CH 30
Having arrived forty-five minutes early to the cafe, I was able to consume three cups of coffee before Abigail arrived.
Given that I was fairly certain my bloodstream was ninety percent coffee and ten percent blood, I felt no more jittery than usual while I sat alone at a table inside and watched people pass by, some hurrying to their destinations while others leisurely strolled along.
I would have drank an entire pot, but the waiter making his rounds was more preoccupied with a lady sitting across from me than my empty cup, and with nothing else to do, I made a mental list of what I could say to Abigail or how to respond to her words.
Over and over I played conversations in my head, adjusting my replies, retracting words for ones that felt more suitable.
For heaven's sake, Phelan, talk like a regular person, Hugo had suggested. No making up lists or scripts.
That seemed utterly impossible now that I felt the need to come up with something worthwhile to discuss. In the past, the conversations between myself and Abigail always started with her preference of buttons or how she liked the cut of the trousers I brought in to be mended as that was the reason for my visits to her shop.
And then, in the midst of a suggestion, she would bump into her table overflowing with bolts of fabric and spools of thread and they would tumble to the floor, fabric unfurling into a sea of solids and patterns, thread disappearing beneath the counter.
We'd both be on our hands and knees collecting everything scattered about while also locating lost tickets and forgotten change that had found its way beneath the counter.
Abigail would say how she needed to be more organized, but couldn't bring herself to spend a day separating and sorting while I began placing the fabrics into sections by colors, smaller bolts in front of larger ones, nodding in agreement.
Everything would finally be back on the table, separated neatly, with Abigail chattering about the ducks in the park and a little turtle sunning itself on a larger turtle.
I would have no idea how we went from patterns and colors to ducks and turtles, but somehow she made seamless transitions–a tailoress of both fabric and stories.
"Coffee, Monsieur Kimmer?" a feminine voice offered.
"Mona," I said before glancing up. I recognized the young woman's voice immediately as one of my former and favorite students. "You know you don't need to call me Monsieur Kimmer."
"Yes, but it keeps me from accidentally calling you 'Papa'," Mona said as she filled my cup to the brim.
Mona was an extraordinarily sweet-natured aspiring artist with long, black curls of hair and dark eyes. She had her father's coffee-colored complexion mixed with her mother's fairer skin, a blend as perfect as paints on the pallete.
Given her more exotic features, however, many uncouth students stared at her in the halls and attempted to sneak up behind her in order to touch her hair.
After a full week of watching a handful of what should have been considered her peers deliberately make her mornings a living hell, I began sitting outside of my studio, coffee in hand, watching the procession of students on their way to class.
My thoughts were naturally drawn to my brother, whose face I knew would have garnered far more attention than Mona's textured hair. I often wondered if Erik had difficulty navigating life as someone who looked different than others, if he was forced to keep his face covered to avoid hardships when it came to personal dealings. Realistically I was aware that he had most likely dealt with more than one miserably uncouth individual.
Many times I had witnessed first-hand how vile people could be toward one another. Younger men who kicked the crutch out from beneath an older gentleman in a threadbare suit as he hobbled down the street. So-called ladies speaking ill of another behind her back. The unfortunate freaks of the world placed on display for a myriad odd or unusual characteristics; women with beards, twins conjoined at the chest, adults the size of toddlers.
I had no tolerance for students at the university who decided to be cruel toward someone who came into my studio attempting to muster the courage to sit with her head high simply because she not identical to them.
Within three days I recommended sixteen people for suspension, all of which were denied, but by the end of the week the fascination with Mona's mixed heritage subsided and she was able to walk the halls without being grabbed.
The following Monday, when Mona approached my desk for a question regarding her technique, she smiled, thanked me and called me 'Papa'.
The look of mortification on her visage was second only to how swiftly she dashed from the studio, leaving the rest of her classmates alarmed by her swift departure.
