Whether this show would be a comedy or tragedy, I couldn’t tell. He’d left me a rather cryptic message.
Dearest Petronille,
Wherever you have gone, I do not care. You may run far away from me, and I will not argue with you. I will not plead with you, even if it is what I ache to do. I would like to begin with—I found Lorelei. I do not hold it against you, as I am sure you had your reasons.
I am aware your affliction was more than you were letting on, but I didn’t realize it was so dire until I saw the contents of your icebox. I assumed it would be money you traded when escorting Vincent; I realize now that I was gravely misled to the nature of your arrangement. I know you received the bodies from Ghent. I suppose it was a nearly foolproof solution to hiding evidence.
As for your appetites, they will be hard to cater to, but I am a man of craft. I will find a way.
Before you disappear far from me, please entertain me one last time.
He was just as arrogant in his writing as he was in person. I could practically hear him in my mind, speaking to me with such directness.
Allow me one more chance to show you my heart. If you have seen it and still despise me, I will accept it, albeit wretchedly. You have an appointment at Blue Moon tearoom this afternoon.
Whether you come or not, there will be one last show.
With all my heart,
Arkady
The tearoom was at its busiest hour, and I looked less than presentable for the reservation. The amusing thing was that I no longer cared; perhaps the lack of vanity was personal growth.
The staff stared at me, unsure, before looking back down at the reservation note as if there would be some magical portrait appearing to confirm my identity, trading glances before asking, “Are you Mrs. Kameneva?”
“Yes,” I answered, raising a brow.
They surveyed me from head to toe.
“This way,” they finally obliged.
He’d reserved the table by the window. A fresh centerpiece of datura and fresh-bloomed orange blossoms. It was a table for two, yet on the other half, dozens of bound journals of sorts were stacked in neat piles on the table, and one on the guest chair.
Before, I would have been embarrassed by the unusual request he seemed to have included with his reservation, but the proposition interested me.
When I sat, I didn’t have to pick my beverage, since he’d ordered ahead, choosing the orange white tea.
I picked up a journal placed atop the large pile directly in front of me. Its pocket size stuck out to me.
Inside were sketches: small graphite drawings, some instructional sketches, a grocery list included occasionally, and a number of long-lost whispers of problems through the years.
The next book I picked up was clothbound, the paper thicker. Inside were what I assumed to be studies. Anatomy with and without skin. There were hands with poses ranging from simple to peculiar. Every couple of pages, the body part would change, then some rough studies of bodies and poses, plans for larger sculptures and compositions. In the corners, sometimes there was a palette smear, small details to pull the vision together.
I veered from the main pile to a lesser one, lifting a somewhat new notebook of thick bound paper. Along the edge, the paper wavered, presumably from fingers grasping the pages.
It started with full anatomy, dried rings of coffee stains here and there, the charcoal still loose enough to be wiped away by my curious finger. The forms were stiff, clinical.
As I turned the pages, they got looser in form, and something familiar grasped at the back of my mind. I started to see my face, my posture, my clothing invaded on this closed door of expression, my likeness bleeding through, possibly subconsciously.
Then, it was no longer a question of the representation being accidental.
An entire page dedicated to my reading positions. At the table, curled up on the chair, lying in bed. Some of them made me all too aware of my posture, even now.
Facial studies on the opposite page; my favorite was the one with some sort of angry expression, nearly a pout.
Do my eyebrows crease that much when I’m angry?
Upon flipping the page, there was a nude spread that crossed two pages.
