“No,” he answered immediately, “but I couldn’t imagine it any different now.”
“Oh, really.” I smirked. “Am I the best you’ve ever had, Mr. Artisan?”
“You are theonlyone I’ve ever had.”
I blinked, registering his words in my mind. “Don’t lie to me. I am no fool.”
“You are anythingbuta fool.” He laughed, lifting a piece of fruit to my lips after dipping it in the wine.
“You’re too experienced. You know too much,” I said as I chewed. “Not that it is bad, I clearly benefit from it.”
Even looking at him now, I couldn’t find a single joke in his expression.
“You’re telling the truth?” I gasped.
“I have a habit of putting people before me,” he tried to be playful, “including other people’s needs before mine.”
“How is that? Why? You’ve never once thought to do it?”
“It makes me feel good. Like Iamgood.” He swallowed, glancing away. “Petre, is this a good time to be honest with you?”
My gut clutched at his words. “Of course.”
“I have my own affliction, intrusive thoughts,” he admitted, not willing to look at me, “of hurting people.”
I didn’t speak. I was afraid of interrupting, of making him feel cut off all over again.
“During moments of higher emotions, like anger or passion, I worry I will act on those impulses. I avoided most meaningful relationships and penetrative sex altogether,” he explained, his words shaky. “I am fine using my hands, my mouth, my words—but there is something about opening up to someone in that way, the intimacy, that makes the thoughts stronger. It’s violating. So I remained a virgin in thetraditionalsense.”
“So you weren’t joking when you said you think about hurt—”
“I would never,” he cut me off, finally able to look at me. His free hand squeezing mine. “I’m ... glad it was you.”
I squeezed his hand as I watched the candles dance in the reflection of his eyes like little sprites celebrating the union. A small fracture from my voice as I pulled my hand from his, cupping my jar of wine and observing myownreflection. Then the surface rippled, and the light blurred in my vision.
“Petre.” Arkady’s hand held my face, guiding it toward him so our foreheads touched. “Is something wrong?” His voice shook, as did his touch.
I shook my head, rubbing my cheek into his hand and undoubtedly getting it wet with tears. “I’m overwhelmed.”
“How do I help?”
I shook my head, closing my eyes to banish the tears before staring back.
He released a calming breath, banishing whatever brief anxiety I had caused him. He lifted his cup between us, and so did I. We twisted our arms together as we lifted our cups to our lips.
A shy glance was exchanged, met by closeness and intimate messages through our breathing alone. Then we drank together. The action was silly, meaningless to anyone except us.
Arkady reached over the side of the bed, putting the needle on the phonograph to playLa Sylphidefrom the beginning. There, we watched the stars wink over our candlelit dreams.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Performer
A heavy bell rang sluggishly as I opened my eyes. I rolled onto my back, the birds riding gentle winds against the rich reds and purples of dawn framed by the large window. The harbor was just beginning to wake around the time my dreams slipped from me.
I reached to my side to grasp an empty bed. The office loft was dusty, the light exposing every speck in the air. I suppressed a sneeze before sitting up, pulling the sheets close to me. On the stool beside the bed was a note.
Gone to get breakfast, will be back soon.
