What My Flowers Said - Ch. 6-7 free porn video

Chapter 6

I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t believe it.

“Tabarnak,” Marie read my mind, “You don’t think he followed you, Penny?”

I shook my head, though admittedly it was one of the first dreadful thoughts to flash through my mind. Once reason caught up, however, it occurred to me that I might’ve just stumbled unwitting into the lion’s den; that this was place where he went to mass.

Is that why he wants the painting? I wondered. Didn’t seem the God-fearing type last night, did he? My thumbs tapped nervously on my sketchpad, and a chill moved down my spine. Did he... did he see me in there? Did he watch me kneel? My brow furrowed. Did I see him, and not know it? I stole another glimpse out the window, watching him trot down the steps.

No. Not possible. I swallowed a sigh. His cheekbones alone could cause traffic accidents. There was just no way I’d looked at those eyes again, and moved on.

He stalked across the boulevard, coming closer to the café. I kept deadly still, watching him through the window like a shark at an aquarium. His face was still unshaven, and in his dark topcoat he cut a sharp chiaroscuro against the white snow. Underneath, I could make out the broad contour of his shoulders, shifting rhythmically as he came closer and closer.

“Mon Dieu!” Marie’s breath fogged the glass, “I think he’s coming inside.”

I tensed, realizing too late she was right. In a panic, I slouched low in my seat, trying to hide behind my sketch pad, and flipped a spoon halfway across the table. The bell tolled above the door. A gust of cold air trailed him inside. I shivered, and shrank lower. My heart pounded. My toes curled. I really don’t know why he made me so nervous.

“Oh, Penny...” Marie whispered, folding her hands beneath her chin, “The photo does not do him justice.”

Sébastien nodded to her and abandoned us, sauntering off to the counter. I sat by, still cringing, too petrified to look.

“What do you think,” Marie nudged, “Should we wave him over?”

Don’t, I glared, don’t you dare.

“Best not to bother him,” I murmured.

“Mmm. Too late,” she shook her head, “Seems he’s spotted you.”

He what? I shot a frantic glance over the spiral edge of my sketchpad. He was standing at the counter, his back to both of us, talking idly to Sébastien. Marie snickered, and I clenched my fists, resisting the urge to pummel her.

“Désolée. I could not resist,” she nodded, a libidinous lilt in her voice, “But the view. Ooph! I think it is worth it, no?”

My cheeks reddened, and I rolled my eyes. Truth be told though, she was right. I bit my lip, ashamed of the way I was acting; of the power his presence had over me. Men like that—the ones who fill up a room with their silence, who can make you melt, make you burn, with little more than a side-glance and half-smile—I doubt they really know how dangerous they are. I doubt they realize how easy, how devastating it can be to break a stranger’s heart. Or maybe they do... I bit harder, remembering. Either way, hidden there behind my side bangs and my sketchbook, I was fairly certain I’d never met a man in my life who affected me quite so severely as Dmitri Caine.

My leer lingered longer than it should have, and soon caught Sébastien’s eye. He gave me a wink, and a telltale nod. Shit, I cursed myself for staring.

Mr. Caine didn’t miss a beat. He whirled, and I felt the color drain from my face as his eyes locked with mine.

“Miss Foster?”

His tone was cool, and just a little off-key. I think I’d caught him off guard.

“...Mr. Caine?” Reluctantly, I sat up, “I um, I didn’t see you come in.”

It was a pitiful lie, but he let it pass, stepping over to our table. A few snowflakes still dusted his coat, and his red scarf swayed like a priestly stole.

“Marie, this is—” I squirmed, turning to her for help, “This is the man I was telling you about.”

“No! In the flesh?” she played along, clapping a hand to her cheek.

He nodded, laying his hand on the back of my seat, “A friend of yours?”

I shrugged, undecided at the moment, “This is Marie.”

“A pleasure,” his eyes narrowed.

“Tout le plaisir est pour moi, Monsieur,” she out put her hand, and he shook it.

My face flushed darker, embarrassed for both of us. Whenever they met her, I was accustomed to men needing that awkward extra moment or two to undress Marie with their eyes. It actually startled me when his gaze glossed right over her, without so much as a second glance.

“I trust you made it home safely last night,” he turned to me, “No more accidents?”

“No, sir.”

‘Sir’? Are you kidding me, Penny? I pinched my knee. Try as I might to bury them, my Mother’s good southern manners had an annoying way of resurrecting themselves whenever I got nervous. He reached down, touching the top leaf of my sketchbook. A streak of black charcoal was smeared across its surface, demarcating the steeple, and the rigid weathercock at its tip.

“Already slaving away, I see,” he nodded, “Very good.”

My skin sizzled. It was absurd. Here he’d hardly even said ‘hello,’ and already I was slipping back under his spell.

“I was um, just getting started, really.”

He nodded again, “So it seems.”

His hand slid lower. Marie tossed her tresses, smiling wickedly ear-to-ear.

“Monsieur Caine, why don’t you join us?” She patted the empty seat beside her, “Penny was just about to take a break. Isn’t that right?”

Oh my God. My eyes widened. What the hell is she doing?

“S'il vous plaît,” she batted her lashes, dodging discreetly as I tried to kick her under the table, “I’m dying to hear about this piece you have her working so hard on.”

I’m going to kill her. I am. I’m going to murder her with a butter knife. My fist closed around the flatware, but Sébastien interceded before I could strike. He slipped in sidelong, and snatched his busybody sister by the wrist.

“Excusez-moi, sœurette,” he tugged, “May I please borrow you in the kitchen?”

“For what?” She gave a puzzled look.

“Just come. C’est une question de vie ou de mort.” He pulled her up, “If you will excuse us, Monsieur. I’ll have your coffee out in a moment.”

Et tu, Brute? I felt the knife twist in my side, realizing he had no intention of rescuing us. He’d only come to remove his meddling sister. Marie caught on, her mouth curling in a devious grin.

