Her eyes fix on mine as I press my lips to her skin. She tastes so sweet, like raspberries. I linger, meeting her fiery gaze, daring her to make the next move, while my heart beats a frantic dance in my chest.
A thousand moments hang in the air between us. She turns her head, the movement so slight, so precise, that I almost believe it was an accident. My lips glide over her silken skin and touch hers.
And we are kissing.
I don’t know who started it, but one moment we are pressed together and the next, her hands are tangled in my hair and my tongue grazes her teeth and all I can taste is stardust and raspberry.
And I never, ever want to be anywhere else again.
I long to fold myself into her, to close the space between us until we are hot on cold, skin on skin. But I’m afraid that if I move, she’ll realise that she’s kissing me and stop.
And I can’t stop. I don’t ever want to stop tasting her.
As if hearing my wanton thoughts, she breaks our kiss and leans back against the pillows. Her breath comes out in ragged pants.
“Good evening.” I lean in to kiss her again.
She plants her hands on my shoulders and shoves me away, but it’s light, playful. I think. I don’t go flying like I did the day she came back from her malaise. “You woke me up,Giddy.”
“I beg your forgiveness.” I sit up and give a quick bow. “You were lying there like Sleeping Beauty, and I wanted to be the one who woke you with a kiss.”
She sits up, sliding one elegant leg to the floor, then the other. Cleo II follows her, slithering around her bare feet. “I want to leave this place. I’m sick of staring at these walls.”
“You want to go back to La Petite Mort?” I still haven’t shown her the letter. I don’t want to upset her when she’s unwell. I’m hoping I can get the necklace to Lucien before she even learns she’s in danger.
“No. Not tonight. I want to be on the streets. With you.”
Her eyes are golden rings of mischief, and my heart skips as I bring her a second glass of that foul-smelling wine. I hand her the dress she was wearing on the balloon ride, which Sarah had cleaned and pressed, but Arabella disregards it with a flap of her hand and instead disappears into Sarah’s extensive closet, emerging a half hour later in a crimson evening gown that hugs her curves like a Titian painting.
Arabella perches at Sarah’s vanity and does her makeup. Cleo II settles around her shoulders like a scarf. I watch, mesmerised by her grace and poise. In a different world, one where people of all skin colours shared the same rights and opportunities, Arabella would have been Sarah Bernhardt. She was born for a bigger stage than La Petite Mort.
When she’s ready to leave, I offer her my arm (making sure to stay on the opposite side to the cobra’s head). Together, we walk out of Sarah’s apartment and into the streets.
This time, I lead her to the bottom of the Butte, along the Boulevard de Rochechouart, where the struggling artist Rodolphe Salis has opened a club called Le Chat Noir. We pass a lively crowd of artists, poets and musicians congregating around the mock medieval setting of threadbare tapestries, stained glass, and throne-like Louis XIII chairs. Arabella tugs on my arm, seeking out thebonhomie, but I have a different location in mind. I lead her around the corner to a secret garden Monet had spoken about. My lips still hum with the taste of her, and I long to see her bathed in moonlight among the flowers.
I find the garden’s iron gates ajar, and we steal inside. We wander the meandering paths, taking in the ancient sculptures adorning the beds. Marbles from Italy and bronzes from Greece and Rome. Arabella stops for a long time in front of a granite statue of Cleopatra.
“The plaque says this was pulled from the waters in the Alexandrian harbour,” I read. “They think it might be from her palace on Antirhodos.”
At that word, Arabella squeezes my arm. Her other hand flies to her throat, caressing her jewels. Cleo II sizes up her namesake, slithering from Arabella’s shoulder to circle the statue before settling herself on the pharaoh’s headdress.
Arabella’s fingers caress the curves of the famous queen. “She isdazzling.”
“She is plain compared to you.”
“She didn’t cause the fall of Egypt because she was beautiful. She was so much more than that. She was an astute politician. She wanted what the men around her had – her only sin was wanting. And Rome destroyed her for it.” Arabella steps back from the statue. “I willneverbe like her.”
“Of course not. Your nose is much prettier.” I take her hand. She lets me. “It’s not a sin to want.”
“I’m acocotte, Gideon. Everything I do is a sin because I do it.”
“Sin is a word used by people who are too afraid to live.” I twirl her into my arms. “Dance with me.”
She tries to wriggle out of my grasp. “You can’t dance without music.”
“Listen,” I press my hand to the small of her back. “The music is here. It’s in the wind in the trees, the clatter of carriages on the street beyond, the hum of people in the cafes. It’s in this wonderful city. Dance this song with me. Show me the movements.”
I spin her across the garden’s wide boulevard. At first, she resists me, because she’s Arabella Macquart and she must be in control at all times, but at some point, she lets go and allows me to spin and dip her. And then she is leading, forcing my feet into steps too complex to remember, sweeping me along as she writes the dance of the city. She throws back her head and laughs, and it’s all over for me. I’m utterlyenthralled.