"Mona, I will have you know I've lost count of how many times I've been called Father, Papa or even Uncle so far this year. I think the first month it was at least a dozen times," I replied, taking a careful sip of freshly brewed coffee, the very best Paris had to offer. It was stronger than usual, the flavor far more robust than the first three cups. "It must mean I've aged considerably since I started teaching, which I blame on the very students who liken me to their parents."
Mona slid into the seat across from me. "I don't start for ten minutes," she said, grinning back at me. "You don't mind if I sit, do you?"
"Yes," I dryly said. "I definitely prefer you standing over me."
She wrinkled her nose. "I miss your class. And in particular, I miss you."
"Heaven knows why you'd miss me."
Mona smiled warmly. "Your personality, of course. You're so charming."
"Indeed." I looked from her to the mural on the cafe wall and sipped my coffee. "We're meeting in the park later this morning. You're more than welcome to join us. Perhaps I'll have you give your expertise now that you are a famous artist and my eighteen freshman can have a taste of your delightful personality."
She followed my gaze and smiled proudly at the mural she had painted the previous year before graduation. It was a depiction of a celebration around a large table with coffee and cakes being served to the guests.
"This took me weeks to complete with not nearly enough compensation."
"Welcome to the life of an artist."
"I heard you are doing quite well."
I shrugged and took another sip. "A few paintings on display. Nothing extraordinary."
"You're being modest. Your paintings are on display at Stefan's. That is the gallery."
Mona refilled the cup of coffee I hadn't realized I'd nearly finished and I sat back, deciding I should probably pace myself.
"I prefer the term 'realistic'."
"You're an artist. What use do you have for being realistic?"
"I'm an art professor. Someone has to be down-to-earth or the lot of you would simply float away beyond the clouds."
Mona inhaled. "I went to the gallery last night and saw many people discussing your paintings. Professor Kimmer, I will have you know you're being pessimistic and I don't care for it one bit."
"Indeed, Mademoiselle. Forgive me."
She leaned forward. "Before the show closes, you'll have every single painting hanging in some wealthy family's home, such was the tremendous buzz around your work."
My heart skipped a beat. I couldn't decide if I wanted to know what was being said about my art or if it was best to remain a mystery. "As far as I know, nothing has sold yet."
"It's been five days."
"The show is only open for two weeks. Do you know what percentage that is?"
Mona rolled her eyes. "You're so impatient," she said, looking past me. "Did you see where I put you into the mural?"
I furrowed my brow. "I did not. Where?"
"I'm not going to tell you."
After several long moments of searching for my likeness, I spotted a well-loved toy donkey clutched in a child's hands with my head in profile, complete with donkey ears and tongue lolling out.
"Clever," I said. "It's the only thing I will see from now on when I walk in here for my cup of coffee."
"You aren't offended, are you?" she fretted.
"My only complaint is I'm not the focal point of your work."
Mona chuckled. "The next mural you will be front and center. More coffee?"
"My heart will explode if I have another cup," I said, placing my hand over the top before she refilled my mug. "What in the world is in this? Sugar? I certainly hope it isn't cocaine."
The concoction didn't taste the least bit sweet, but I could barely feel my tongue while my heart had started to race, both of which were becoming quite alarming.
"Espresso," she answered proudly. "This is my personal carafe for the day, two parts coffee, one part espresso. I add milk and sugar to mine, but this is freshly brewed and black as can be. Do you like it?"
It wasn't so much a matter of like or dislike as far as the flavor, but more a concern for how the higher amount of caffeine issued an immediately noticeable punch to my insides. The potency made it feel like my nerves began to vibrate with the power of an earthquake fueling the sensation.
"It's good," I answered, unwilling to hurt her feelings.
"I never really drank coffee until your class," she said.
"You certainly built swift tolerance," I said under my breath.
Mona stood and took the carafe with her. "Ask for Mona's blend anytime you're in here, Monsieur…Phe…" She shook her head. "No, I can't be informal, I'm afraid, Monsieur Kimmer. I'll be around again in a few minutes if you change your mind."
