What My Flowers Said Ch. 14-16

She faltered a moment. I think the query caught her off guard.

"It's your husband," she sniffed, "Jason Clay—they're declaring death in absentia." She tidied her folders, and set them back in her satchel, "It seems there's some questions about the night he disappeared."

I knew. I knew it was coming. I'd been waiting for it. But that still didn't prepare me in the least. My heart stopped beating, and my blood ran cold. His name alone was enough. Wake up. I blinked, squeezing my eyes they stung. Wake up, Penny. She was still standing there, watching me, trying to decide what to say.

"Does, um..." my voice trembled, paper-thin, "Does Dmitri know?"

She nodded.

"I prepared a brief for him. He's made it very clear on the matter," she slipped the satchel over her shoulder, "He wants to know everything."

I dropped my head, demoralized.

"I'll be in touch, Miss Foster. Until then, please, do try not to worry."

A tiny a nod was all I could manage, and mercifully, she showed herself out.

Le mat, I thought. The hanged man. 'Fear death by water.' I slid the deadbolt back in the door, and commanded myself not to cry.

It didn't help. Nothing did. The tears burned. I staggered back to the bathroom. I could hear somebody sobbing, hyperventilating, running searing hot water in the sink. 'Une saison en enfer.Je est un autre.' She breathed the steam, and reached for the razor.

No. I stopped. No more... A freezing sweat beaded on face and chest. No more of that, Penny. He's gone.

Did Icarus die when he hit the water?

Cold air seeped through the broken window. The wind howled outside. I collapsed in the corner, on the cold tile floor. I cried some more. I cowered. I don't know for how long. And when I finally felt empty, felt hollow again, I went to find Marie's little hidden stash of cigarettes in her sock drawer. I sat in down on the bathroom floor again. I slid one out and lit it. I held the glowing orange ember to the tip of my finger, so close that it stung—but it didn't quite burn. I breathed in. I breathed out. The wind. The wind was still howling.

Enough.

16

"Christ in heaven, Pens," his eyes dilated and his body went stiff, "Where the hell'd you learn to do that?"

I blushed crimson. It was a little embarrassing—to be so exposed in front of him. But I was glad, at least, that he liked it. I'd worked so hard, and suffered so much. I sank my incisors into my lip.

"...you're just saying that."

Peter stood beside me, staring at the immense, swirling red surface of my canvas. It had been just seven days since Mr. Caine coerced me into creating it. Six since I started up here in Peter's studio. And five since each of these men, in their turn, had turned my world inside out.

I still felt rattled. I'd spoken to neither one about what they'd done to me. I'd spoken, really, to no one—not even Marie. Everything I had inside me, I'd poured out into the painting. Its softer contours mirrored the nebulous edges of my thoughts; its jagged angles my conflicts and conflagrations. My doubts, anxieties. Desires, even. And though I'd started out with cardinal for the dominant color, somewhere along the way things took a much darker turn.

Peter stepped back, fixing his glasses.

"For real, Pens. It makes les Fauves look like les Chatons," he caught my eye, grinning gamely, "If I'd known this was what you were up to in here, I'd have torched the place. We don't need any more competition in this town."

I knew he was flattering me. Worse still, I think I knew why. But for the moment, at least, I didn't mind. I felt pretty proud of what I'd done, of how fast it all came together. And it was nice, I guess, to get just a sliver of validation from someone—even if it was with ulterior motive.

Peter folded his arms and stepped closer, inspecting the texture. His own work had stalled out the past few days. I didn't dare ask what happened after I left the café. But Cécile hadn't been back to the studio since. It was weird. I couldn't help wondering about her. Worrying, even. Yet Peter seemed content to pretend she didn't exist. Like a ghost... I shivered, remembering.

He'd gone on carving his wax here and there, working without a model. He'd started drawing up some sketches for Marie's stage, as well. But that creative explosion I'd seen when I first walked in a week ago—all that frenzied energy, and drive—it had fizzled. His muse had vanished. And though I could hear in his tone what he still wanted to ask me each time we locked up at night—like a dropped stitch in the fabric of his words—for the most part, Peter had the good sense to leave me alone. I was grateful for it. And not just because I needed every spare second to paint. But because so long as he kept his mouth shut, and his wandering hands stuffed in his pockets, I was actually starting to look forward to working with him.

"So what now?" he spun back to me, "Is Comrade Caine coming by to pick this beast up?"

My cheeks heated. He still felt jealous. That much was clear. And though that maddening morning at Lacoste may as well have ended with a damnatio memoriae, I couldn't figure out for the life of me why Dmitri still sent his lawyer to hunt me down.

