I didn’t comment, taking a closer inspection of my teacup.
“Come now, Petre, the ballet wasn’t going to be forever, right?” Félice took on a maternal tone. “We all did our duty, aged out, and gathered our means. This is agoodthing, Petre.”
“I know it’s silly”—I shrugged, placing my cup in its coaster—“but I love to dance. Everything else can go except the art itself. It’s a shame that the two halves are exclusive.”
“I have to agree, I loved the music.” Cosette sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Oh! And the costuming! I’ve never felt so beautiful. I wish we could wear such beautiful things every day.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Well, I’m sure Mother would throw a gala just to make that request come true, just for you,” I teased.
Félice nodded exaggeratedly, taking a long sip of her brew.
An air of nostalgia wove its way into our conversations, and our morning continued quietly as we finished up our breakfast.
With all of our lives being so different, it was important to me that we all gathered when we could. In my sisters’ own odd ways, they were still as supportive as they could be. It was just a blessing to be with them without our parents hovering. Even as adults, we half expected them to be right around the corner, listening in, making sure we were presenting whatever image they wanted us to.
Sometimes it was nice to slouch, to laugh, to be louder, to take up space together in private—away from scrutinizing eyes.
My stomach pinched and growled, whining for something to eat other than cakes and finger sandwiches.
I didn’t want to cook anything too labor intensive in case Arkady came home early. So far, he had stayed late at his studio and hadn’t shown any signs of changing his habits yet.
The keys at my hip chimed as I stepped up to my front door and fiddled with them to find the correct one for the lock. Not only had the walk exhausted me, but just the front steps had rendered me slightly out of breath. My headache wasn’t doing me any favors all the while.
Upon entering my domicile, the familiar smell of my home calmed me, just not enough for me to ignore my other senses.
The earthy colors of the walls reminded me more of a cottage than a city home. The sage-green furnishings were soft on the eyes, even softer now that they had been well loved by my family, then just myself.The mid-tone wood gave the room a whisper of warmth as if welcoming me with a familiar embrace, like an old friend asking to catch up over fresh tea and old memories.
It was as quiet as ever, a peaceful place where time went to be stolen. A place to lie down on the sofa and rot away in its stillness. Memories are a sort of ghost, and this house was teeming with them. They said ghosts were for keeping people away, but I believed they breathed life into a home.
After shedding my coat, I draped it on a coatrack before letting my shoulders slump, stretching my neck from side to side. The fluttering of a moth greeted me as my coat disturbed it.
My stomach pinched again. A steadfast craving bloomed on my tongue like a lost memory, leaving an acidic taste in my mouth.
The carpet under my shoes seemingly stretched, pulling my eyes in the direction of my basement door. It was like the more I stared, the farther away the door got. Whether it be pinholing or lightheadedness, I wouldn’t know. I just knew I was hungry.
With the key pinched firmly between my fingers, I approached the door. The lock was sturdy, a simple brass shape keeping all my secrets safe. The golden glow of the metal was worn down to a muted patina, revealing everywhere it had been touched during the last twenty years.
The steps to the basement floor disappeared halfway down, the only light present from the hallway. Much like the other stairs in the home, these creaked too. The only difference between these stairs and the others was their tune. While the others moaned, these steps screamed. They whimpered and cried upon contact until they were finally relieved of the weight, making the step onto the ceramic floor all the more jarring when everything silenced.
The basement was small, utilitarian. Mechanical forms hid away in the corners, though I wasn’t sure what their functions were.
The tiles on the floor were a black-and-white checker. Three of the walls were finished with lath and plaster, the last one bare brick and stained with a buildup of lime. The ceiling was mostly finished exceptfor the places where water damage slowly discolored it. At one point my parents had tried to finish it as a utility room for staff, but then they settled on the idea of building their own custom home farther into Manhattan.
Small boxes were tucked under the stairs in large stacks, a couple of items perched on top for lack of better placement options in the barren room. The pipes groaned a bit louder down here, like witnessing the beating heart of a home in the most clinical sense.
The tenement was a time capsule, burying our history with it. It had been our first home upon arriving to this new city before my parents came into their fortune and outgrew it.
They even left the old icebox, short enough where I could knock my knee if I tripped on it in the dark. The wood was a dull green, pieces splintering and the paint peeling from wear.
Before I could retrieve any perishables from the little box, the bell sounded, followed by the front door’s heavy bolt unlocking.
He’s home early.
“Hello?” I called out, practically skipping steps to get to the first floor faster. “Leave your shoes at the door, clay is hard to scrub out of rugs!”
When the ground floor was on the horizon, there was no one in the foyer.
“Arkady?” I said, quieter.