The moment Mona turned to walk away, Abigail entered the cafe and looked around. She was dressed in dark green, a color that suited her complexion and fair hair. With a large paper bag hugged to her chest, she offered an insincere smile once she spotted me.
"Good morning," I said, pulling the chair out for her. It was already eight-thirty. Thankfully I had instructed my students that our unofficial class would start at ten, giving me well over an hour to spend with Abigail as I assumed she would be running late.
"The coat," she said, apparently deciding against pleasantries. She handed me the bag and looked toward the door.
"Are you leaving?" I asked. Perhaps I would be in the park awaiting my class by eight forty-five, miserably battling the espresso coursing through my veins.
"Do you want me to leave?" Abigail asked.
"No, of course not, it's more that you looked toward the door and I thought you had somewhere else to be."
The conversation was already off to a terrible start, and I wasn't certain if the caffeine or Abigail's presence left me trembling and uncertain as never before.
For a long moment neither of us spoke, which made everything worse by the second. She looked past me at the mural and I sat staring at the rim of my nearly empty cup, mind struggling to recall a single topic I wished to discuss as nothing seemed appropriate.
"Abigail–" I started to say.
"I don't want to continue," Abigail said suddenly, her eyes still focused on the mural. "In the way that you are accustomed to visiting my shop."
I gripped my coffee cup in both hands. I hadn't expected her to lead with breaking off our physical relationship, but I assumed it would be part of the morning and had braced myself for the news.
"I understand," I said with a nod of my head.
"And now I would like to speak without interruption."
My stomach tightened. Part of me was relieved that Abigail didn't immediately begin asking a series of questions I couldn't appropriately answer while another part of me dreaded a tirade where I sat across from her and merely listened while she unleashed a list of grievances.
"Of course," I replied. "I will listen to whatever you wish to say."
Abigail took a long, shuddering breath. "I knew I wasn't the only one," she said quietly. "The only woman you saw, that you…entertained." She glanced at me, lips held in a frown, and swallowed. "I told myself I didn't care that there were others. You had your life, I had mine and they weren't meant to be entwined exclusively." She laced her fingers together, then immediately pulled them apart and balled them into fists.
"It didn't matter what happened in between the moments you stopped by. I wasn't yours and you were not mine. That isn't to say I didn't look forward to you bringing shirts and trousers and the like, and of course when you stayed, I enjoyed that as well, perhaps more frequently than I should have allowed," she rambled, her cheeks blushing.
"It was fine until I asked you to supper." She looked at me suddenly, her bottom lip quivering. "And you said no practically before the words left my lips."
"Abigail," I whispered.
Her posture sagged and I thought she looked like a wilted flower on an oppressively hot afternoon, desperate for cool water. She held up her right hand, reminding me I had promised to allow her a moment to speak.
"You were in my bed, Phelan, with your arms around me, and you made it perfectly clear that I was simply another woman, a person you could have, but that could never possibly have you in any way that is meaningful," she said, her voice trembling. "Your rejection hurt. It hurt worse than I anticipated. I felt like a dog begging for scraps, like some needy little girl vying for the attention of a boy she fancied who would never give her the time of day. I regret inviting you into a deeper part of my life, for…for teetering off the edge of lust and delving into a forbidden and treacherous feeling of…I don't know what to call it. I shall not say I am or was in love with you, but it was something. Something that I now realize you never felt toward me."
My heart stuttered, lips parting despite no words present. I did feel something toward her, something indescribable. Familiarity, perhaps, a sort of pleasant routine that brought comfort. It was far too guarded to be considered love, I knew.
"I think it would be for the best if we no longer see each other professionally or privately," she blurted out. "That is all I wish to say to you."
I sat blankly across from her, resisting the urge to down the rest of my coffee mixed with espresso simply because I could not bear to focus solely on her words and the finality of the situation.
"Do you have anything to say?" Abigail asked impatiently. She leaned forward, and I knew she would stand and leave if I shook my head, effectively ending whatever superficial relationship had existed between us.
