Why would you bind yourself to me, Mr. Kamenev?
There were a million and one ways to handle that situation; finishing the job was, admittedly, not the first to come to my mind. It was an accident. It wasn’t my fault. Had he done this before? I had no way of knowing if he would be any good at hiding a body. Could it have been panic? What if he didn’t dispose of the body efficiently? I could only hope I didn’t have any gumshoes knocking their batons on my door. Of all the things I thought would stress me about my marriage, wondering whether or not my spouse was skilled at body disposal was not one of them.
What if he is turning me in at this very moment?
As a sitting dove, I’d failed to consider that I might very well find out how well he could hide a body, intimately, if I weren’t careful.
No,he would have finished me right then, with the same weapon, giving me the same demise as my patron.
I am important,I reminded myself. Not to him, but to his survival.
Surely, I was not in any danger of death, at the very least.
If I simply never left my shelter, I couldn’t make any more mistakes. Lord knows how little room I had for them now.
How dare the sun shine on a day like this?
The city conservatory was popular around this time of year, bursting with the excitement of spring beginnings. The glass cathedral of the greenhouse made it feel at least midsummer.
I was sweating. Well, I had been restless sweating before, but now it was just plain sweat.
The dress I chose hadn’t been used in quite some time. The color remained a glossy cream, a perfectly soft buttermilk fabric against my skin. The collar came midway up my neck, the skirt skimming completely to the floor. The make was liquid in texture, even more so with the subtle train behind me. The sleeves came down quarter length, white gloves would cover the rest. My hair managed in a twisted plait, the humidity calling out some strays that curled to kiss the dew of my face. The heavy pearls of my earrings made me all too aware of the textures and sensations of the outfit, but one must endure to look perfect.
I didn’t like crowds, or people—leaving my home was never preferred either. There were too many different noises, too many conversations, too many smells. Patrons were only tolerable as an audience, forced to be quiet with their attention only on me. The public stage was not as fun.
It may be that I’m a miserable person, after all.
The flowers were in full bloom, planted promptly in the fall to greet us by early spring, maturing by the time pleasant weather joined us in May. Exotics were popular; there was hardly a reason to see native flowers when a garden as grand as this existed. I pitied those who didn’t live near such privileges.
A small butterfly crawled along a bloom. I slipped off my gloves to offer it my hand, and it grasped my finger, its proboscis slapping happily along my skin.
At least someone enjoyed clammy hands.
Only when I looked closer did I realize it was not a butterfly but a hawk moth that had snuck in. I had no doubt it had happily eaten its fill of estranged conservatory nightshades. When your lifespan was only a single month, you might as well indulge. Who was I to judge such a thing?
“Those are invasive, you know,” a voice said in my ear.
I turned my head. Arkady leaned over my shoulder, looking less than impressed. I lifted the shuddering insect, the clumsy wings flapping and tickling his nose. “You two shall get along nicely, then.”
To say he was less than amused was an understatement. As someone pushed past us, he stood straight with a dimpled smile, affixing his public-facing mask. “Put your gloves on, it’s indecent.”
My eye twitched at his demand, but I reluctantly set the critter free before pinching the white gloves over each hand, not liking how stiff the material felt on my fingers.
Only after did Arkady offer me an arm, and I accepted.
“You look as pleasant as ever with such a virulent expression.” He kept a smile, but his tone was cutting. “Shall we walk? Play a bit of pretend?”
“Why did you ask me here?”
“Appearances,” he answered.
“What do you care about appearances?”
His shoulders physically tensed like a dog ready to snap at me for getting too close to his bone. “Typically,” he muttered in a low voice, barely moving his lips to speak, “the first thing you do to cover up amurderis create an alibi. Do you understand?”
I nodded, chewing the inside of my cheek.
A couple passed us, smiling and tipping their heads in greeting as they moved on to inspect the begonias.