“Bien sûr, cher frère,” she stood, “Now don’t disappear on me.”

They made their escape, and I glared daggers after both of them. Mr. Caine raised a quizzical brow, but said nothing.

I’m sure they both felt they were doing me a favor, leaving me alone with him. They couldn’t have guessed I was still licking my wounds from last night; that any more one-on-one time with him might be enough to finish me off. I mouthed a silent plea for mercy to Marie just before she rounded the corner. She stifled a giggle, and answered me with a vulgar pantomime. I flushed crimson, cursing her in my head as the two of them vanished from view.

Once again, we were alone. Just like the night before, Mr. Caine was looming over me. Like the night before, I felt the heaviness, the gravity of his gaze, burning two blue holes through my body.

What? My jaw clenched. What the hell is he staring at?

“Forgive me,” he raised a finger to the tip of his nose, “you have cream on your face, Miss Foster.”

Oh, for the love of—

My cheeks seared as I buried my nose in a napkin. When I looked up again, his lip was stiff, suppressing a smile. Petite cochonne. That’s what he’s thinking, isn’t he? Honestly, I couldn’t blame him. If I hadn’t been completely mortified, I might’ve found it funny myself. The whole ordeal after all was ridiculous. Our running into each other out of the blue—it was farcical; the pipe dream of some opium-puffing Odettian Sphinx. I could almost smell the smoke rings. Her painted petals. His lingering smile. I bit my lip, gazing up at him. It was like I’d chased the white rabbit through a snowy door into Wonderland. I was meeting the Mad Hatter for tea.

“Go on,” he nodded, “While it’s still hot.”

I swallowed my pride, and took a sip—this one much daintier than my first. I set the mug down on my sketchbook, and sighed. His eyes didn’t leave me for a moment.

“Now then, if you really were taking a break,” he cocked his head, dragging out the chair opposite mine, “I think I will join you.”

“Please...” I breathed.

I’m not sure whether I was offering the seat, or just begging him to leave me be. Either way, he wasn’t waiting for permission. He sank down across from me, breaking his gaze only to fastidiously straighten the silverware.

“Your coffee, Monsieur,” Sébastien returned with another mug, “May I fetch you two something to eat as well? Some crêpes, perhaps? I make them special this morning.”

Again Sébastien winked at me, and I gave him a blistering glare. Sure. Keep playing Cupid. My fists balled. I’ll tell you right where to stick your next arrow.

“Are you hungry, Miss Foster?” Mr. Caine asked coolly.

“I’m fine,” I shook my head, but my stomach betrayed me with plaintive and audible growl.

His eyes flashed, and I dropped mine to my lap, more humiliated by the moment.

“She’ll take the crêpes,” he poured a splash of cream in his coffee.

Our traitorous waiter beamed, “Oui Monsieur. And yourself?”

He gave his order and dismissed Sébastien, who trotted back to the kitchen looking entirely too pleased with himself. Mr. Caine stirred his coffee with a steel spoon. I watched the cream swirl, feeling my insides churn in tandem.

Is this really happening? I swallowed. Do I really have to eat with him? He raised the steaming mug to his mouth. Those lips. A quiver slipped down my spine. That kiss. He sipped, and stirred again.

“I’ve never much cared for sugar,” he spoke idly, the grounds whispering round in an eddy, “Black treacle, if anything. Very bitter. Just a hint of sweetness,” he tapped his spoon. “But you. I’d imagine you’re the opposite.”

I squirmed nervously in my seat, “...Meaning?”

“Chocolat,” his eyes dropped to my decadent mocha, “Very sweet. A slight bite at the end,” he cocked his head, studying me, “Would you say you have a sweet tooth, Miss Foster?”

‘Sweet, sweet, sweet poison.’ I bit my lip, clutching my mug with both hands. Nerves, unfortunately, had done nothing to calm my empty stomach, and the smell of Sébastien’s crêpes sizzling in the kitchen was already making my mouth water. It was a cruel kind of torture, really. After the cream, I knew there wasn’t a snowflake’s chance in hell I could eat with him there, breathing right down my neck, and watching every little motion I made.

“Yes, sir...” I nodded absently, like one entranced, “I suppose I do.”

He leaned closer, stroking his jaw, “If I may, Miss Foster?”

My brow furrowed as he reached over the table with his spoon, and scooped away the frothy cleft where my lips had left their impression. He tasted.

“Sweet,” he smirked, “But subtle.” He set the empty spoon on his saucer, “...I could learn to crave it.”

My cheeks and chest burned. Sugar and spice. Pudding and pie.

“Sébastien has talent,” I shrugged, trying to look less alarmed than I felt.

“He’s not the only one,” he nodded to the bare wall at my back, “You know it pained me to see your paintings disappear. But just imagine my pleasure,” he paused, leveling his gaze, “when I found them there at the gallery. Mine for the taking,” his fingers drummed across the tabletop, “That is—until you went and stole them back from me.”

I dug my nails into my knee, and took another long, slow sip of my mocha. The mug was warm, sweating slightly. On the sketchpad beneath, it left a semi-circular ring over the steeple, hanging like an emaciated moon.

“You know you could’ve just told me it was your chapel,” I bit my lip, frowning, “It would’ve saved me a lot of heartache last night.”

His eyes narrowed, “How do you mean?”

“I was so flustered about why you wanted my oils,” I sighed, “When I saw you walking out today—I don’t know, it all sort of clicked.”

“I see,” he nodded, “Then, I’m afraid you’re still mistaken.”

I squinted at him, taken aback.

“Before this morning, Miss Foster, I hadn’t set foot in that church in eight years.”

The number hung in the air between us, a couple of osculating smoke rings.

I rubbed my eyes, more lost than ever, “But why today, then?”