I stared at her briefly, at the moss green eyes that creased when she laughed and smiled. Repeatedly she had expressed concern for the inevitable crow's feet that would start to creep up once she turned forty. A wrinkly old hag, she would say, as if an imperfect face could diminish her true beauty.
"I do," I said quietly.
Abigail folded her hands and nodded. "Go on with it."
"May I look at the coat first?" I asked.
"If that's what you want," she impatiently answered.
I opened the bag and pulled out Ink's coat. "Is this the same fabric?" I asked.
"Close, but no. I didn't have the exact pattern on hand. I was able to salvage the buttons and had the same lining in stock."
"It's thicker too," I mentioned. "Nicer than the original, which I didn't think was possible."
Abigail didn't reply, and as I examined the buttons, I didn't expect her to continue the conversation of pleasantries and compliments. At last I returned the coat to the bag and cleared my throat.
"Despite what you may think, I am fond of you," I said, looking across the table at her. For a long moment I waited for her to lift her gaze and meet my eye, but she stared at a knot in the wood.
"Abigail–" I whispered, attempting to garner her full attention.
"Fond." Abigail scoffed, turning her head to the side. I watched her swallow, her eyes blinking away the tears I hadn't expected her to shed. "Fond indeed."
I'd never seen Abigail truly angry, I realized. Frustrated by her children and demands of customers, yes, but most of the moments when I walked into her shop, she smiled at me and laughed heartily. The tears, I assumed, were an unbidden reaction of her growing irritation.
I shook my head and pressed my thumb into my left forearm until the burning sensation became unbearable and I grimaced. I thought of Alak seated on my chest, his fingers digging into the burn on my arm, how I'd yelped in agony and he hadn't stopped. The pain had not ended. I wasn't sure it ever would subside.
"I am being honest."
Abigail pursed her lip and shook her head.
"You may say whatever you wish," I told her. "If you disagree–"
"I disagree," she said sharply. "You are not fond of me."
"I am."
"No. You are a scoundrel, a rake, and a dishonest man. You say you are fond of me when in truth you are fond of my bedroom and the liberties I have allowed you to take behind closed doors."
I sat back and studied her for a long moment, finding her words thoroughly insulting and unwarranted.
"If I may speak on your accusations, I've never been untruthful with you or anyone else for that matter. Not once have I ever claimed to court any woman exclusively or with intentions of our…relations…leading to courtship or marriage. If I led you to believe otherwise, I apologize."
She gave a frustrated sigh in return. "Well, then I suppose that means you have been nothing but truthful and I've been a fool. I believe we are done. Good day, Monsieur Kimmer, I will send you a list of qualified tailors that may meet at least some of your needs."
"You're correct on one account that I will not deny," I said before she sprang to her feet.
Abigail tightly crossed her arms. "And what would that be?"
My heart twisted in my chest, a distant but familiar ache. "I have nothing meaningful to give, but even so, I never meant to harm you."
"If you are so fond of me as you claim, why did you refuse my invitations? Was it because of another…?" Abigail swallowed and dug her knuckles into her eyes. "Forgive me, I should not have asked."
"No, that was not the reason," I answered.
"Then why? Why did you refuse me without a second thought?"
"I had a meeting with an art broker that I was introduced to at a recent gallery showing. It's the first time I've ever had an opportunity to have my art made available in years and–"
"You're selling your art?" Her expression instantly brightened in the most unexpected fashion.
"Attempting," I answered.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Abigail asked. Before I answered, she frowned at me, her features hardening again. "Because you are not one to give any part of yourself outside of…" She looked from my eyes to my chest, her disappointment palatable. "Forgive me, I will do you the same courtesy you did me and allow you to speak freely. I apologize for my temper thus far."
I took a breath and looked past her out the window, gathering my incoherent thoughts.
