He simply stared, his hand slipping from my throat to my collar, then down to my chest, before falling at my waist. His eyes trailed the path his hand blazed, but he wasn’t fully there. He was physically with me, but his mind was somewhere else.
“Make no mistake, Mr. Kamenev”—I sighed—“I do not care about your hunger for money.”
“Why doesn’t it bother you?” His question seemed genuine, and his brow twitched, the tension in his shoulders looking more uncomfortable by the minute. His gaze didn’t even return to me.
“You are doing me a favor as a placeholder”—I played with a piece of his hair—“as I am sure that’s all I am to you, anyway.”
“So we have an understanding, it seems.”
“For now.” I smirked and lifted a shoulder. “I would like to be left to my own devices. As long as you can play the fool, I will play the virgin. Do not make demands of me, and I won’t make any of you.”
He shoved my leg abruptly, my body jolting forward.
All too casually, like we didn’t just have that exchange, he retreated. He even took his time digging for the matches as he sat down on the sofa. Even knowing I was right there, he didn’t speak a word, he didn’t look at me, he didn’t acknowledge anything. He simply tucked a cigarette between his lips and nursed the flame from his match.
“Nothing?”
He shook his head, reclining against the sofa as he blew out smoke from his nose.
Leaving me alone, as I wished.
I see your wit, Mr. Kamenev.
I stepped back, unsure of how to feel about my fulfilled wish, and retired to my room in silence. I got my deal, that’s all that mattered, but I was left wondering if it was wise to antagonize the snake in my nest.
Chapter Three
The Artisan
It wasn’t a chore settling into my wife’s townhome. While we did not honeymoon anywhere secretive, it was probably best for her to be somewhere familiar and comfortable.
Besides, moving into my studio would not be the best choice—evenIwould prefer the townhome. It mattered little that it was my wife’s.
I lay there on the sofa, the morning light showing the truly distressed state of her home. I couldn’t tell if the haze in the air was dust or the steam from my morning brew.
While the domain was expensive, it was ill maintained. Aside from the runner on the stairs and select pieces of furniture, most of it looked like it only existed to hold collections of things like books and trinkets, rather than to serve its intended purpose. It was as though her parents had gifted it to her, but she had no interest in keeping up with it.
Her shelves had run out of space for books a good while ago, stacks forming on the floor. The tables were cluttered, yet each pile seemed to be a specific category, and only she would know the full extent of methodology. The fireplace hadn’t held a fire in a long time,or she was very good at maintaining the cleaning, which I highly doubted. The only other signs of life seemed to be the occasional flutter of a moth.
Though I shouldn’t complain. Sleeping on the cushions of her sofa was more comfortable than anything in my studio.
I checked my timepiece—not even seven in the morning, yet I couldn’t bring myself to sleep in. I supposed that was typical when settling into unfamiliar dwellings.
Up the walls, there were many pieces of art, though not many photographs of the family aside from one ovoid frame of, presumably, a younger vision of Petronille and her sisters.
She had a captivating collection of pinned butterflies, moths, and some other rare insects arranged lavishly in boxes memorializing their deaths.
In front of the window was a small table with two chairs, where we’d sat last night.
Atop a spare chair was what looked like her current project. A set of pointe shoes, the arch of one shoe snapped in half and preworn. The ribbon half sewn on, and the shoe itself serving as a pincushion for her threaded needle.
Draped on the back of the chair was a sort of costume bedazzled with small glass beads and tulle. On another chair in the corner of the room was a pile of flowers well past their freshness beside a collection of letters with unbroken wax seals. I suppose she had many admirers. A shame she didn’t bother reading them.
The flowers were not unlike the others that attempted to decorate the home. On the mantel was a small bouquet, withered and dried from the air of time, only a spider finding them pleasing enough to make a home of them. At least the spider earned her keep, trapping a single moth out of however many infested the place.
Peering into the gaunt hallway, I spied a runner ending at a sullen basement door. The padlock dangling on the door a passing temptationto investigate scurrying and scraping from within my mind. As I looked closer, I noticed the runner was more worn than any of the other carpets. I did not know my reasoning for passing as carefully as I did, but the door was beckoning me forward, teasing as to what could be so important that it had to be fashioned with such security.
Despite the teasing questions, I ignored them for a more tempting mystery.
