8
THE POISONER
One reason I missed Buffalo was the quiet.
The minute I leave the building, it’s like there’s a conniption happening in multiple places, at every head turn.
Shoulders brush mine, I must move around those taking over the entire pavement, too many horses and wheels on the road. I wondered how there weren’t more accidents unfolding before my eyes.
“Just up ahead!” Phoebe pulled me quickly by my arm, though I had no idea how her little legs were moving faster than mine.
“How far?”
“Four blocks.”
“That isn’t just up ahead, then,” I panted, my lungs burning from the intense walk.
“It doesn’t make sense to take a carriage.”
“It did five blocks ago,” I complained.
“Shush. Walk,” she scolded.
With a hard heel, I yanked her to the side of the walkway. Footsteps passing us were just as urgent as the clopping hooves on the street. Pigeons fluttered over us as we disturbed their crumb feasting.
“Why are you so focused on insignificant, leisurely errands when you’ve just told me we are on the edge of some secret societal war?”
She took such a deep breath that her shoulders shrugged on inhale, then slumped on release. “Because my task is to adjust you.”
“I have just died and come back to life; my mind is on far graver things than clothing.”
“Except, it isn’t,” she said firmly. “You are under the impression that I don’t understand how this is affecting you. That I don’t know that you are confused, disoriented, and what have you.” She stared up at me, chin stubbornly high. “What do you do when you don’t feel yourself?”
I swallowed the words I wanted to say. “I don’t know.”
“You have to make time to remind yourself what makes you most comfortable,” she answered her own question, poking me with her finger.
“You do not feel well for many reasons, but we can begin to remedy it by making sure everything you have is yours, and taking care of what remains. Your fashion, the way you present yourself, recreating old comforts.”
Her passionate explanation made me feel a bit guilty for accusing her of being shallow.
“Well, slow your pace. I’m unfit,” I mumbled.
With a deep sigh I nodded back toward the path, and we walked at a much steadier pace.
“No black.”
The errand was already off to a terrible beginning.
“Will you have a new shipment?” Phoebe asked, sensing my glum aura beside her.
“We only have wool at this time, no silk,” the couturier said.
Phoebe rubbed her temples, already scheming.
Shadows puppeted across the floor as people passed the large shop window, interrupted by the mannequins showing sample dresses.
The walls had bolts of fabric rolled up and stacked by color.
The table in the middle held accessories and catalogs.
Phoebe and I were now at the back counter, wondering how they could possibly run out of black silk fabrics.
“What do you have at the moment, then?” I piped up.
The couturier gestured to the wall, his brow rising.
I threw a polite smile as Phoebe continued to flip through the fashion plates fresh from Paris.
I touched the rolls of fabric, so many textures and colors.
Black had always been a comfort color, something I could rely on.
It was utilitarian, stainproof, and ominous.
Though Phoebe’s words about appearances weighed on my mind.
I understand she is trying to make me feel like myself again, but perhaps this was the perfect time for change.
There were some fabrics that caught my eye. Stripes, flowers, all kinds of embroidery and textures. But none of the colors really suited me, not in any way I would like to explore.
“Do you have this one in red?” I called out, as I placed my hand on a bolt, “perhaps more of an oxblood?”
Phoebe and the couturier looked my way.
It was hard to tell if Phoebe’s expression was one of confusion or surprise, but I suppose it is the same thing at the moment.
The couturier nodded his approval before disappearing behind the counter, past the curtain masking the work area.
“Are you sure?” Phoebe asked. “It’s quite attention-grabbing.”
“Quite salacious,” I agreed.
She laughed at the mention and shrugged. “If that is what you like.”
“I do,” I said aloud, mostly for myself.
“Please, I beg, do not feed me any more tasteless food.” My plea would fall on deaf ears as she placed another jam scone on my plate.
“You must find a way to get used to it. There will be situations where not eating is rude, but they won’t know you can’t taste anything.” She pointed to it. “Eat.”
