“Commissioner.” The word came out cracked like dry clay.
“I just had a few more questions, I couldn’t catch you at your home earlier—”
“I don’t have much time, I’m already a bit behind schedule.”
“Oh, this won’t take long!” he insisted, forcing my arm to loop with his as we walked along the pavement. “I was wondering if you gave some thought to where Mr. Carlisle may have gone.”
“I am not his keeper. He was hardly a friend.” I spoke as quickly as my steps, since it took two of my strides to keep up with one of his.
“Really? After all the years he’s paid patronage to you through the ballet? Or the midday visits to his office? Or perhaps the visits to your home—”
“I don’t see how it is your business. He is in my past.”
“Where were you two weeks ago, Tuesday specifically?”
“I was at my sister’s place,” I answered.
“And what about your husband?”
“Commissioner!” I planted my feet into the crack of the pavement, halting our stroll abruptly.
The commissioner’s expression twisted like a hound who’d spotted the fox on a run. He clasped his hands behind his back, attempting a calmer expression this time.
“Listen here, dove”—he took his time checking his timepiece—“there is much respect here for your family. They are generous whenthey need something done.” He glanced up sharply from the face of his ticking watch. “Don’t think their greed won’t be used againstyouto clean their slate, if you’re keeping something from the law.”
“Is that a threat?”
“A promise”—he chuckled—“from yourfather, not I.”
My hands went numb, and I couldn’t feel the bottle anymore. My limbs ran cold, all the blood rushing to the back of my head, engulfing me in heat like a fire had been lit under me. I would love to say I laughed it off with grace and poise, but it came off as a choke as I averted my face, hoping to negate any more insinuations of guilt.
“It doesn’t have to be like this, Petronille.” He stood by my side, pretending to watch across the street. People passed us, some coming from the bakery, some from the park in their nicest fashions, some children running their way among the skirts and legs of the pedestrian herd. “If you prefer it this way, I may be inclined to extend a line to the papers about your extracurricular visits.”
“Father will have your head.”
“No”—he snorted—“he will haveyours. It was his suggestion. I suppose to avoid certain ... liabilities.”
I clenched my teeth, rubbing them back and forth to stave off the immense impulse to bite.
“Pick your next words wisely,” he suggested as he turned to leave, “and choose them soon.”
Chapter Nineteen
The Artisan
My hands were cramping, constantly moving and sculpting the form. The body was rough but recognizable. The face was the most formed thing about it.
The sculpture sat upright, hands by her sides, her face tipped up at me. I worked on the face, scraping and smoothing the clay until it finally resembled someone familiar. I held my breath when I looked into the eyes before trailing down to the breasts, then the abdomen.
The small tool scraped across her chest, swirling it before letting it continue across one breast. I couldn’t remember the exact pattern. It seemed there was much to learn about her before I could properly bring her to life.
This bout of inspiration was different. It was draining, yet it tortured me with mania until I saw it through, until I was satisfied. It was like I saw her flesh, and my imagination started reeling. Itching to get back to work. Then once I got to my studio, anything I did paled in comparison to what I wanted to create in my mind’s eye.
Inspiration is fleeting. It’s clumsy and uncertain. There was no knowing when it would come or go, but it plagued my mind like the worst kinds of sicknesses. It would suffocate you in a fever if you didn’t know what to do with it.
I brushed my finger across the cheek, the slick on my hands and arms already dry and cracking, pulling at my skin.
The earthy scent of my creation teased my nose. Dragging my finger over her lip, I wished it were warmer, softer.