He leered, running his hand languidly along the edge of his mug, “Because of you, I’d imagine.”

Come again?

“Mr. Caine,” my voice cracked, “You don’t really mean you were following me?”

He chuckled dryly. Apparently, my terror amused him.

“Would it flatter you if I said ‘yes’?”

I glared at him, and he had his answer.

“No, Miss Foster,” he shook his head, still grinning, “I hadn’t hoped to run into you. But I’m glad that I did.”

I crossed my arms, still wary, “So, what? You just woke up and thought, ‘Hey, I’m feeling kinda Catholic today’? Let’s head to the chapel?”

“Pas vraiment,” he chuckled again, and straightened his knife, “I think your oils must’ve stirred me. Blew the dust off a memory or two. But understand,” he leaned toward me, “I’m a godless man, Miss Foster. I worship beauty. Nothing else.”

Blasphéme, I bit my lip, Monsieur D’Albert. Does that make Evelyn his La Maupin?

“Beauty...” I breathed, “Is that why you collect art, Mr. Caine?”

His eyes flashed, “Among other things. Yes.”

“Well, I still don’t get it,” I glanced down, hooking my ankles around the legs of my chair, “My stuff isn’t beautiful. Far from it. And I think you know that.”

“A beautiful thing,” he growled, “is seldom perfect. Isn’t that what they say, Miss Foster?”

He looked me over again, lingering on the little on the rip in my jacket. The hairs on the nape of my neck stood on end. Like the night before, some deep, primeval part of my brain was whispering; warning me to get up, and run.

I shrugged it off, trying too hard to look calm, and aloof.

“...I think Phidias would disagree.”

“Fair enough,” he grinned, “Perhaps beauty is in the ‘phi’ of the beholder.”

I rolled my eyes, so high I was afraid they might get stuck. Still, I couldn’t help cracking a smile.

“That’s not as clever as you think.”

He touched his temple, “It doesn’t matter what I think,” his tone dropped, “It doesn’t matter why I went to mass. And it doesn’t matter why I bought your oils. I’m only a gaze, Miss Foster. A pair of eyes, devouring,” he raised his mug up to his lips. “What does matter—at least to me,” he sipped, “is what’s pushing you to paint,” his eyes narrowed. “You could’ve picked anything. Anything at all. So tell me,” he nodded, “why the Bon Secours?”

Why? I knitted my brow. The question caught me off guard. “I don’t know, I um,” I stammered, “I just like the looks of it, I guess. I mean, isn’t that what ‘beauty’s’ all about, Mr. Caine?”

“Seven times,” he shook his head, setting his coffee aside, “Seven. Smacks of wiederholungszwang, no?”

Gesundheit. I grimaced as he lifted his spoon again, and stirred. He had a strange, unsettling way of using his hands without looking at what he was doing. I think he probably could have sharpened a knife blindfolded. But for me, all this sustained eye contact was getting tricky. If I’d tried to follow suit, I probably would’ve wound up with a spilled mocha, and some third-degree burns in my lap.

“Well...” my foot tapped nervously under the table, “well, I um—”

“Stop that,” he quit stirring.

My brows arched, “Stop what?”

“Saying um,” he cocked his head, “You’re a sharp girl, Miss Foster. I can see your wheels spinning. Your complications—like a Swiss watch,” he leaned in again, even closer, “I want to hear you speak your mind. And I don’t want to hear you say ‘um’ every time I ask a question. Understood?”

The hell? I glared at him, and a cold sweat beaded on the back of my neck. I knew very well I had a few nervous tics. It was all part of the blushing, shuddering, stuttering Penelope Foster circus fire. But I was pretty sure it was nothing I could control. For real, my jaw clenched, does he just get off on humiliating me?

“I said, am I understood, Miss Foster?” He repeated, his words curving off into a growl.

I nodded stiffly, steaming, but too nervous to cross him.

“Now,” he pressed, “about the chapel...”

You’re kidding, right?

“Right...” I ground my molars together, “Well I—” carefully, I caught myself, and excised the um, “...I guess it reminds me of a church back home.”

I heard the words leave my lips, and honestly until that moment, I don’t think I’d ever consciously realized it before. Apart from its color—and of course the French Gothic embellishments, which it wore like a lurid bridal parure—the Bon-Secours was a near doppelgänger of the little seaside chapel where my oldest brother got married. I was barely thirteen at the time. It was my first time as a bridesmaid, instead of a Stabian flower girl.

Bouquet of violets. I sniffed. Face in my flowers. ‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance.’ Mademoiselle O... Wasn’t just your brother, was it?

“Back home,” Mr. Caine’s voice cut through the curtain, “The States?”

“In Nags Head,” I nodded, wiping my eyes, “We spent summers there. The rest of the year, it was Asheville.”

“And your family’s still there?”

“Most of them,” I shifted, “the east coast, anyways.”

“What brought you to Montreal?”

“School,” I answered, maybe a bit too quickly, “Just school. I was studying Art History at McGill.”

“Was?”

“Was,” I frowned, mon crisse, he asks a lot of questions, “I dropped out of my Masters program.”

“Why?”

“So I could sit in cafés, and paint pictures of chapels.”

He chuckled dryly again, flashing his wolfish, white teeth. I, meanwhile, was still perched on pins and needles.

“Touché,” he touched his lips, half-hiding his grin, “And did you have a favorite Master at school?” He nodded, “Botticelli? Or El Greco? Your oils reminded me a little of Les Nabis.”

“No,” My brow furrowed, “...I don’t think so. I can’t idolize an artist,” I sank my incisors into my lip, “I love the paintings. I pity the painters.”

His face darkened, and his wry smile seemed to fade.

“Fascinating,” he cocked his head, “Explain.”

“I don’t know,” I squinted, “it’s just—it seems like the better they were, the more they suffered. Like van Gogh. Kahlo. Even O’Keefe.”

