Chapter Twenty-Two The Performer #2
I was handed off again like a marionette changing hands as one puppeteer swaps with another. It was nice, as all I had to manage were the movements. It was less awkward than wallowing in my own misery by the liquor.
Another change of partners; this one gripped me tighter.
“You won’t make it up the stairs tonight if you keep up such a dance.” Arkady’s voice in my ear, his hand gentle at my waist, but his grip on my hand rather tight as if he was unwilling to hand me away during the next exchange.
“I’m sure I won’t be the only woman who complains of such a thing.”
“Are you jealous?” If he was offended, he didn’t let me know.
“Of course not! We are going our own way, living our own lives.” I stuck my chin in the air, finally looking upon his face. “I understand the arrangement.”
He was so handsome, even when he was angry with me. “You’re drumming up a promiscuous character tonight. Leave the poor champagne to rest. The other guests may have a fighting chance in the race to complete inebriation.”
“Is that what you think of me?” I tipped my head at him and laughed. “It seems to be what everyone else thinks too!”
His brow furrowed, pinching as he looked at me. He glanced around us as if he thought people could hear. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh? It seems you’re the last in Manhattan to know.
” I traced my gloved finger up his chest and along his neck, making him flinch at the sudden touches.
“Everyone knows what I wore the day you rejected me, on our first night home. The irony is, old men and young women get off on the idea of what I was wearing when I was fucked by the handsome artisan, only for the reality to be much more depressing.” I sighed, tracing my finger over the place I’d bitten him the night before.
“You poor thing, stuck with a salacious creature like me.”
Arkady yanked me as we took a sharp turn, then the tune of the dance changed. We stood there still, only briefly. Close enough to hear each other’s breaths, such an intimate moment for a busy occasion. The band tuned up and the new pace was set.
He looked down at me, his thumb smoothing across my knuckles as he held my hand. “Sometimes we have to play a part to get what we want.”
“I don’t want to pretend—”
“You’re a performer, Petronille.” He squeezed my hand, leading me to the floor again. “People will see you exactly how they want to, might as well enjoy it in the meantime.”
His words made me straighten my back a bit, allowing him to lead me.
The trill of the band changed, a new dance. Each step matched a note, Arkady circling me, with his hand smoothing around my waist as he did so.
I followed him with my eyes only. I didn’t wish to seem wanting.
Even when I managed to find his gaze snagged on mine, it was different than before. No smugness but a hint of a challenge in his look. From there, we didn’t part.
Our hands touched; I wished my gloves weren’t a barrier. It wasn’t the touch I craved, it was the connection. Since meeting, there’d been nothing but walls, those built by the two of us against each other. It was time for a change.
We neared, and he held me close, properly. I rested my hand in his, relaxing my posture—a relinquishment of any momentary mistrust.
My chest pressed against his. So improper, uncultivated, but it didn’t matter.
Our hearts pounded enough to feel, banging as if they wanted to escape and run off together right there. Every touch, despite being sparse, was electric.
People were looking; the thin hairs on my neck and arms told me so. Ironically, it had the same thrill of a stage.
Arkady’s touches brought me back, and there it was. A smile. Pure and absent of malice.
“Is something funny?” I whispered.
He shook his head. “You’re radiant.”
A bell chimed, dampening the music of the instruments and inviting a chorus of excitable chatter.
Even when I tried to pull away, Arkady’s grip on me tightened. My breath caught in my throat. The crowd began to move to the adjacent room, yet he held me there still. His eyes looked sincere, like there was something else he wanted to say.
I waited for it, but it never came. Like it caught in his throat and dissolved the instant my attention was drawn.
“I have to go.” I twisted my wrist in his grip.
He snatched it, but the touch was gentler as he raised my hand to his lips. He kissed the back. “Then I suppose I shall let you go”—he studied me for a moment—“for now.”
He released me, but I was already overheating. Though I think it had to do with being ripped from such a moment of bliss and thrust back into the reality that exists outside of ourselves.
The crowd gathered at the bottom of the stairs, a sea of leering strangers.
The auctioneer poised at his podium with a gavel and papers.
