at the back of my throat. Spices and herbs lined the walls in earthy palettes, almost as grand as the old wood that adorned every inch of the walls.
Though much of the sciences were intimidating in thought, it was different for an apothecary.
Centuries of remedies under one roof, passed down like heirlooms from one woman to another.
The only place one could hope for a remedy that didn’t end in lazy shrugs from men who were too careless to know the pains of womanhood.
“Is there anything in particular I can help you with?” A voice like whiskey, smooth with a sweet, feminine malt.
The botanist was staring at me, possibly for a little too long before I realized I was staring right back.
“Ah, just having some trouble finding what I need.”
“Which is what I’m here for.” She laughed. “There is no need to figure it out on your own.” The botanist was stern, a tall figure with the air of a bitter winter. Her black wool gown matched her hair. The only thing that kept her from being an entirely dire omen was the way she spoke with care.
I must have been staring again, as she lifted the brow I was eyeing.
“A-apologies,” I stammered, immediately averting my eyes to my gloves, focusing on the tassels of my purse.
“Are you feeling well now?” she asked as her skirt came into view while my head was tucked down.
“I feel”—I had to pause to gather my thoughts—“like I am slowing down.”
“How so?”
“Paranoid, forgetful, like I am moving through water at all times trying to run.”
“Are you on any pharmaceuticals?”
“No.”
“Do you sleep well?”
I shook my head.
“Unfortunately common,” she assured, retreating back behind the counter, “but nothing we can’t aid.”
When I glanced up, she was already pulling jars from their neat places on the shelves.
“I used to be a performer. A good one.” I lifted my chin as I hesitantly approached the counter.
“I was sharp, focused, precise . . .” The words felt unfamiliar as I said them, possibly knowing that I didn’t even believe them anymore.
A realization that had been long coming that I was not yet willing to admit.
“We are all sharp when we are young,” she said, turning her back to me as she worked. “Blades get dull, you just need to know when to sharpen them.”
“Surely there must be something wrong,” I insisted, “for such a sudden change.”
“Many things change instantly.” She shrugged. “Your symptoms don’t worry me yet. It sounds like you have just gotten older.”
“Your answer is that I’m old?” The word was spat like it was unsweetened clover candy.
The botanist shook her head, but when she turned, she was most definitely laughing.
“Not old, just older,” she clarified. “You will never be like you were when you were a young lady. Nobody is. Aging is part of it, you’re simply maturing.” She raised a brow. “Physically at least.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Now you are calling me childish?”
“Never.” She furrowed her brow in mocking reassurance. She took my hand and placed a bottle firmly into my palm. “Take this nightly, see how you feel. If you feel your disposition is getting worse, come visit me again.”
I tore my eyes from hers and looked to the unlabeled bottle in my hands. It seemed to be some sort of chalky liquid, I didn’t imagine it would taste any good.
As if she could read my mind, she said, “Take it with a cocktail, it will taste better.”
I couldn’t say I was excited about this mystery remedy, but it wasn’t like I had anything better to do.
The park was supposed to be calming, serene. I couldn’t find the ease within me, not now.
The day was nice, the park was beautiful, all signs for a good day, yet I was suffering from a seed embedded deep in my gut that something was amiss.
Within the park was a tall fountain, the dribbling water rippling the surface, hiding the shimmer of pennies gilding the bottom. I saw a mother pushing a stroller along the pebbled walkway, a couple promenading, then lastly, a lonely elder woman sitting on a bench.
She looked wise all on her own, lost in thought. Perhaps burdened by old memories, age, or maybe just her breakfast. It was hard to read strangers. Oh, to be able to be idle, unbothered.
My thoughts disappeared into the movement of milky liquid in the bottle, a brief loss of place—before a gruff hand snagged my arm.
“Petronille.” The strained voice of the commissioner manifesting my name made my stomach drop back into place from before my moment of bliss.
“Commissioner.” The word came out cracked like dry clay.
“I just had a few more questions, I couldn’t catch you at your home earlier—”
“I don’t have much time, I’m already a bit behind schedule.”
“Oh, this won’t take long!” he insisted, forcing my arm to loop with his as we walked along the pavement. “I was wondering if you gave some thought to where Mr. Carlisle may have gone.”
“I am not his keeper. He was hardly a friend.” I spoke as quickly as my steps, since it took two of my strides to keep up with one of his.
“Really? After all the years he’s paid patronage to you through the ballet? Or the midday visits to his office? Or perhaps the visits to your home—”
“I don’t see how it is your business. He is in my past.”
“Where were you two weeks ago, Tuesday specifically?”
“I was at my sister’s place,” I answered.
“And what about your husband?”
“Commissioner!” I planted my feet into the crack of the pavement, halting our stroll abruptly.
The commissioner’s expression twisted like a hound who’d spotted the fox on a run. He clasped his hands behind his back, attempting a calmer expression this time.
“Listen here, dove”—he took his time checking his timepiece—“there is much respect here for your family. They are generous when they need something done.” He glanced up sharply from the face of his ticking watch.
“Don’t think their greed won’t be used against you to clean their slate, if you’re keeping something from the law. ”
“Is that a threat?”
“A promise”—he chuckled—“from your father, not I.”
My hands went numb, and I couldn’t feel the bottle anymore.
My limbs ran cold, all the blood rushing to the back of my head, engulfing me in heat like a fire had been lit under me.
I would love to say I laughed it off with grace and poise, but it came off as a choke as I averted my face, hoping to negate any more insinuations of guilt.
“It doesn’t have to be like this, Petronille.
” He stood by my side, pretending to watch across the street.
People passed us, some coming from the bakery, some from the park in their nicest fashions, some children running their way among the skirts and legs of the pedestrian herd.
“If you prefer it this way, I may be inclined to extend a line to the papers about your extracurricular visits.”
“Father will have your head.”
“No”—he snorted—“he will have yours. It was his suggestion. I suppose to avoid certain . . . liabilities.”
I clenched my teeth, rubbing them back and forth to stave off the immense impulse to bite.
“Pick your next words wisely,” he suggested as he turned to leave, “and choose them soon.”