It’s in there. I know it.
Arkady may have been correct about my ignorance of Vincent’s whereabouts affording me some protections. But now, I absolutely needed to know.
Asking for Vincent’s keys and belongings would only make Arkady ask more questions. I doubt he would extend the same trust to me.No questions, no qualms.
I would find it myself. I had my suspicions about his studio, as I would hope he didn’t hide Vincent’s things in our own home.
No, he was smarter than that.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Artisan
Most days, the stale, unmoving air of the house took on the smell of wood and dust. Tonight, it smelled like a steadfast simmer of rosemary, the slow-cooked soul of broth, and the tenderness of meat that slipped from the bones.
Petronille allowed me to witness her cooking, which was a different pace than usual.
I learned exactly how much she loved to cook. Specialty knives and an expert navigation of the flank. It wasn’t anything particularly fancy, a bit lean, but it smelled so good, I suspended my belief in her cooking skills.
She was different when she was occupied. She still had her home work clothes on with a clean apron, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and hair secured in a braid.
A silver chatelaine chimed by her hip; that was how you knew she was a woman who ran her own home. Each chain held another teeny item. A set of small sheers, a bobbin, a perfume vial, and a couple of brass keys.
She laid out another cut of meat, her knife pulling through the thick of it, carving through fat and cartilage and discarding a couplescraps that she didn’t look too impressed with. The cut was prepped and laid carefully in a large pot, then set aside to cook.
I should have guessed earlier that she was serious about this hobby. Her house was outdated, in style and structure, yet she had this year’s Richmond stove to cook on. The kitchen and its utilities were the most updated part of the house.
“I don’t think I can wait four hours for dinner,” I complained, leaning against the kitchen table as she tidied up.
“I have confidence that you will endure.” She shook her head with her back facing me. I was sure her eyes were rolling.
“You know your way around a piece of meat.”
“I’ve had practice.”
“With whom?” I joked.
“My grandfather was a butcher, his father was a butcher, his father—”
“Was a butcher?” I cut her off.
“No, a cobbler.”
“Oh,” I mumbled to myself.
She wiped her hands on her apron, turning around and leaning back against the counter to face me. She took one of her knives, carefully wiping it of any remaining pieces of the meat.
“I wouldn’t have guessed someone like you would enjoy cooking.” I watched her closely. “I suppose youareself-sufficient.”
“Only out of spite,” she admitted, tilting the blade after cleaning it. “I would like to think nothing would change in my likelihood of survival if my parents and their fortune suddenly disappeared.”
“You say that as if you weren’t raised with a silver spoon and an inheritance.”
“Things in this life change quickly.” Her eyes shot up to me. “Some people lean on their upbringing so much that they stop learning about what keeps the regular folk alive.”
“So you cook?” I scoffed at such melodrama.
Her eyes stayed on me, unamused. “I learn. You die when you don’t adapt. What you don’t respect in life will kill you.”
