Other Colors Ch. 11-12

"No," my eyes fell, "No, I didn't..." I could feel my cheeks, burning so hot they nearly blistered. "I broke it."

But only because you broke me first. I didn't say it. I didn't need to. He nodded stiffly.

"Please," I pleaded now, stripped of all the steely sangfroid I'd worn, like armor, when he first entered, "why did you come here, Dmitri? How do you even know where I live?"

"Fill a vase, Penny," again he reached to tuck a damp strand of hair behind my ear, and this time, I let him. "And I'll answer."

He was testing me—my pliability, and my brittleness. Even back then, I knew it; though I couldn't have begun to say to what end. Holding me like a green twig, he wanted to see how far and how frequently he could bend me before I snapped.

And I bent. My eyes dropped to the floor as I shambled into the little galley kitchen, rooting through Marie's lower cabinets until I found something suitable, and filled it up beneath the faucet. He stood at the counter, gazing down over top of me.

"Madame d'Aulnoir," he spoke dryly, keeping his word, "I asked her for your address. And she gave it to me."

Madame? Seriously? I shut off the water. What the hell is she thinking, handing that out to any strange man who asks for it? I glared at him. ...Handsome. Very. But strange.

"Do...you two know each other?"

By shear reflex, I set a tea kettle over the burner, and lit it. I'd been living off the stuff for several days already.

He nodded to one side, "In a way. Her husband was an art dealer. I bought a pair of Schieles from the collection when he died."

"Schiele..." I sniffed in amusement, recalling her absurd and harrowing anecdote of the porcelain palette—perhaps she wasn't making it all up...

"When we spoke, Penny," he set his palms on the counter, leaning closer, "she said she was worried about you—that you hadn't come into work the past few days."

I pivoted, pretending to scrape a bit of slag off the stovetop; my cheeks and chest blooming redder than the petals of his poppies.

"Like I said," I breathed, still showing him my back, "I wasn't well."

"That...doesn't surprise me."

An ominous silence followed, like the interval between lightning and advancing thunder.

"It turned a little cold that evening," I knew he meant the weather—and I knew, at the same time, he didn't, "And you left without your coat, Penny."

Without letting his eyes leave me, he leaned down to his valise, and removed from it my pitiful pea coat. I gazed over my shoulder, brow furrowed, to survey the carnage. I remembered vividly how he'd torn it open, shank-to-shoulder almost; and the chilling edge in voice when he'd warned me—'Tell me no...'

I stepped closer, trembling a little at the memory of it, and took one sleeve in my hand.

What the..?

I blinked, and flipped it over. The hole had vanished. He held the arms open for me, and I slipped myself inside. God. Good as new... I spun to face him, straightening out the soft lapels. He watched me silently, his head slightly slanted.

"Not perfect," he ran an appraising thumb along his jaw, "but it will do. That's a lovely look for you, Penny."

I blushed, and drew the coat closed across my chest. In my rush to get dressed earlier, I'd unwittingly donned the same skirt and blouse he'd sent me home in seven days ago. I touched the fresh seam of the jacket, inspecting its stiff, shimmery black thread—the texture was oddly familiar.

Surgical sutures?

"Is this?" I squinted, "Is this Jules' handiwork?"

"Mine," he took a paring knife from the block, and began meticulously slicing the lower stems off my flowers.

I cocked my head at him suspiciously, "you sew?"

"Kettle's boiling, Penny."

What? I spun, and snatched it off the burner just as it began to bubble over. He tossed me a towel to sop up the mess. But as I did so, the back of my knuckles brushed roughly across the scalding surface of the kettle.

"Ah! Damn it," I hissed.

He moved fast. I didn't even get a look at the burn before he had me by my wrist again, thrusting it to the sink beneath a stream of cold water. I shook my head, reorienting myself—the speed of his reflexes was dizzying.

"It um...It doesn't hurt. Just surprised me," I tried to wrench my arm away—the cold water was far more agonizing than the burn, "Really, it's not bad. Probably won't even leave a mark."

"I'll be the judge of that," he frowned, and lowered his head to examine the skin. "No. Its not bad."

Gee thanks, Mister. He let go of my wrist with a smirk and a shake of his head.

"The finger, the ankle," he stepped behind me, his breath sweeping across the back of my neck, "the cold, and the burn—I'm at a loss. What will it cost me to keep you out of harm's way, Penny?"