“And yet,” his tone was stiff and solemn, “you still want to paint.”

“Touché,” I gave him back his lopsided smirk, “But I’m not that good. So I shouldn’t have to worry.”

“But you could be,” he bent closer, “You could be great. If you’re not afraid, Miss Foster,” His words chilled me head-to-toe, “Are you afraid to suffer for what you want?”

“...no,” I murmured, dropping my eyes to the floor, “I think I’m afraid not to.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment. He breathed a low, rustling sigh, and for probably the first time since sitting down with me, he shut his eyes. It was a strange and pregnant silence. What it was carrying though, I couldn’t begin to say.

You shouldn’t have said that, Penny. I bit my lip harder. Why did you say it?

“So you’re staying, then,” at last he spoke, his tone more barbed than before, “How? Your study permit will expire.”

“I’ve got a job,” my toe tapped, “If I keep my nose clean, I think I’ll be fine.”

“You’re staying illegally,” he nodded, “Is it in your nature to ignore the rules?”

I shrugged, and shrank lower, “Not really. I’m kind of a goody two-shoes, Mr. Caine.”

“A good Catholic girl?”

I rolled my eyes, “That’s an oxymoron.”

“Strict mother? A distant father?” He frowned, “He was the disciplinarian, I take it?”

I swallowed, but didn’t nod. I didn’t need to. Suppose next he’ll want to know if he spanked you, Penny. My toe tapped faster. I was trying to stay civil. I really was. But he wasn’t making it easy on me, and this line of inquiry was getting awfully intimate.

“He tried not spoil me, if that’s what you mean.”

“I don’t doubt it. But I have to ask,” his eyes narrowed, “How do you imagine your father would feel, Miss Foster, knowing his good little girl was living outside the law?”

Good little girl? I shook my head, simmering, “Why don’t you ask me again in a few weeks, Mr. Caine. I’ll be a proper delinquent by then.”

He let it alone. He must have sensed the venom in my voice. But still, he wasn’t done with me. He sipped his coffee, eyeing me coolly.

“So no longer a student,” he scratched his chin, undaunted, “Are you still living on campus?”

“I moved out,” I crossed my arms, guarding myself. “I run the register at a little bric-à-brac shop up in Saint-Michel.”

“Saint-Michel,” he set his cup down with a clack, “That can be a rough neighborhood.”

I shrugged, “Around the edges, maybe.”

“You live alone?”

My brow furrowed. Is that any of your damn business?

“I have a roommate,” I murmured.

“A man?”

My stomach dropped. It took me a moment to decide whether or not to lie.

“I’m staying with Marie,” I said softly, “I mean, at least until I get up on my feet.”

“I see,” he nodded, folding his hands on the tabletop, “And do you feel safe where you are now?”

I never feel safe, Mr. Caine. I shifted nervously.

“My friend grew up there. She’s never had any major problems.”

“She’s not the one who concerns me,” He leveled his gaze, “Are you telling me there’s no one who looks after you, Miss Foster?”

Seriously. I swallowed, has he never heard of ‘boundaries’ before? I shuddered, remembering how forward he’d been at the gallery; how he’d cornered me, and kissed my hand—how blunt he’d been about my scar. And I remembered Peter’s ominous warning about him. Should I be telling him all this? My throat tightened. Should I be talking to him at all?

“...I don’t see how it’s any of your business, Mr. Caine,” I breathed coolly, doing my best not to shrivel up under his stare, “but I have five older brothers. Not one of them thinks I need ‘looking after’ up here.”

For a second, he was silent. I winced, waiting for him to rebuke me again. But it never came. Instead he leaned back, letting me breathe, and rubbed the stubble along his jaw. Again, he was grinning—as if enmity amused him.

“You’re the youngest?”

I nodded cautiously.

“Only daughter?”

I nodded again.

“And your brothers,” he arched a brow, “Were they protective of you growing up?”

Good Lord. I almost snorted. Should I just ask if he wants a memoirs instead of a painting?

I thought back about all the bruises, grass stain, and skinned knees from being shoved around by my brothers; all the caterpillars they’d dropped in my hair while I was drawing, and that time they tied me to the crooked sycamore behind our house with my jump rope, and left me there, cussing and spitting til well after dusk. They were rough enough with me. But back then, I confess—I liked any kind of attention over being ignored. I needed it. Like water, or air. And it wasn’t until later, when I started ‘developing’—which for me, was awfully early—when they suddenly quit roughhousing with me, quit barging in on me in the bathroom to brush their teeth, and pretty much quit talking to me altogether, that I had to go looking for attention elsewhere.

Suppose that’s how you got yourself into this mess. I shivered, and tensed my arm. Did they protect you then, Penny?

“No,” I dropped my eyes, answering, “I, um... I can’t say that they were, Mr. Caine.”

He let my lapse slide, eyeing me coldly.

“There’s a rip in your shoulder, Miss Foster.”

I almost choked. For a moment, I thought must be reading my mind. But then he nodded to my coat, and I breathed a bit easier.

“Right,” my fingers quivered as I pinched the frayed edges shut, “Meant to sew that up.”

“See that you do,” his tone was forbidding, “You’re exposed enough as it is.”

I squinted, wondering what exactly he meant. But before I could think up some snide retort, Sébastien returned, sliding a steaming pair of plates between us. I tried to catch him beneath the table, desperate to bring someone in as a buffer, but he smiled and slipped past me, backing away with a silly and obsequious bow. I gritted my teeth, cursing him and his sister.

It didn’t help that the food, for all my fury and frustration, smelled amazing. Part of me wanted to grab a forkful, and dig in. But the asymmetry of our meals was too embarrassing. My platter, piled high with a trio of chocolate-laced crepes, each folded and stuffed with caramelized apples, looked downright gluttonous next to his two austere slices of rye, and pair of pale poached eggs. He shook the salt and lifted his fork. I left my eyes and hands in my lap.