“I will be sick,” I complained. “I would rather eat bitters from a cocktail bar.”
“Well, we will remember a flask of it for next time,” she insisted. “It is important that you get used to your senses—or lack thereof.”
“I know,” I gulped. “I know.”
“Drink the tea, at least you can taste it if you keep it bitter.”
Based on the leaves, it looked to be a Kuding tea. Known for its bitterness, but also wellness benefits.
I brought the steaming cup to my lips. The hot liquid rushed down my throat, the heat filling my mouth and slowly throughout my body.
The bitterness was there, but it wasn’t an unpleasant kind.
Not any more than the initial sting of alcohol or the heat of a pepper.
Pleasant when the taste buds were built for it.
Even my stomach eased with something to temporarily satiate it.
“This is my favorite tea spot. They have everything, even if it isn’t listed,” Phoebe said, her smile so wide when she saw I wasn’t disliking it. “We should come often.”
Just the thought of leaving the home again had me exhausted, and apparently my expression must have given that away.
“Or! Or we could buy some and bring it home.” Phoebe gestured for the host, already beginning to give him a list of teas and a couple more instructions I couldn’t hear.
It could have been the tea, but suddenly it was like my body wanted to shut down. Exhaustion was the word, but more intense than that. I wished to lie down and rot into the ground for a very, very long time.
“Are you well?” Phoebe touched my shoulder.
I nodded with a smile. “I am tired.”
“We can go home now, that’s fine.”
Home. That word again.
While it may be new to me, it was comforting knowing my dear friend was trying her best to make it my own.
The tea she purchased came in sophisticated wrappings, a little ribbon securing the box closed.
As we were on our way—and I might have been almost too exhausted to walk the entire way back—I felt lighter after our afternoon of excursions.
It may not have been pleasant to get outside, but the effort was what made it feel productive.
While I didn’t like to indulge in anything, never mind something selfish, I had to admit that her theory was working, and I was feeling much more grounded than before.
The sunlight was more pleasant, my lungs could breathe easier, and the walk home didn’t feel as labored.
Phoebe talked, but I didn’t listen. Not because I didn’t want to, but because the daze was moving me along in my mind.
There was so much to wrap my head around in so little time, but today made it feel like it was something attainable.
“You should try to feed,” Phoebe said as the door opened for us.
As we stepped inside, the metallic scent hit me harder than an inhale of cocaine. It nearly upset my stomach all over. “No,” I said quickly, “not tonight.”
Reluctantly, she let me go, even if she wasn’t finished fussing.
The journey up the stairs to the top floor felt nearly as long as the walk itself. My breathing was labored by the time I reached the top. I wandered like a ghost to my room, closing the door behind me just as quietly.
The sun was setting over the city, lavender and red striping the sky. Phantom personalities could be heard on the street, the light reflections flashing up into my window as carriages passed.
I lay back on the bed, my body sinking into the linens, freshly cleaned of months of dead flowers. My head by the several pillows piled neatly against the headboard.
There was still a hole in me, deep inside.
I glanced down at my ring, spinning it around my finger with my thumb.
“Come back,” I whispered, as if he could hear me from wherever he was.
With all that has happened, being betrothed nearly slipped through the cracks. What would happen when I saw him again? Did he miss me, even now? Did he forget about me for the six months I was guarded behind the doors? Would he be bored with me by the time he saw me again?
As much as I denied it these past few years, I’d missed him. The excitement.
The memories of his hands on mine in the snow, the way he looked up at me when he’d begged me to be his. The way his hands shook when the ring was slipped on my finger.
I splayed my fingers wide, staring at the glittering gold ring.
“Where are you now, Creature?” I whispered to myself.
I slept that night hoping, begging, I would wake to my most favorite bump in the night. To the Creature slinking back to me, to be held again, and to know I was alive.
After the day’s activities, much like the past half of a year, I slept like the dead once more.