For just a moment, I felt his hands lingering at the edges of my throat before they took hold of my collar, and he helped me back out of the coat. I shuddered.

"...More than your money, Mr. Caine."

I don't think I meant to say it out loud. But I did. And he heard me. I winced. It was several moments more before he spoke, and when he did, I could tell he was going to make me regret it.

"Your flowers are dying, Penny," he nodded to the poppies, still freshly amputated on the cutting board before us. "Don't be cruel. Either put them in water, or put them out of their misery."

Oh. You think you're real clever, don't you? I shut my eyes. His lips almost grazed the upper curve of my ear. Why? Why does everything have to be a goddamn riddle?

"I—" I breathed steadily, "I don't think the flowers care one way or the other."

He reached around me to select one; then stepped away, still watching me wolfishly

"You don't think your poppies feel pain, Penny?" he twirled it deftly by the stem. "I do. I'll bet they feel more than most flowers..."

I stared, a little apprehensive, as he plucked one petal from the corolla and let it float down to the floor. À la folie, pas du tout...

"Why else," he cocked his head at me before ripping off a second, "would they drown themselves in opium?"

Those are pearls that were his eyes... He tore another petal, and then another; his eyes locked on me all the while. I wished he would quit it. I knew they were just flowers, but they were pretty, and they were mine. And he didn't need to make such a show of mutilating them. It was profane.

I glanced away just as he severed the last petal. And when I turned back, the poor thing was stripped bare—just anthers, the ovary, and a little pile of shredded, blood-red petals below. Catherine Howard. Marie Antoinette. Madame du Berry. Charlotte Corday... My cheeks heated as he reached for another.

"No. Wait," I shook my head, and he halted. "Wait. I'll put them in water..."

He nodded darkly, suppressing a grin, "Good girl."

I ignored the diminution, and gathered the fallen petals from the floor before scooping up the surviving blossoms; stuffing them in the vase, and fluffing them out in a pitiful pastiche of ikebana.

"Now," again, he moved behind me, "that's better, isn't it?"

I shut my eyes, trying very hard not to let the twin demons of his scent and voice dissolve me. He still hasn't said what he's really doing here, Penny. He's just playing with you. But...there's always a plan with him. Always a strategy. Clumsily, I made my own little gambit.

"Are you staying for tea, Mr. Caine?" I turned, rising up onto my toes, "I know you're very busy..."

"...I am, Penny," his tone chilled me to the bone. "I'll pour."

Why is a raven like a writing-desk? I turned, trembling, to fetch the tea leaves, and he opened a cabinet for the mugs.

"Get three," I caught his eye pointedly over my shoulder. "Peter's dropping by soon."

He made no remark, though for a split second, I thought I saw his face twitch; a short, sharp tightening of the muscles around his mouth. But either way, the news didn't seem to faze him nearly so much as I'd hoped. Instead, I felt my own composure unravel a bit further as he set three mugs out, and finally removed his topcoat.

Christ... I clenched my teeth as he draped the garment overtop of mine. I would never, ever get over of those shoulders—now exposed, and tautly outlined in the smooth, grey wool of his sweater. 'The Boxer of Quirinal' ...Theogenes. Or Damarchus, more likely.

We stood, steeped, and sipped several times in silence, tête-à-tête there in the kitchen; two, perhaps three paces apart. The fine hairs of my forearms stood on end, drawn upward by a deepening voltage in the air between us.

"Alright," he took a deep swallow, and set his tea aside, "let's talk about it, Penny."

I nearly dropped my mug. Just? Just like that?

"...It?" my jaw quivered.

"Why I'm here," he leaned back against the counter. "I wanted you to know—I never planned on it happening the way it did."

I faced him, my breath bated. I'd been obedient. I'd played his games. And I let him win. Now, I thought, now its my turn... He proceeded.

"It was a lapse. Normally, Penny," his fingers crept over to the cutting board, and began muddling the petals from my ruined flower, "I never would've taken things so far without first talking to you. Normally," he waited until my eyes met his, "I would never have pursued someone like you in the first place..."

"Someone," I held my tea in both hands to keep them from shaking, "...like who, Dmitri?"

He leaned closer, his fingers still softly pulverizing the petals.

"I won't say 'innocent'. We both know that would be a lie. But I believed certain things about you—about your inclinations, and experience." He paused, "I was wrong. But not entirely."