“Eat,” his voice was soft, but strict, “I know you’re hungry.”

I shook my head, “I think I’ve lost my appetite, sir.”

“Have you lost your sweet tooth as well?” He pierced an egg with the tine of his fork. The gold yolk bled out across his plate. “Go on,” he nodded, “You’re not allowed to starve, Miss Foster,” he tore off a bit of toast, “Not on my watch.”

Wheels turning. Swiss watch. I sighed, surrendering, and impaled a little slice of apple. I took a nibble from and shut my eyes, humming to myself as the soft flesh rolled over my tongue. The taste was even sweeter than the smell.

He grinned at me wryly, “you approve?”

I gulped, my face flushing scarlet.

“Like I said...” I dropped my eyes again, “Sèbastien has talent.”

“Like I said,” he quaffed his coffee, “He’s not the only one.”

I squirmed, feeling the full weight of his gaze.

“Which reminds me,” he nodded, “I imagine you’ll be needing some space to paint. You can’t possibly have space in your friend’s apartment.”

“It’s not a problem,” I glanced away, “I um, I made some arrangements with Peter.”

His brow darkened, “The boy from last night?”

I nodded, not at all sure why I’d lied to him. And maybe it was just my imagination, but I could swear I saw a sneer flicker over his face.

“Just as well,” he shook his head, “One less thing for you to worry about.”

I shrugged, still shaken.

“...Or perhaps there’s still too much on your plate, Miss Foster?” He stabbed himself one of my apples.

More puns? A smirk crept over my lips. A Demon’s hobby.

He popped it in his mouth, wiggling his brows at me à la Groucho Marx. I giggled, in spite of myself. So cool and cunning Monsieur Caine can play the clown, as well?

“You have a very pretty laugh, Miss Foster,” he swallowed and sipped, “Like a bell.”

My cheeks reddened, and my toes curled beneath the table as he reached to steal another apple. It’s strange. Somehow with food in front of him he seemed less predatory, less lupine—like a shaggy black dog gnawing his bone, instead of the wolf he was before, stalking me through the dark. And though it scarcely stopped him from asking his questions, at least now it was starting to feel more like a conversation, and less like a Spanish tribunal.

He must’ve asked me about everything. I answered as best I could between bites, while Sébastien stealthily topped off our mugs. He wanted to know what I thought of Camille Claudel, and the caves at Lascaux; about books, and honeybees; which flowers were my favorite (I didn’t dare answer honestly), and the name of each pet I’d had growing up. Our two late dachshunds, ‘Bromide’ and ‘Box,’ won a smile, while ‘Wilbur’ the sugar glider made him chuckle aloud.

I settled, feeling warmer now, fuller, and a little less on edge. I remember thinking how easy it would be to get lost talking to him. And before I could remind myself to blink, a whole hour and a half had slipped by.

Our plates laid between us, cold and half-cleaned. I tucked a few strands of hair behind my ear. I wondered. Perhaps I had him all wrong from the start. Perhaps he wasn’t too nosy, too pushy, too imperious. Maybe he’s just curious, Penny. Maybe you’re just too touchy about the questions you can’t answer. And there’s an awful lot of those, aren’t there? Still, I couldn’t help noticing that each time I tried to reciprocate—to ask him something about himself—his answers seemed even more guarded and evasive than mine.

He reached over again, plucking a last little morsel from my plate.

“You know I once knew a girl who was deathly allergic to apples,” he held his fork up, rolling it over in the light.

‘Plena mujer. Manzana carnal.’ I bit my lip. She’d make a fine wife for Adam.

“Do you have any allergies, Miss Foster?”

“Penicillin,” I gave a lopsided shrug. Again, his interest in Penny Foster minutia seemed to know no bounds, “And nickel, sort of. I just get hives.”

He nodded, “Ever been hospitalized?”

“Once,” I glanced away, “...Not for allergies.”

He eyed me again, his gaze drifting down to my shoulder, and the gaping rip in its seam. I squirmed and crossed my arms, growing nervous again as he stared.

Seriously, I stewed, how could any of this possibly interest him? Why the hell is he wasting his time with you, Penny?

All at once, my nerves were on the verge of boiling over again. My foot tapped. My eyes darted—looking at anything, anywhere but into his. By sheer chance they landed on the newspaper, the corner of which was still peeking from beneath my sketchbook. I clenched my teeth and slid it out, exposing the photo of him and Evelyn X.

“That’s you,” I breathed, pointing.

He nodded but said nothing, and sank his teeth into the apple.

“Her...” I tapped, pressing harder, “How do you know her?”

He glared down, “Evie?”

I flushed crimson, “I saw you walking together last night,” I dropped my eyes, “You two. Are you close?”

He set down his knife and slid back.

“Is there a reason you want to know?”

My brow furrowed, “Is there a reason you don’t want to answer?”

He glared back a moment, and sighed.

“We were close, once. Yes,” his eyes narrowed, as if peering straight through the photo, then raised his piercing gaze back to me. “I was married to her, Miss Foster.”

I felt my throat tighten, and a half dozen knots winding tight in my stomach.

“I see,” I murmured, “Then, the ‘X’ in her name?”

“After Gautreau,” he shook his head, “For publicity. It’s nothing to do with us.”

‘Us...’ The knots wound tighter.

“But allow me to be clear about something,” he pushed the paper aside, reading my mind again, “My relationship with Evelyn—if you can call it that,” his eyes blazed, “these days, it’s no different from any other artist who interests me,” he nodded darkly, “Yourself included, Miss Foster.”

No different from you and your ex-wife?

I frowned, “Forgive me. I find that very hard to believe.”

“Be that as it may...” he bent closer, “it’s true. I do what I can to support her work. Her creativity. I take pleasure, on occasion, in her company,” he cocked his head, “I should like to do the same with you.”