At that point, I really had no fucking clue what to think. I felt confused. Frustrated. Furious, sometimes. And the truth is, there's a part of me that knew, if I'd wanted to, I really could've turned to Peter that week. He'd been so generous, so patient with me. I could've laid aside all my doubts and diffidence. I could have let him see me, the real me, if he cared to look. I could have let him in. Maybe... If not for that kiss.

And I don't mean Peter's. That night at the café, when his lips touched my skin—Peter's kiss was kind, and benign. Like a little sunspot on my cheek. A blemish you barely noticed. But Mr. Caine. But Dmitri...His kiss was a virus. He got inside me. Overcame my defenses. I was infected now. I couldn't help it.

And I'd tried. I tried so hard to do as he told me—to just go on, and forget about him. But I couldn't. Just having been near him, somehow, in some microscopic and indelible way, had changed me. He'd laid a strange, new lens over my eyes. I could no longer see things in quite the same way. And now, I had questions. Questions for him. And though he'd commanded to keep away, before all was finished, I was going to get my answers. Sooner rather than later. I scowled.

"No..." I stood up, "I need to deliver it. Today."

Peter propped his hands on his hips, "For real?"

I didn't answer, lost in thought as he combed his freckled hands through his hair.

"Alright. You're the boss," he fished his keys from his pocket, "I'll uh, I'll pull the truck around."

My stomach lurched.

"N-no," I stammered, trying to backtrack, "I mean, I know you're busy, Peter. I can handle it."

"C'mon, Pens," he sidled off toward the stairs, "Seriously. This thing's three times your size. How the hell you think you're gonna move it over there?"

My brow furrowed. He had a point. When I envisioned myself confronting Mr. Caine at Lacoste, Peter was patently not part of the picture. But really, I didn't see another option.

"Admit it, Pens," a roguish smirk played over his lips, "You need me."

I sighed, and in the span of a blink, he was gone, whistling to himself as he tromped down the stairs. What are you doing, Penny? I clenched my teeth. What's your plan?

'To Carthage then I came...'It didn't feel real. Back again beneath the stony grey shadow of Lacoste—for some reason Saint Augustine rippled around in my head. You're going to regret this, Penny. I bit my lip. Part of me, I think, already did.

"Motherfucker..." Peter stared, dumbstruck, and propped his chin on the wheel.

Together we gazed through the windshield at the wrought iron gate, and the steep sloping lane up to Mr. Caine's palatial home.

"So...what?" He squinted, "We just answer the gatekeeper's riddles? Or should I just break out the battering ram?"

I wasn't sure what to tell him. I hadn't quite counted on being locked out. A moment more passed, and a voice crackled over the bronze-plated intercom.

"Bonjour, mes amis. En quoi puis-je vous être utile?"

"Bonjour, Monsieur d'Hiver," I leaned over Peter's lap, recognizing his stilted airs, "It's um, it's Penny Foster. The painter..."

Talk about 'airs.' The word still tasted metallic on my tongue.

"I have Mr. Caine's new piece."

"His painting, Madame?" he crackled back.

"Oui, Monsieur," I winced, holding my breath.

I wasn't sure I could stand the thought of dragging Peter along for this, only to get turned back at the gate.

"Bien sûr," he said at last, "Bon retour, Mademoiselle."

I breathed a sigh of relief, and felt my stomach tighten as the gates began grinding open. Peter rolled up his window, shaking his head.

"Great. So that solves one problem," he sniffed, "But there's no way in hell my truck's making this turn."

He pointed ahead, where the drive veered sharply between the garden wall and a dense stand of elms. Tabarnak. My toes curled. Once again, he was right.

"Whatever," he grumbled, "Just hop out. I'll park it down here, and follow. I can handle the canvas."

My brow furrowed, "...you're sure?"

"Bien sûr," he mocked the majordome, a thin smirk concealing his sneer, "Go settle up with Comrade Caine. Say your 'da svidaniyas' or whatever," He leveled his gaze, "Don't worry about it—I'll be right behind you."

My lips parted. I really wasn't sure what to say. Part of me was thrilled. I might actually get my moment alone with him. But another part—it was brimming with dread.

"Go on," Peter nodded, "Before it closes."

Already the bars were creeping back into place. I hesitated only a moment; just long enough to slide over next to him, and lay a little peck on his cheek.

He didn't say a word, but his face flushed scarlet, and I think his glasses fogged over. I didn't look back again until I'd slipped through the gates, and heard them latch shut behind me. He grinned dazedly and gave me a wink, then threw his truck in reverse to back up. Now about that plan... My heart fluttered in my chest.