There had not been a single word to leave my lips that had been spoken untruthfully. I was genuinely fond of Abigail, and I enjoyed what we shared, the small moments that transpired, but I was aware of all that was lacking. It felt like staring at a mountain range with no way to navigate a path to the other side, where the rest of society dwelled comfortably. I was stilted in ways that others were not, in ways that mattered far more than I wanted to admit.
Talk like a regular person, Hugo had implored. Surely women do not simply agree to these arrangements based solely on your looks.
You would be surprised, I muttered in return.
Then perhaps you should step outside of the well-worn path you have made for yourself and trudge through the thorns for a bit.
If I am to stick with your analogy, leave my comfortable path to be scratched up and bloodied by thorns? That hardly sounds appealing.
It isn't meant to be appealing, you dolt.
I suppose I will survive my trials and end up a better person?
Since you are such a tremendous fool, I will speak plainly. Quit guarding yourself so stringently. Feel something, damn it, something more than the heaviness you insist upon. You cannot pack a wound with dirt and expect it to heal.
I exhaled sharply. For years I had hemorrhaged from grief. A little more bloodletting was hardly going to be the death of me, I reasoned.
"Abigail, when I was seven I lost my—"
The girl from the opera house walked toward the cafe and sat at one of the empty tables. I watched her briefly as she arranged her skirt, sat back, and crossed her legs at the ankles.
One of the waiters approached her and she shook her head. The man pointed toward the street, evidently requesting that she leave. When she remained seated, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet, yelling at her loud enough where I could hear him through the closed door.
"Paying customers only, no filthy little brats. Get out of here at once or I'll see you taken away for good."
The girl took several steps back, gaze darting back and forth as she hugged her arms around her body and began walking toward the street. She was well on her way when the waiter shoved her in the back and told her never to return.
"A moment, Madame Soward," I said, briskly climbing to my feet.
"Mademoiselle," I called out once I shoved the cafe door open. When the girl didn't turn, I tried again. "Celeste!"
The girl whirled around, her light eyes wide and complexion mottled. The moment she saw me, her lip began to quiver, her expression feral. She took another step back, then paused and bowed her head, hands balled in her tattered skirts.
I approached swiftly and the girl cowered, body turned to the side and shoulders drawn up as if she prepared to be struck or roughly grabbed by someone larger and stronger.
"Celeste," I said firmly as I waited for her to face me. "Wait."
"I can't," she said tremulously. "He told me to leave."
"And I am telling you to stay."
Slowly she lifted her chin and blinked at me, and I noticed the redness to her cheek that wasn't from blushing. It was a fresh mark, one I had no doubt would turn into a bruise within an hour or two.
"Sit and eat something," I said, stopping short of approaching her. My tone remained as firm as was typical for addressing my students. "I'll be out in thirty minutes, possibly sooner."
The girl folded her arms over her chest and I turned my attention to the waiter. "Bring her whatever she wants to eat," I commanded.
"But, Monsieur–"
"Not a word of protest. She may order the whole menu if she desires. Bring me the bill."
The flustered waiter mumbled that he would bring out a menu. Once he was gone, I nodded toward the table where she had attempted to sit. She slowly wandered toward her seat and nearly collapsed onto the chair.
"Are you unwell?" I asked.
She shook her head, refusing to meet my eye. "Is there class today?"
"We are meeting in the park."
"May I attend?" Her voice trembled as she spoke.
"Of course," I answered.
She touched her reddened cheek. "Will you be in trouble for allowing me to sit here?"
"I wouldn't think so. It's quite possible with the amount of coffee I consume that I keep them in business," I said lightly.
"I will compensate you for the meal."
"You will do no such thing."
"I promise I won't order much."
"Order whatever you would like, but something that will stick to your ribs, not merely sweets that will leave you starving in an hour. Understood?"
She nodded, still without looking at me.
"Once you've ordered, go inside and clean your hands."
The girl examined her grimy fingers with a bit of surprise. "Yes, professor," she said.
