“Hello?” I called up the stairs.
No answer.
“Petronille?” I called again, her name awkward and new in my mouth.
The stairs rasped one by one until I reached the second floor and was presented with an open door to her room.
Within the area, a pale and peaceful pile of blond hair and blankets against a dark and dreary room.
She’s much different when she is asleep. Less argumentative. More agreeable.
I watched her from the doorway, the air so thick that I feared she would wake if I disturbed it. The dust fluttered past the windows, a band of glowing nymphs as the sun began to rise above the skyline.
Delicate streaks of light striped across her face, her rising and falling chest, making the silk of the bed and her nightgown glow under its touch.
A moment won’t hurt.
As I approached the bed, the floorboards whined in response to my steps.
I would say she reminded me of Sleeping Beauty, but based on her furrowed brow, she may have been more like the title character of “The Princess and the Pea.”
Her jaw ticked, her eyes rolling behind her delicate lids, her lashes fluttering occasionally. I was close enough to see the dewy sheen gathering on her skin.
Out of the shadows fluttered a moth. The clumsy flight path of the critter landed him on her pillow. The graceless form crawled closer, climbing through her hair.
What a curious creature.
As I leaned closer, the moth happily rested on her brow, then flicked his wings as he lapped the dewiness forming under her eye.A tear?
The powdery wings unfolded as my shadow crept over her face. They were a dusty white with the exception of a red splotch at the widest part of each wing.
Suddenly, I was hit with a wild vision, a strike of inspiration.
While she may be brash and unpleasant past her soft exterior, I could not deny that Petronille was visually pleasing.
The ideas puttered around in the back of my mind ... I had to go to the studio as soon as I finished my day’s arrangements.
As much as I would like to continue watching her sleep, the moths, I am sure, would be better company.
Man and Wife Missing Three Weeks.
“I’m so exhausted, I can’t even remember where I put the body!”
Please alert the metropolitan police if you identify these individuals.
“I tag them all, the logs are accurate, but I cannot for the life of me remember doing it. I’m just thankful that even when running on fumes, I can still do my job—like muscle memory!”
It is unclear at this time if this missing couple is connected to the Bardugo and Smith disappearances.
“Mm-hmm.” I underlined the heading of the paper with my pen, absently staring at the block of text, only able to return to the headline.
“Arkasha, did you hear me?” Konstantin stared expectantly.
“What is it, Kostya?” I spoke back.
“You haven’t said a word since we got here.”
“Not in a talkative mood.”
