I placed the paper in my mouth, and he flicked the wheel of his lighter, cherry-ing the tip.
“I appreciate the concern, Mr. Carlisle, but I am not new to the art of handling women,” I assured him with a nod.
“If you can say that so confidently, it is clear you don’t know her.” He blew a cloud of smoke in my face, stepping closer until we were nearly chest to chest. “You have my calling card now if you ever need her taken off your hands.”
I nodded cordially as if his words held any substance for me.
Then I held up his calling card, pressing it flat against my cigarette, and he watched as the ember ring grew until it was a piece of ash in my hand. “And now I’ve lost it, I suggestyoufind a way to get lost as well.”
The man’s eye twitched, a bruise to the ego. But what could he do? It was not his house, daylight, in public. His haughty expression faltered and turned to a brief flash of anger. Against his undoubtedly impulsive thoughts, he decided not to act on them at that moment, stepping away and retreating from the front of the townhome.
What kind of trouble have you found yourself in, dear wife?
Chapter Six
The Performer
The next morning was no different from the last. Arkady slept on the sofa,again.
I wasn’t sure he’d come home at all some days, as he was always at his studio. At least Iassumedit was his studio. He returned by the time I was asleep and left before I woke. Completely separate schedules.
He didn’t speak much if I happened to see him, though it was like he reserved himself until he had something important to say. I admit, this was what I’d wanted, to be left alone. It was no different than before I was married, and he made sure of it.
It was like we were both unsure how to interact with one another, though his stubbornness was juvenile. Hesitation was expected between newlyweds, but was it supposed to be as severe as this?
My morning coffee was getting as cold as my bones. I swore I was never warm no matter how big the fire or however many layers I put on myself. The headache that prodded at my brain surely wasn’t helping my appetite.
The soft music on the phonograph beside me was supposed to help ease my tension, but it did the opposite.
“You’re up early,” Arkady pointed out as he adjusted his jacket, ready to escape the domicile.
I nodded, closing my eyes even if the light still perforated them somehow. A swell of unsteadiness threatened nausea, the piercing phantom pain in my left eye, my sinuses.
There was an awkward rustling of my surroundings, bouncing in and out of my auditory perception.
“Are you studying?” He made an awkward attempt at conversation.
“No, just listening.”
“Do you miss it?”
I didn’t answer.
“Which symphony is it?” He was closer now. “I’m not familiar.”
“Act two finale ofLa Sylphide,” I mumbled, leaning my face into my palms at the table.
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I don’t see why it would.” My tone would have been more sarcastic if I weren’t so focused on not gagging.
“Well, what’s happening, then?”
I sighed and lifted my head to the bleary image of him standing by the sofa, collecting things in a satchel for his day. What was the point of asking if he didn’t seem to care?
“The protagonist has removed the sylph’s wings in an attempt to have her, overcome by his desire. But in doing so, it kills her. One wing drops ...” I paused, waiting for the sad shrill of the stringed instruments. “Here.” I waited for the next beat. “And here.”
“Is that the end?”