Once she was settled with a menu in hand, I turned to see Abigail was no longer seated at the table. The bag with Ink's coat was in her chair and I cursed under my breath. Frustrated, I turned on my heel and nearly collided with Abigail.
"You're still here," I said, relieved for an additional moment of her time.
"What did you lose?" she asked.
My brow furrowed. "I beg your pardon?"
"Before you walked out you said when you were seven you lost something. What did you lose? Tell me so that my curiosity is sated and I may be on my way."
Deep inside I shuddered, regretting my decision to speak of Erik. The loss had become a tumor that had attached itself to my heart, an ever-growing knot that cut off every bit of circulation to emotion or attachment that had attempted to find its way into my life.
I shifted my weight, glancing first at the girl pointing at the menu while the waiter stood over her, then at Abigail, who looked positively livid that she had bothered with me for an extra moment of her day.
Feel something, damn it, something more than the heaviness you insist upon. Quit burrowing deeper into yourself. You've done that long enough.
I took a deep breath and swallowed. "My brother. I lost my brother when he was three and a half and I was seven years old," I said under my breath, hoping to God Hugo's suggestion lightened the burden rather than adding to it. "It was my fault."
Abigail blinked at me, but didn't reply.
Years had passed since I had told anyone about the night Erik had wandered off. It was either Jean or Hugo that I had told last, either in my late teens or early twenties. I was fairly certain it had been Hugo as Jean had been drinking when I told him, and the news had little effect on him. He merely nodded, patted me on the back, and told me he was very sympathetic before he poured himself another brandy and eventually fell asleep.
I didn't want Jean's or anyone else's sympathy. I wanted my brother, and while no amount of telling others that he had gone missing when I was seven would bring him back, I found that after years of silence, I wanted to talk about Erik to someone.
"What do you mean?" Abigail warily asked.
My mouth threatened to go dry, but I swallowed. "I was supposed to be watching him while our uncle and cousin were gone for the day and I failed," I continued, staring past her, replaying every single second that I could remember. "I looked away for a moment and he wandered off and was taken and it's been almost thirty years and…and I think about him endlessly, night and day. He was…" I swallowed.
Erik was my responsibility. He was not simply my brother, he was everything, from the second I woke to the moment I closed my eyes and even then, he was wrapped around me, breathing in my face, lips to my cheek, his heart to mine. All I had left of Erik was longing and despair, an emptiness, a cancer, a hurt greater than I was prepared to carry for the rest of my life.
My boundless affection for him had created years of loneliness, of wounds that could never be healed. Not unless I found him. Not unless I was able to see him again. Not unless I could recreate the feelings of contentment I had felt up until the day he had gone missing.
"My brother was the first person I ever truly cared about and I am absolutely certain that I will never recover from his loss," I said, feeling as though each breath sucked the air from my lungs. "I am aware of how odd it sounds, for a grown man to be so devastated by the loss of a sibling, but…but he was not merely my brother. He was…" I shook my head. "We only had each other."
Abigail's expression softened.
"Despite what you may think of me, a rake, a scoundrel, a villain or a liar, I am truly fond of you, Abigail, as much as I am able to be fond of anyone, but I cannot give you or anyone else what I do not have to offer and for that I am sincerely apologetic. I do not expect your forgiveness or understanding. If you would send me an invoice for the coat I will have compensation sent at once. I regret…I regret that I cannot offer you more."
Abigail took a step back, her moss green eyes distant. I held my breath, waiting for her to turn and leave, muttering over her shoulder that she would bill me for her work and never wanted to speak to me again.
The emptiness grew deeper, the numbness of grief washing over me, both of my brother and a woman who was truly dear to me and whom I knew I would not see again.
But I had done it. I had spoken of Erik to another person. I had explained myself to the best of my ability, and whether or not Abigail accepted my words, it was over. In time I hoped to find peace with her decision and my blunders.
"Do you think he's still alive?" Abigail asked.
Her words elicited a sensation that was wholly foreign to me: relief.
"Yes. I do believe he is," I said.