I dropped my eyes; my jaw locked tight as a vise.

“But, why?”

His brow creased, but he made no answer.

“Honestly,” I rubbed my eyes, coming at last to the end of my rope, “Why do you want me to paint for you? Why not her? Why not anybody? I mean, I’m—I’m nobody. I’m nothing. I’m—"

“I told you once,” he cut me off, “Why has nothing to do with it,” his tone was strict. “Now I’ve given you a task, Miss Foster. You’ll either complete it to my satisfaction, or you won’t. The rest is rhetoric.”

I shivered. The frost on his breath dropped my blood ten degrees. But I shook it off. I had to. I knew if I didn’t push now, I’d probably never get another chance at knowing.

“I’m sorry. It’s just...” my voice felt thin, and frail, “You know, you being here, and asking me all these questions,” I stammered, “I guess I just thought—"

“Please,” he silenced me, raising his hand, “I didn’t mean to mislead you,” his eyes flashed, “Suffice to say I find you intensely interesting, Miss Foster. And I prefer to know the people with whom I conduct my business.”

I stared back at him blankly.

“...Business?”

“Do you believe you’re a bad investment, Penelope?” He nodded, leveling his gaze, “I’m not in the habit of making bad investments.”

I felt a venomous sting in my ears.

“Penny,” I corrected him, and his lips curled into a wry and roguish grin.

“Penny...” he agreed, “I have a suspicion. I think you have a very precious, natural talent, Penny. And what I want from you—what I really want,” he lowered his voice, “is to find out if I’m right.”

I shut my eyes, blushing even deeper than before. Back then, I thought it was just flattery. I hadn’t the slightest inkling of what was really looking for—of what was really going on in his head.

“Well, um, thanks... I guess,” I breathed.

His hackles rose.

“I mean, thank you,” I caught myself, “Mr. Caine.”

He nodded, draining his mug for the second time. A text message flashed on his phone. ‘SOS,’ I read. He glanced down and cleared it, then inspected his watch.

Swiss. I bit my lip, lingering on its soft leather strap. I can see your wheels spinning, Penny.

“...Somewhere to be?” I murmured.

He scowled, slipping an excessive sum onto the table, and nodded off to one side.

“I’m afraid so,” he shifted, “Anyways, I’ve kept you from your work long enough.”

He rose up, glaring down at me darkly.

“Six days, Penny. Do you have what you need?”

I shrugged, taken aback by his sudden exit. I wondered what the message might’ve meant. I wondered—I wondered who might’ve sent it.

“Yes, sir,” I breathed, “I think I do.”

“Good girl,” he set his hand on my shoulder, “Get to.”

A warm throb moved through me, emanating from beneath his palm. Another smirk flickered over his face, more fleeting than the last. Strange to say, I know, but it was almost bittersweet to see him go. The rationalist in me was relieved to escape his scrutiny. But the masochist—she could’ve talked to him all day and night, if only to listen to his voice a little longer.

He swung his heavy coat over his shoulders, stalking back toward the door. There was a creak of hinges, a bell’s knell, a gust of cold air, and he was gone. The spell was broken.

I breathed out, feeling winded, and puffed out my cheeks. I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath. His empty mug sat on the table, a long black stripe staining its exterior. My teeth clenched. It’s hard to explain, but it felt as if at any moment, he might to return to reclaim it; to measure my progress, and chastise me if it didn’t please him. It was like he was still there with me. Watching. Waiting. Biding his time.

‘I’m just a gaze, Miss Foster. A pair of eyes, devouring.’

I shivered, and snatched up my charcoal, fully intending to sketch. But then I spotted something strange. There on the newspaper photo—somehow without my even noticing—he’d drawn in two devil horns on his head, and a little grey halo over Evelyn. I shook my head, wondering how and when he’d done it—and why. I squinted. Scribbled neatly next to the photo, he’d left a cryptic quotation in dusty black cursive.

‘Comme une saison en enfer, Penny. J’ai assis la Beauté sur mes genoux... Je l’ai injuriée.’

I read, and reread, hoping if I stared long enough, the letters might rearrange themselves into a message that made some sort of sense. The words, at least, I knew vaguely. It’s Baudelaire, isn’t it? Or maybe Verlaine? But what he meant by them, why he’d left them for me, was a mystery.

My head was swimming. Whatever dim hope I’d had that seeing him again could help clear the air, could bring the previous evening into focus, had shattered. I didn’t have any more answers. Instead, he’d left me with nothing but a thousand new questions, each more splintered and jagged than the last.

No. It’s Rimbaud. Finally it came back to me. ‘Je est un autre,’I gulped, ‘Je me suis enfui.’

I flipped the paper over, not wanting Marie or Sébastien to see as they hurried back to the table, foaming at the mouth for details. On the back page was a grim headline about some young girl they’d fished from the river. Someone who jumped from the Jacques Cartier bridge. I shuddered, and an icy chill moved through my chest. ‘Thirty-two feet per second per second.’ I kept sketching, smearing swathes of black dust over the page, as the giddy siblings reclaimed their seats.

‘Jadis.’ That’s how it starts, isn’t it? Did Icarus drown?

Chapter 7

My thighs were on fire. Sweat glistened on my brow, and dripped its way down the small of my back. My breath was heavy, almost panting.

Five more. I winced. You can take it, Penny.

It wasn’t often that I tagged along with Marie in her workouts. Compared to my usual light cardio and crunches, the pace she kept up was downright manic. Beside me, I could see her long, taut torso, bending gracefully in a leg press that would have snapped my flyweight frame in two. My knees began to quiver, and I bit my lip, counting down the last three reps aloud.