Looking back, I had very little concept of what he was really telling me in that moment. Compared to what I understood a month later, I was like a child—and he, some sly parent; sidestepping a tricky inquiry on the physics of Santa's sleigh. Had I known what questions to ask, I might have asked them. But I didn't. I was still blind. I was still, in some ways—though he'd never concede it—innocent.

"What..." I dropped my eyes, "what made you think I was like that?"

"In principio..." he refilled our mugs from the kettle, and dropped several muddled petals in to steep with his tea leaves, "erat Verbum—there was a miscommunication. It's how I got your name. And in part, it's why I bought your watercolors. But in my defense," he took a long, slow sip, "you were already on your knees when we met, Penny."

I blushed, "Yes. I'd dropped my file."

"At the café," he went on, "you told me you were afraid not to suffer."

"I think...that's out of context," I breathed.

"You rarely argued when I told you what to do. It seldom incensed you to be scolded."

I frowned, "Perhaps I'm too polite."

"And just now, when I was at the door," again, he sipped, and swallowed, "you called me sir."

I squinted. I did. But what does that have to do with anything?

"Mother raised me to respect my elders," I channeled her Savannah parlance; though under the circumstances, it made me cringe even more than usual, "...sir."

He chuckled darkly, "I imagine she did." He plucked a sodden poppy petal from his tea, and wrung it out. "But either way, Penny—by the time I realized my mistake, it was too late," he dropped it back, and drew the edge of his thumb, discreetly, across his tongue, "You might say I was addicted."

"...A-addicted?" I narrowed my eyes, trying to look incredulous, but my words quavered. "Addicted to what?"

Before he spoke, his gaze—frosty, piercing, and impossibly deep—had already given me my answer.

"I have no religion, Penny," again he set his tea down, and closed the space between us. "No philosophy. No politics, or ethos. I'm a simple, and obsessive creature. I was obsessed with you." He let the weight of his words sink in, eyes flashing. "And still that's no excuse. But it is the reason. It's why I did it, and it's why I tracked you down today."

"You mean..." my breath was shallow as I tried to retreat, but he'd backed me clear against the icebox, "to...get your fix, Dmitri?"

He smirked coolly, and shook his head.

"No. To apologize. Which is not a custom of mine, Miss Foster."

He stepped away, allowing me to breathe. To? To apologize? My head was spinning. I felt relief, but also, I think, a strange, dark vein of disappointment. I'd thought for certain he was going to attack me again; to keep taking, and taking from me, without ever giving anything back—without a moment's reprieve for me. But here he was instead, settling a debt.

"Then," I was still shaking, "is that what the flowers are for?"

"That," he nodded, and again reached down to his valise, "and so you don't get the wrong idea when I give you this..."

He set a sealed envelope on the counter between us, and slid it toward me. I lifted it as if handling Dr. Faustus' contract with Mephistopheles; as though at any moment the paper might burst into flames. I tore it open. I'm not quite sure what I expected, but I breathed much easier when I realized it was only a check. Until I read it.

No. No, no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

I stared, my anxiety growing by gravitational accretion. He'd written it for four times what he owed me.

The other day at Lacoste, it was afterward, when he sent me off to the bathroom—which in itself struck me as rather weird; he'd told me outright to go clean myself up, that I might avoid a UTI—he'd mentioned offhand that in the meantime he'd fetch my payment for me.

And honestly, I suspect those words contributed as much as anything to my flight. After what happened, I really couldn't bear the thought of receiving any money from him. To my mind, it skirted very, very close to the already blurring line between 'mélange les affaires et le plaisir', and outright whorishness.

But rather cunningly, it seemed he anticipated my dilemma. Plucking another poppy from the vase, he held it out by the stem.

"The flowers are for you, Penny," its red sepals swept across the crisp, black ink of his check. "And the money, for your painting. Not the other way around."

I nodded. I was surprised—it actually did make me feel a bit better about the circumstances. But it did nothing to resolve the numbers.

"You've made a mistake, Mr. Caine," I took the flower, and glanced up from my monstrous remuneration. "Twenty-five hundred. That was our deal."

"And this is our new deal," his tone darkened. "Twenty-five for the chapel, as we agreed. Plus an advance on your next project."

I chewed my lip. This. This was his plan all along. The hairs on my neck stood on end. He won't let go of me. He's just going to keep me on his leash. Forever, if I let him.

