“And here you are, unable to please the husband you chose for yourself. Must be poor-quality veal,” she taunted, her posture returning more upright, tucking away the monster she hid within. “Perhaps we should allow you back to the ballet, maybe you’re out of practice.”
I bit back what I wanted to say; it wasn’t going to change her mind or how she felt. “If rumors start in the papers about my connection to Vincent, the ballet, it’ll be to your detriment.”
Her laugh was melodic and filled with poison. She shook her head and smiled. “I disagree. I think you should sensationalize it more.”
“You want me to admit to escorting?”
“No, that’s not what I said.” She turned her attention to the dresser, opening the drawers and fussing with the neatly folded blankets and clothing. “Isaidsensationalize it. Lean into the image, the iconography. You could have a whole career and not do any real work.”
“How so?”
“Well, if you’re worried about being seen as a whore, you already have half the reputation from the ballet. Become a sex symbol instead. Accept it. You and Arkady are a painfully stunning pair. Use those pretty faces properly and you’ll find it most profitable.”
“You want me to sell my integrity instead of my body.”
“It is all the same, my sweet pet.” She sighed. “You should know this.” She then turned to me, a newspaper clipping in hand.
She slapped it across my palm. This silly slip of paper. A simple piece of pulp and ink. It should have been as insignificant as a billowy piece of ash breaking away from a bonfire.
So how come I could feel onlydisdain?
The clipping heading:
Former Miss De Villier Won by New York’s New up-And-Coming Artisan. Secret Wedding Details Leaked Exclusively.
The title was just the beginning. Below was an article, my portrait illustrated—but so were the individual undergarments I wore on the day of my wedding.
The article detailed their fabric, the cut, the bones of my corset. All done without even a lick of my knowledge.
All I could do was look at my mother, mouth agape. At a true loss for words, and the manifestation of too many intrusive thoughts I wished upon her in that moment.
“Did you think I would let you marry so inconveniently withoutsomebenefit?” She laughed, her eyes raking me up and down. “You should be happy. The whole city will know your name.”
“Because of one article?”
“No, my dear hermit”—she went to pass me, squeezing my shoulder—“but if the tabloid says you’re infamous, the public believes it, intrigued by this new name. Because why would they put a nobody in the paper? They won’t—unless it’s paid for. And as your name is seen more and more, they will remember you. This week, you’re a headline. The next, you’re an icon. It takes time to build infamy. Do you not keep up with the tabloids anymore? Now is a great time to start.”
The paper crumpled in my clenched fist, rolling her hand off my shoulder. There was nothing left I could say to her. Nothing that wouldn’t accompany my hands around her throat.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Artisan
All I could say about the day was that it was productive. It was no secret that I lost time in the studio more often than anywhere else, but I hadn’t realized how late it was.
The town house looked rather strange compared to its neighbors on the outside. Most of these homes were warily lit with hints of curtains or bustling company concealed within—but Petronille’s home was dark. Only one homely light on the ground floor, the rest of the building seeming utterly void, leaving an ominous absence of human life.
A soft hum of the gramophone welcomed me after I cracked the front door. A classical piece, a Russian composer. Around the corner in the living room, she sat with her knees pulled to her chest as she wrote in a journal. For once, she looked truly delicate, vulnerable, less like the combative creature that clawed its way out of her.
She did not demand anything of me upon coming home. Which was a relief, but equally a concern.
“Petronille?”
Her eyes shifted subtly from her paper before returning to it, not even bothering to move her head.
“Don’t be like that.” I caught my tongue clicking against my teeth as my bag and coat slipped from my shoulder and to the spare chair in the corner. “Something is wrong.”
“When has it been right?”