It was a little eerie, really, how the walls seemed to deaden all the sounds from outside—like all Lacoste itself was a world apart. Subluxed in space. Frozen in time. I crossed my arms, and kept walking. My ankle ached on the uneven ground. I thought of how he'd wrapped it that night.

It had healed a lot since then. But the wounds he left in me the next morning—those one were still raw, still festering. Pressure. Elevation. A little ice... Twenty on, thirty off. Thirty-two feet per second per second. I shivered. The things he said to me—how his skin felt against mine. That kiss. How it hurt. How he left me there, alone, all but bleeding. I couldn't believe I was coming back.

I pulled my coat closer, turning into the wind as I climbed the last hairpin twist to the top. I passed the iced-over flagstones and the snow-filled fountain. With a trembling wrist, I knocked on the door. Jules answered, his white-gloved hands folded in front of him.

"Mademoiselle," he bowed, "Please, come in from the cold."

"Merci, Monsieur," my teeth chattered, "My friend's coming up with the canvas, if um—if you could just open the gate again for him."

"In due time," he stepped aside, drawing the door shut behind me, "You must forgive me. I do not mean to sound uncivil," he turned, "But I do not believe Monsieur was expecting you."

I flushed red, shrinking beneath the blind stare of his spectacles. He knows, doesn't he? He must. I wondered why he'd let me in at all. Clearly, he knew Mr. Caine had forbidden me from coming back.

"I know..." I nodded, stammering, "I just—I thought I'd surprise him. Could you let him know I'm here?"

"Je suis désolée," he shook his head, "I am afraid Monsieur Caine was called out this morning. I do not know when he'll return."

Tabarnak. I felt the blood drain from my face. This was it—the only chance I had left. And like that, I felt it slipping away through my fingers. Damn him, I seethed. Damn him straight to hell... It just wasn't fair—that he could be free to force himself on my thoughts. Free to kiss me. Intimidate, and terrorize me. Free to banish me when he was finished, without one wretched word of explanation. It won't stand, my blood boiled. People answer for their sins. I shivered. I was owed something. And before I left, there had to be a reckoning. 'I'll have my bond,' Mr. Caine's unnerving words echoed coldly in my head. I stood there, silent, burning alive.

Monsieur d'Hiver took his cue, "I should be glad to settle his account for you, Mademoiselle," he drew back, "Or if not, you are welcome to wait. But I should like to warn you," he tipped his chin, "Monsieur seldom appreciates surprises."

I bit my lip, wavering.

"I understand," I nodded tensely, "But I think I'll wait."

"You are sure, Mademoiselle?" He lowered his voice.

"I am," my voice almost cracked, "...I need to be sure that he's satisfied."

He nodded, his lips drawn tight beneath his wispy, white whiskers, "With your work, Mademoiselle?"

I shuddered, "Quoi d'autre, Monsieur?"

"Very well," he bowed again, "If you would follow me—I can show you to Monsieur's study," he raised his hand, "I believe that is where he will want his new piece."

I trailed him on tiptoe through the towering foyer, up the split staircase, and back along a mezzanine hallway, down to Mr. Caine's infamous study.

"Will you have tea while you wait?" He turned its two handles, "As I said, I do not know how long he will take."

I gave a meek nod, and no sooner had he ushered me in than Peter's voice echoed out in the foyer. I rushed back to the balustrade. He stood at the base of the steps, clattering and muddied, hauling my huge canvas behind him, bound up with my rope from the quincaillerie. Oh Lord, I swallowed. He was tracking snow and dirt everywhere. I said a silent prayer of thanks that I'd wrapped up the painting before we left.

"Pens!" He spotted me, "Come gimme hand. This thing is a beast."

I winced. He sounded annoyed, bordering on belligerent. I watched as Jules' eyebrows arched into a pair of scornful, white crescents.

"Les déménageurs?" He asked, disdainful.

"Sort of..." I shrugged, "My friend Peter. He's helping me out today."

"Je vois," he touched my shoulder to keep me from following, and strode back down the stairs.

"The lady," he contemned, "is taking tea. Comment puis-je vous aider?"

"Oh man," Peter grunted, "C'mon. Is this guy for real?"

I understood Peter's reaction. Mine was the same when I first met Monsieur d'Hiver. The man was a living anachronism. But Peter was still being awfully rude. I opened my mouth to scold him, but Jules beat me to it.

"Mon nom," his words were razor-sharp, "est Julien Honoré d'Hiver III. Le Majordome du Château Lacoste. Et vous êtes qui, Monsieur?"