Perhaps as a criminal wanted in Persia, perhaps wandering the shadows, but he was still alive. I felt it in the very depths of my soul.
She looked me over for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "I have to be at the school in fifteen minutes to pick up Clarence from morning studies," she said. "But… but I would like to hear about your brother at a different time if you would care to speak of him. My apologies, what is his name?"
"My brother's name is Erik. I would be grateful for your time and company if you have a moment to spare."
Abigail lifted her chin, her expression more stern, but not malicious. She sighed to herself. "Not at my shop. Or your apartment. But I will spare a moment."
"Here?" I suggested.
She shrugged. "Perhaps."
"I do not have class Friday."
"I will check my calendar."
I nodded, buzzing with caffeine and boyish hope that even if our time as lovers had ended, there was still potential for friendship.
"Erik and Phelan," Abigail said fondly, looking me over.
I could not recall the last time our names had been said together. The feeling of relief remained, the heaviness kept at bay a while longer.
oOo
Celeste fixed her hair and cleaned her hands before she returned to the table. By the time I parted ways with Abigail, Celeste had ordered an obscene amount of food, all of which was spread out before her as if she expected royalty would be accompanying her for breakfast.
Her back was to me as I approached with the coat tucked under my arm, and I watched briefly as she shoved as much food as she could manage into her mouth.
Manners were certainly lacking, and I couldn't tell if she was truly starved or if she feared I would reprimand her for ordering three full meals and several extra danishes and croissants.
"Ah, I see you have indulged in the blueberry muffins," I said before I crossed the outdoor dining area. There were three exceptionally large muffins crowded onto a small plate, all bulging with berries and glistening with butter. "My favorite."
She nearly jumped out of her seat at the sound of my voice.
"I will repay you," she insisted through a mouth filled with crumbs that stuck to her lips.
"You will do no such thing," I replied, removing one of the muffins off the plate. I eyed the waiter standing behind her, a look of annoyance on his visage, and mouthed that I would like a bag for the remaining food as I was certain she would not touch half of it.
"I ordered far too much," she mumbled.
"You eat like a bird," I commented.
She stared at me, unblinking, as if the words were an insult she attempted to decipher.
"Most people think birds eat very little when in fact for their size they eat a great deal of food. The rest of the class will be delighted there is plenty left over and leave nary a crumb behind, I assure you. They are like a pack of starving rats."
"I have twenty francs," she blurted out. "From…from singing last night. If you want it…"
I unwrapped the muffin and dug a particularly large blueberry out of the bottom without meeting her eye. My assumption was that she was not telling me the truth and that the twenty francs she had earned was not from the use of her voice.
"You must have found generous patrons last night," I said.
She didn't owe me for her meal, but I felt that she at least did owe me the truth. From the corner of my eye I saw her sink lower into her chair, fork dangling loosely between her fingers.
"What happened to your cheek?" I asked.
The soles of her shoes scraped the gravel beneath the table as she planted her feet on the ground. There was no doubt in my mind that she planned to elope, dashing away rather than answering me.
"Celeste–"
"Nothing."
At last I eyed her. Fear was etched into her features, and I noticed aside from the mark to her cheek there was a small bruise above her eye as well.
"Did you fall?" I asked.
She swallowed, her eyes distant. I had lost count of how many instances I had met my own gaze in a mirror and thought there was no life within my eyes, that my stare was very much like a corpse. On more than one occasion I had wished for it to be true.
"Yes, I fell," she blurted out.
"Mmm. I suffered a hard fall on Sunday, actually," I told her, removing another blueberry. "I suppose I received a bit of assistance from a pugilist."
"What is a pugilist?"
"A prize fighter. Boxer. Someone who is trained to strike someone with their bare fists in a boxing ring. Although we were not in the ring at the time, so I suppose it was a bit unfair on his part."
Celeste stared at me, curiosity replacing the blankness. "You were attacked, then?"
"Attacked?" I asked incredulously. I narrowed my eyes in contemplation. "I wouldn't say it was an attack."