The first items were to be auctioned in order of starting bids, lowest to highest. I positioned myself beside the banister with my sisters and my mother, ready for our turns when they would come.
Félice forced her hand in mine, squeezing. I looked at her, and she only raised a single brow. I furrowed mine at her to ask why she was looking at me. She swiped a finger across her undereye in a gesture.
I blinked and touched my face. It was hot and wet; a tear had slipped through. I wiped my cheek and sighed. Félice squeezed my hand again, this time in silent reassurance rather than to seek my attention.
The auction items went fast, and not just because of the quick speech and shuffling of the crowd.
There was a painting from my parents’ private collection.
Miscellaneous accessories, jewelry, antiques, and more fine art than the most esteemed museums. Lastly, a statue of a couple dancing collected from Arkady.
Did it hurt him, seeing his work resold, or was it a badge of pride?
Was he watching?
Cosette was first to the stage after the sculptures.
Her figure was immaculate. She was a slight bit taller than I was, her pregnant belly carrying low, which complemented the sweeping fabric of her gown that went straight to the floor with little bunching or draping.
Her train connected high in the back like a cape.
A soft dusty pink that matched her cheeks and a few of the flowers in her hair.
If anyone was having a good time, it was her.
She smiled and walked in a circle, displaying the dress before the auctioneer announced the starting bid.
This was when the real auction started. It was funny seeing grown men fight over a dress, throwing out life-changing amounts of money for something they had no use for, perhaps an outfit their mistress might wear for them once and never again.
I shouldn’t have judged; this was for charity, after all. Maybe some of these men were honest and would gift it to their wives, maybe daughters. But I couldn’t be blamed for my pessimism, as they’d all been spotted not less than five times at the ballet. Some seats even had their names on them.
Félice let go of my hand. She was next.
The farther she got from me, the more my ears began to ring.
The crowd got taller, the room larger—or maybe it only appeared that way from feeling all too small.
I tried not to look at the faces, my environment.
It would be my turn soon. One more performance and I could go home.
I could discard the dress, the jewelry, the tight hairstyle, this life.
I wouldn’t do another year of this. No, I was not in the business of pleasing people any longer.
The auctioneer’s voice cut through, announcing my own cue to enter.
I took a hard swallow to ease the dry despair, then climbed up the long steps until I reached the plateau, letting my gown settle at its intended length.
I stepped in a small circle, making sure the short train would gather gracefully behind me on the floor.
It took a moment to build up the courage for my eyes to leave the pattern on the carpet, slowly focusing on the crowd ahead. A sea of people, glittering with wealth and inflated self-importance.
“Opening the bidding at three hundred,” the auctioneer called.
Immediately, little white numbered paddles popped up all through the mass of people. They began bobbing up and down. If I squinted, it could look something like prairie dogs peeking from their burrows.
The squabbling fast-talk of the auctioneer registered so foreign, it might as well have been a separate language, aside from the “sprouts of numbers,” as he called them.
Four hundred, six hundred, one thousand.
All I needed to do was stand, smile, and be quiet.
I scanned the crowd. Did Arkady see me from wherever he was? Was he off getting a drink? Talking with someone else while he waited? It was no surprise that he hated gatherings; I suspected he may have been as claustrophobic as myself.
The numbers began to slow, five thousand so far.
Finally, it’s almost over.
To my surprise, a paddle went up.
Attached to the little numbered sign was Arkady.
My brows nearly creased together before I realized people were still watching.
Is he dragging this out on purpose?
More paddles went up, the auctioneer picking up excitement as the numbers rose.
Each time they slowed, Arkady’s paddle would rise again.
Another round of signs and chatter of excitement as the numbers rose.
Again and again he would repeat, eyeing some of the bidders.
I noticed the remaining bidders were only men.
It was then I understood.
They were bidding against Arkady for the fun of it.
If only they realized that Arkady didn’t care, not one bit, and he was playing them like fiddles. These men were brittle, fragile. Getting off on some odd display of dominance, of wealth, of reputation. Throwing money around for a quick ruse.
“Twelve thousand,” the auctioneer rang.
Once, twice, over.
It was over.