I went along that night mostly because I wanted to be wiped out. I’d become accustomed the last few years to living in varied degrees of uncertainty. But the last two days were another animal entirely. I didn’t want to think about it anymore. I didn’t want to worry. All I wanted to do was to run my body ragged, until it collapsed in deep and dreamless sleep. Of course, I’d also come along because a Sunday ration of chocolate crepes and a whipped cream-covered mocha was enough to guilt anyone into hitting the gym.

With a whimper I hit my breaking point, and slid myself off the draconian contraption. Marie was still going strong, her body pulsating like a piston. I shook my head, marveling as I mounted a treadmill near the back. I wasn’t the only one taking notice. A little gaggle of guys near the free weights had paused, craning their necks to ogle and nudge each other with their elbows. ‘Et il y a du monde au balcon, no?’ I blushed and slipped in my earbuds, hoping to drown out their ugly innuendos.

I won’t say we were asking for it. We weren’t. At all. But much as I hate to admit it, Mr. Caine’s concerns about Saint-Michel weren’t entirely unfounded. The clientele here skewed heavily male, most with more biceps than brains. It was basically an old boxing gym, with just a few mismatched machines thrown in along one side of the ring. Marie liked it because it was close by, and because they stayed open past midnight. I liked it because it was dirt cheap. Just once, and only once, I’d let her seduce me into sparring with her, and just about got my molars knocked out. For the most part though, both of us just kept to the periphery, carefully minding our own business. And I guess apart from the stares and occasional catcalls, we’d never yet had any serious issues.

A blue bubble popped up as I skimmed down my playlist. Three missed calls and three voicemails, every one of them from my mother. My brow furrowed. Starting early this year, isn’t she? I tapped ‘ignore’, and started walking.

I typically talked to her about twice a month, and it was same conversation every time. She’d ramble on for ten or twenty minutes about the weather down in Nags Head, and pass along some stale news about neighbors whose names I scarcely recognized. So-and-so was moving, divorcing, married again, or dead. Then came the sigh, and the contemptuous question.

‘Penelope, wouldn’t it be nice to have the whole family home this year?

The question cropped up every holiday, and in her desperation, ‘holiday’ had come to encompass such second-rate affairs as the Fourth of July, Beggar’s Night, and probably Boxing Day with the way things were headed. Usually I could parry with some half-baked excuse about buckling down in the library for midterms. If she ever got wise about why I had another final exam every six weeks, I figured I could just blame it on the metric system. It would have worked on me.

Don’t get me wrong. I felt plenty guilty, even without her dumping fuel on the fire. I think it broke her heart a little that first year I didn’t come home for Christmas. The way I heard it later, she spent the whole morning expecting me to show up out of the blue, with an apology and an over-stuffed suitcase, like some cloying bit of Rockwell Americana. This past year she’d been a bit more crafty, putting together a sort of telethon three or four weeks beforehand. In a twenty-four-hour period, I got calls from every last one of my brothers, each dutifully delivering to me their share of her passive-aggressive grief. Even then, it wasn’t too difficult to deflect them. There was a reason, after all, they’d nicknamed their stubborn kid sister ‘the immovable object.’

Least convincing of all was the call from my father. His appeal lacked heart, I think, not because he didn’t care about me being away, but because he understood better than any that I wasn’t ready to come back. Even before I left, Doctor Foster was best at loving from a distance. Whenever we spoke now, it was always under the pretext of telling me about some new women’s health study he’d read, or to ask how my arm was doing.

At that point, he was still the only one back home who knew I’d dropped out. I told him because I knew he wouldn’t ask any questions. All he did was offer some money to help me get by. I told him ‘no,’ and made him swear not to tell Mom. Most of the family already thought I was crazy for coming up here in the first place. They thought that I’d cracked, or that I was just chasing some childish dream. No one understood why I was running away.

No. I shut my eyes. One would’ve known.

A dark blue shadow fell over me. I heard a rumble of a thunder, a man’s snarl and squall—distant at first, as if echoing down a tunnel—then roaring like an icy gale. A crunch of timbers, and shattering glass. I smelled the salt spray. Felt it sting, and choke. I smelled the smoke. Felt the fire. And something—something burning. Burning. And black...

I pressed a red arrow on the treadmill, and the speed increased.

I ran, counting out my steps like the stations of the cross. It’s funny, in a way. Before, numbers never really were my forte. But there were times now when I found it queerly comforting to solve for X.

One and a half strides per second. Ninety-two beats per minute. Twenty-six breaths. Eleven minutes. Thirty-two feet per second per second. Six hundred sixty-six steps—double that. Two hundred eighty-six breaths. How many heartbeats? How hard is your heart...?

I took my pulse, and felt it racing out of control. I couldn’t keep up. And with a flash of horror, I saw my body’s internal clock spinning like the blade of a propeller, hurdling me forward through time.

One week, I panted. Six days. Some five hundred twenty-thousand seconds... It’s not enough. Not nearly, Penny. I wiped the sweat from my brow. If he’d just given me twice that. Another day, even. Four or five weeks to really do right. But, by then... I pressed the arrow again, and picked up the pace.

On top of everything, Mr. Caine’s indictment of my upcoming immigration status had lingered with me a lot longer than I expected, like a low-burning flame in the pit of my stomach. My study permit, as best I knew, was set to expire in December, and though up to now the idea of leaving had seemed too absurd to even consider, ever since he mentioned it, I couldn’t get the specter out of my head. He was right, after all. However much I hated to admit it, however much I wished to think otherwise, I really didn’t know what would happen to me. I was wading out into uncharted waters. If I wasn’t careful, a rip current might just sweep me out to sea.

There was one thing, however, of which I was absolutely certain. I wouldn’t go home. I couldn’t. I’d drown first. I’d freeze to death, camping out in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I’d starve myself in the wilderness, like Agrippina in exile.

Marie moved over to an elliptical, and began bounding in place like a whitetail deer. Two men by the heavy bag turned their heads, and I dropped down to a steady jog.