She inhaled, considering my words.
I shifted in my chair and jutted out my bottom lip. "I suppose I wasn't prepared to properly fight him," I admitted. "And he struck me in the back of the head, which I imagine meant he was not looking for a fair fight." I looked at her again, frowning. "If my head were an egg, my brain would be scrambled. Perhaps it was an attack, now that I think about it."
"You were injured?" she questioned, looking me over with grave concern. "Severely?
"I was injured, but not severely," I answered. "Bad enough to need a physician, I should say. And unfortunately a very good friend was there in attendance."
"Unfortunately? Why was that unfortunate?"
I exhaled. "He witnessed the whole thing. As much as I would like to deny that I was injured, or even attacked, as you pointed out, he reminded me of what transpired. And he made certain I received the care I needed afterward. If not for him, I suppose I could have denied the incident and simply said I lost my balance."
Celeste immediately looked away, fork clutched tightly in her hand. "No one saw me…fall," she said carefully.
I shrugged. "Being alone must have been frightening."
"I've fallen before," she whispered. Her feet crossed at the ankle under the table, free hand grazing the red mark on her cheek. "I am…clumsy, I suppose."
"I have impeccable balance, like a goat on the Alps, and would not have been knocked off my feet if I'd seen the pugilist and knew his intentions. I'm certain if I would have claimed I fell over, no one would have believed me."
The waiter dropped off a paper bag as well as two checks; one for the coffee I'd consumed inside and another much larger amount for Celeste's feast.
"You don't believe me," she said under her breath.
I raised a brow. "If you say you are telling the truth, I will most certainly believe you. Do I have reason to believe you are being untruthful with me, Mademoiselle?"
Her posture turned rigid, her gaze turning distant again. She pressed her teeth into her bottom lip. "I did fall," she whispered, "but I wasn't alone."
"Was the individual you were with responsible for your fall?"
Celeste didn't readily answer, but at last she slowly nodded.
I picked apart more of the muffin and sat back, watching people and carriages pass us on the street. Many mornings I returned to the apartment I shared with Val, nose bloodied, eyes blackened, shirt torn, or any other number of injuries, and dreaded our interaction.
Val would take one look at me over his morning tea, scoff, and mutter to himself. He would make his accusations under his breath, one disparaging comment after another, heedless of why I sought out scuffle after scuffle. Nothing that I said to him ever mattered; he had already made up his mind.
And I hated him for his judgments.
Annoyed by my own thoughts, I placed the uneaten food into the bag.
"I have decided I would like to learn to box," I stated. "So that in the future, I am better able to defend myself."
Celeste stopped picking at her food, her gaze shooting up to meet mine. "There are lessons for how to defend oneself?"
"There are," I answered. "My first lesson is tonight."
"Is it only for men?"
I glanced at her. "Pardon?"
"Can…can girls learn as well?"
"If you wish to learn how to defend yourself from someone with nefarious intentions, I would gladly share my knowledge. That is, if you are interested?"
"Would I be in the ring with you?" she warily asked, looking me over.
I turned my head to the side. "Are you mad? I would never live it down if I were bested by a girl. You can learn beside me, but I'll not have you pummeling me, young lady."
Celeste slowly curled her lips into a smile. "I don't believe that would happen."
"I certainly won't chance it, Mademoiselle," I said, leaving banknotes on the table before I stood. "I have a reputation to uphold."
"What would be the cost?" she asked, folding her arms.
I knew her form of currency, the price she expected to pay in exchange for a few francs.
"This particular individual owes me, so there is no compensation necessary."
"Does he owe you for your paintings?"
"No, he owes me for striking me in the back of the head."
Her eyes widened. "The man who attacked you is the same individual that will teach you how to defend yourself?"
"Who would be better?" I questioned.
The girl climbed to her feet, dismal expression brightening. "I would like to learn how to protect myself, Professor Kimmer, if you would be willing to teach me."
"We shall discuss after class."