"...Why?"

His eyes flashed.

"You impressed me, Penny. And I want more from you," he drew a thumb slowly across his jawline, "Three pieces. A triptych, if you like. Size and subject are up to you. But I want them each in a primary monochrome—red, blue, and green." He stepped nearer, "No other colors. Understood?"

His breath blew cool across my face. After what happened with my first, I couldn't fathom what such a project would do to me. What it would require of me. How it would alter me.

"Do you understand, Miss Foster?"

"...No," I shook my head, "I really don't. But...I'll do it, Dmitri."

You knew that I would. I dropped my eyes. You knew I wouldn't have a choice.

"Good girl," he nodded, almost imperceptibly. "And—with the advance—you should have enough to get yourself out of this hovel."

I glared at this boots, "Its not so bad here."

Admittedly, the thing he was handing me was what I'd been dying for all along—to earn my own keep; to support myself with painting. But somehow he'd twisted that long sought-after symbol of my sovereignty, bringing it under his dominion. He made it his. He made everything his.

"Well it isn't good, either," he glanced around. "You know its not the best neighborhood for an attractive young woman. And by the looks of that sofa, I'm guessing you don't even have a real bed here."

At that moment, a deadly, vindictive chill passed through the room. I crossed my arms, and my teeth began to chatter.

"...And it's too cold for you, isn't it?" he frowned. "Is your furnace running, Penny?"

I shrugged, still shivering, "I think so. Its old though—has trouble keeping up."

His frowned deepened as he turned toward the washroom.

"That draft..."

For just a moment, I considered trying to divert him—all my clothes, bra and underwear included, were still lumped on the floor beside the bath—but I knew once he started moving, there was little I could do to stop him. Unstoppable force. Immovable object... He stalked over to the door, and pushed it open. The whole apartment seemed to drop another half dozen degrees. He turned back to me.

"Why is this window still broken, Penny?"

I sighed, feeling the shadow of defeat close in around me.

"Marie's landlord wants us to pay for it." I glanced down to his check, "I can afford it now. I'll get it fixed soon."

His scowl deepened.

"Does this building have a cellar?"

I nodded, "I think so."

"Tools?"

My brows arched. The hell is he scheming now?

"I'm not sure. I've never been down there..."

"Show me."

My nostrils flaring in confusion, I led him out into the little corridor to a low, grimy door beneath the stairs. He drew it open, leaving a shredded lacework of cobwebs dangling in the doorway. I wrinkled my nose. The smell was sickeningly musty—like old laundry, or wet straw.

"Wait here," he touched my shoulder, and disappeared down a creaking flight of steps into the darkness.

I didn't wait. The moment he was out of sight, I darted back to the bathroom, stashing away all of mine and Marie's various toiletries and tampons, and scooping up my clothing to hide away in her bedroom. I was panting a little when I returned. He was halfway back up the steps already, carrying a storm window under one arm, and a few sundry bits of hardware on the other.

I rose nervously onto my toes as he passed.

"I um—I don't think it'll fit in there," I followed him, like a spaniel, back into the apartment. "Its too big."

He paused, glancing back to me wryly over his shoulder, one brow arched. Oh, come on. I didn't mean it like that...

"Bring my bag, Penny," he nodded to the valise.

I blushed, and obeyed. Setting down his supplies, he knelt near the window, and tore away the tape and cardboard. I crossed my arms to stay warm, and sat myself at the edge of the tub, watching anxiously as he withdrew from his back pocket the same folding knife he'd used to sever my wires at the gallery ten days ago. He sank the blade into the putty around the broken pane, and scraped the frame clean.

"There's a glass cutter in there," he nodded again to his valise at my feet, setting a few large shards of glass beside the sink, "Looks like a skeleton key."

A glass cutter? I bent down.

"Careful," he warned, "Its very sharp."

I spotted it almost immediately, but struggled a little longer with the temptation to keep digging, and see what else turned up in Mr. Caine's mysterious briefcase. Sighing, I closed it up, and surrendered the tool.

"Why...on earth are you carrying around a glass cutter?"

"A sample. From one of our buyers," he set the storm window down across the tile, "I like to know what's done with the diamonds after we dig them up."

"So, the blade," I watched him measure meticulously the length and breadth of the window, "It's from your mine?"