For the first time, a truce.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Performer
Why was it that getting dressed for a promenade in the park was the equivalent of dressing for war?
I tight-laced for the occasion, a walk with my sister.
It was of the utmost importance that I didn’t wear anything plain or embarrassing, as she would nag me. Before her mourning period, her marriage, everything, our trio of sisterhood would put on our best, better than our Sunday skirts. One thing we all had in common was our fascination with fashion. I suppose our mother rubbed off on us in a single positive manner, and it was style. Some days I forget she was a master seamstress; she barely used those skills for anything other than weaving stories, rumors, whatever would feed her greed for infamy.
“Is this new?” Félice gestured to my dress.
I looked down, pinching the material as I walked. It was the color of buttermilk with a pattern of white roses with green leaves dotting the fabric. Lace lined the trim and the collar around my neck, the fabric over my upper chest lighter and more sheer.
“Not new, but never worn,” I answered.
“Well, you look simply radiant.” Félice smiled. “How is the household? Have you gotten sick of one another yet?”
“Tolerable.” I had to bite my cheek, punishment for a lie.
“Tell me, Petre,” she began, looping her arm in mine as if keeping me under her parasol would shield us from whoever could be listening. “Be honest. How does he treat you?”
“Like a colleague.”
Her face twitched, a confused brow rising nearly to her hairline.
“He is indifferent, but he is fair,” I lied. “There isn’t much to it.”
“If that is true, why do you keep him?”
My neck snapped from how quickly I looked at her. “Is this a conversation you want to havein public?”
“You act like I asked how you plan to do it.” She laughed. “I know you went against our parents’ matches, I just wasn’t sure if that changed his indispensability.”
“If I already went against the plan once, what makes you think I would suddenly fall in line with the usual?”
“Come now, Petre, don’t throw one of your fits,” she scoffed. “It is the natural progression. We all do it for the family, for our own well-being. Keeping him is costing you an opportunity. You are still young.”
“Just because that is how you decided to get ahead doesn’t mean it will be my choice.”
“Who said I wanted to get ahead?” She squeezed my arm. “It is the only thing a woman can do to be comfortable in this life, is it not?”
“Our ideas of comfort are very different, Félice,” I warned her.
Her eyes were sharp. The blue of them always scared me, like staring down a wolf with its hackles up. That same sharpness never left, even as her eyes snapped somewhere else, accompanied by a smile. “Lorelei, what a surprise.”
My head whipped over my shoulder.
There was my dear friend, bright like a summer flower with a crow propped on her shoulder, waiting to pick her clean of spring seeds.
“Who is this gentleman?” Félice teased, surely saving this detail for later gossip.
It was the man Lorelei was with at the theater.
“This is William, he is the new ballet master.” Lorelei’s chest puffed, her arm looped in his proudly, even without a ring.
William could be considered handsome, just not quite enough to attract Lorelei without added benefits unseen to the naked eye. Slick hair, shaved face, and, unfortunately, fashionable.