"The Doge of Venice," Peter dropped the painting against the banister, and gave a sardonic salute, "Hop to, Jeeves. The archduke is expecting us."

A deafening silence followed. I think Peter expected me to laugh.

"Veuillez m'excuser, Monsieur," I apologized from above, "Il a un tempérament artistique, voyez-vous."

"Je vois..." Jules answered skeptically, lifting one side of the painting, and nodded for Peter to do the same.

Together, they carried the cumbersome canvas upstairs, and I blushed for all three of us as I followed them finally inside.

"Good," Jules set his end down along a dark wall of books, "Now then, if you'll excuse me, Mademoiselle, I should like to prepare your tea," he bowed once more, "Please, make yourself comfortable."

"Merci, Monsieur," I breathed, knowing full that would be impossible.

He turned to Peter, sniffed, and made his exit. Peter stood by, huffing a little, and scratching his head.

"You're fucking kidding me, right?" He scoffed as soon as the doors slid shut, "So we got the damn thing up here. Where's Mister tall, dark and Russian, Pens? Let's get this thing over with."

I shrugged, and dropped my eyes, "He's not here."

"Well then what are we waiting for?" He frowned, "Let him mail you a chest of Krugerrands. He's clearly good for it," he jerked his chin glibly the room, "C'mon. Before Max von Mayerling gets back," he turned, "The guy creeps me right the fuck out."

I shook my head, "You didn't have to be so rude to him."

"You serious?" He snorted.

"Look, you can go if you like, Peter. You've done more than enough. And I'm grateful. I am," My brow furrowed, "But I'm staying."

"For real, Pens. What are you smoking? And where can I get some?" He groused, slumping into a tailored leather chair, "You're crazy if you think I'm just gonna leave you here."

I turned away, "Don't call people 'crazy,' Peter."

"C'mon, Foster. You're not seriously mad at me?"

I didn't answer him. I wasn't, really. But I also had more pressing things on my mind than indulging his insecurities. At last, I was inside Dmitri Caine's study—the belly of the beast—and the more I gazed around, the more it started to mesmerize me.

The space was split into four chambers, each divided by a towering bookcase. A fire crackled in the first, burning in a carved stone hearth. In the two along the outer wall, snowflakes fluttered in five high, mullioned windows, all hung with heavy red curtains. There was a large kas armoire in the last, set with a tarnished brass lock. I ran my finger along the leather spines of his library, wandering my way toward the flames.

His books were a Tower of Babel. The French and English titles were mostly familiar. But there were plenty I couldn't begin to untangle—Cyrillic letters, eszetts and umlauts, a little Latin, and less Greek. Portuguese, Dutch, even some Arabic, I think. I bit my lip. He's a lot smarter than he lets on, isn't he? I slipped a crimson quarto marked 'Krafft-Ebbing' from the shelf. But when I saw it's title, I shoved it back. My face burned. See what you get for snooping, Miss Foster?

My jaw clenched. The whole room, really, just reeked of cognoscenti. The furniture was sparse, the textures lush, and lived-in. I touched the leather blotter on his desk, and ran my palm along the back of his chair. A Barcelona daybed of cognac brown sat near the center. But the real centerpiece, as ever, was the art. Just glancing around, I spotted another nightmarish Redon, an Etruscan marble of a girl's bare torso, and a bleary little sketch of Wally Neuzil on her knees. My teeth sank deeper. I had a strange existential aversion against gazing above the mantle. The wall there was naked, and almost exactly the size of my painting. It was fitting, almost, with a Nabis nude dangling on either side. Golgotha. I closed my eyes. Is that where he'll crucify you, Penny?

My face burned. I liked my painting. I did. I thought it was good. But not nearly good enough to hang among genuine Masters. The thought of it was humiliating. Degrading, in a way—like Phyrne before the Areopagus.

I don't get it. I don't. I sighed, clenching and unclenching my fists. I stepped back. Peter still sat in the other chamber, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. It's hard to describe how surreal it felt—being there with him, and Mr. Caine nowhere to be found. Someone told me once that after Hamlet leaves for England in Act four, he's still the heaviest presence on the stage. Everyone else—their whole existence revolves around him. Around the gaping black hole of his absence. It's a ghost of gravity, I guess. And languishing there alone with Peter, I felt a little like an Ophelia at Elsinore, snooping through the Black Prince's bedroom with Laertes. I gazed out the window behind his desk, out to black water and ice floes on the Saint Lawrence. 'There's rosemary, that's for remembrance,' I shuddered, 'I would give you some violets, but they withered, all.' The doors slid open again, and my heart leapt into my throat. Peter moved his muddy boots from the ottoman.