For the next six days at least, the only plan I could come up with was to just ignore everything, and paint. That’s it, I told myself, just do the damn thing. Who cares why? Who the cares what the hell he’s really thinking?

I did. I frowned. I couldn’t not care. And with a green twinge of jealousy, I thought again of dark and adorable Evelyn X on his arm. I remembered the swirling strokes of red; the intoxicating erotica of her canvas. And he was married to her. I panted. That’s the kind of talent he’s used to. My jaw clenched. I wondered. I wondered what would happen if I failed him—if I just couldn’t give him what he wanted.

Stop. I bit deeper. Just stop.

I was panting hard at the end of my cool down. Marie was still going strong. A man with a crew cut and arms the size of Virginia hams had edged in next to her, flirting clumsily and ‘correcting’ her form. I heard her giggle as she squeezed his bicep. My eyes rolled. I remember her telling me once that men were easy to understand, and even easier to control. All you had to do was remember that they’re swine, and never ask them to be anything else. I smirked, dabbing my temples with a towel. She was worse than Circe sometimes.

Rather than wait for her to finish toying around with him, I sauntered off alone to the locker room, tossing the towel over my shoulders. I peeled off my shorts and sports bra, stepping lightly into the white-tiled shower. The curtain snapped shut. The faucet squealed. Hot steam filled the stall. My muscles, already sore from the workout, seemed to melt away beneath the water. My body wasn’t used to being pushed so hard—nor was my head, for that matter.

I lathered up and rinsed off. I turned around slowly, letting the lacy suds slip through my hair, over my shoulders, and down along my tingling spine. The shower pulsed against my thighs. I sighed, suppressing a rosy tingle as the swollen droplets gathered up, dangling and dripping from my chest. The steam grew dense. It stung my eyes and filled my throat. Once or twice, I almost choked. Slowly though, very slowly, it seduced me. I measured out my breaths between the billows, recalling with a blush Correggio’s Io, until the heat had turned my whole body seashell pink.

Io, Leda, Ganymede, Danaë. Never ended well for them, did it?

I cut the faucet and stood dripping while the steam around me cleared. The water had warmed me to the bone. I wasn’t shivering anymore. I wasn’t even cold. My bare feet slapped the wet ceramic. I found my towel and buffed myself dry, slipping into my leggings and a long lace tunic. I wrung out my hair again, and wiggled my feet back into my sneakers. In the mirror, I double-checked to make sure it wasn’t too obvious I’d opted out of my bra, and emerged feeling clean, refreshed, with as clear a head as I’d had in months.

At the edge of the ring, another muscular man with a melee of tattoos leaned his arms on the ropes, and whistled. I glanced back, figuring Marie must’ve stepped out behind me, her sexy ringlet tresses still dripping, like Venus Anadyomene.

But there was no one there. I blushed. He was whistling at me.

Locking my eyes on the ground, I walked by briskly, the damp soles of my shoes snapping on the mats, and stopped to wait for Marie near the door. I opened my bag up and found my phone. Still glowing, I stared at the screen a moment, then scrolled down, and dialed. It rang three or four times. My toe tapped anxiously.

“Hullo, Penny Foster,” Peter’s voice answered brightly.

“Hey Peter,” I smiled. He was so easy to talk to, “I um, I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to thank you for last night,” I bit my lip, “I didn’t think I would—but I actually had a really nice time.”

“Hey, no problem. I had fun too,” he said, “So’d you murder Marie when you got home? You seemed pretty steamed there for a while.”

“No,” I flushed, “I um, I took your advice.”

“Well, glad you two didn’t wind up in fisticuffs. I wouldn’t like your chances there.”

I smirked, “Meaning?”

“Just sayin’. You’re pocket-sized, Pens. And she’s got those crazy dancer legs. She’d probably kick your head off.”

I laughed, “Fair enough.”

There was a pause, and I bit harder.

“So um, here’s the thing. Remember you said I should come see your studio?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I... I kind of need to start that painting soon. The one Mr. Caine commissioned. And I’ve got like no room to do it.”

“Mmm. Go on.”

My brow furrowed. He didn’t sound enthused. Frankly, I didn’t blame him.

“Anyways, I was just wondering if maybe you’d let me work on it over there? I mean, after I take a look at that piece of yours, of course. And I could pay you,” I winced, “a little.”

The line went silent.

“Please?” I squeaked.

“I’m screwing with you, Pens,” he said at last, “Of course you can paint here. And you can look at my piece anytime you like.”

I blushed scarlet, and smiled.

“And for Christ’s sake, don’t worry about the money. I’ve got more room here than I know what to do with. When did you have in mind?”

I breathed deep, wincing again,

“Tomorrow, maybe?”

“Oh. Well, sure. Why not?” He sounded surprised, “Tomorrow. No problem. You’re not messing around, eh? Come by when you finish up at work, and I’ll give you the grand tour. Say six-ish?”

“Six o’clock,” I nodded, “Yes, sir.”

“Cool. Alright, Pens. See you then.”

“Bye, Peter,” I hung up.

My heart was in my throat. I was beaming so wide my cheeks were sore. It was hard to believe it. Tomorrow, finally, I was going to get started. My first one. My first real painting. I was half-tempted to pinch myself. I’d been putting it off for so long. But no more. My little sketch at the café had come out brilliantly, and now my head was flooding with ideas—with shifting shapes and shadows, with stacked layers and swirling brushstrokes, all in variegated shades of red. Somewhere in the back of my mind, though, I was wondering about Peter’s project, too. He’s good, I thought. Really good. What in the world could he want me to help him with?

I spotted Marie heading my way, the man with hams-for-arms trailing her like a puppy. He was carrying her bag for her.

“Been waiting long?” she asked, snatching it back from him, and waving goodbye.

I smirked, and shuffled my feet, “Long enough.”