Page 7 of Fire and Silk
I want to recoil, but I hold a smile. Just long enough.
“Oh ma’am,” I say, injecting forced fondness into every syllable, “I missed you too. But Angelina must be waiting for her lesson, I shouldn’t keep her—”
“Oh,please,” she says, waving her hand as if batting away a fly. “You know Angelina. She doesn’t listen to anyone. Went off to some party in Toorak, left her phone behind. Her father’s been in Russia for three days and now she thinks she’s in charge.”
She lets out a light, melodic laugh like it’s all terribly amusing. “She doesn’t care or listen to me…”
Her voice trails off as she starts walking—no, gliding—toward an arched doorway on our right, dragging me by the hand.
I stumble slightly as the heel catches the seam of the runner rug, but she doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.
We pass through into a sitting room that belongs in a magazine—white marble fireplace, velvet fainting sofa, a mirror the size of a wall framed in blackened gold leaf. There are books on the shelf with spines too perfect to have ever been read. A sculpture of a bird with a broken wing sits on the mantle, probably worth more than my debts.
I’m trying not to breathe loud. Trying not to let the scent of her perfume and money crawl into my lungs. I’m just trying to survive the next ten minutes without falling apart.
She gestures for me to sit beside her. I hover instead, plastering on another smile like duct tape over a crack in the wall.
Bolina is still talking—something about her dress tailor using much starch—when August returns.
He moves like a shadow, quiet but perfectly timed. A silver tray balanced in his gloved hands holds a dark green bottle and two crystal glasses. Château Margaux. Of course. Nothing touched by normal hands.
She barely glances at him. “Thank you, August. That’ll be all.”
His mouth tightens again. Barely. But it’s there. He sets the tray down on the glass table between us, nods stiffly, and walks out.
I stay standing. Still smiling. Muscles locked into something that looks like pleasant attention.
Bolina exhales dramatically, like even lifting her hand would be beneath her. “Darling, be useful. Open it, won’t you?”
I pick up the bottle. My hands tremble just enough to make me nervous, but I manage to twist the cork free without incident. It makes a soft pop. The smell—deep, spiced, earthy—rises immediately.
I pour her a glass and hold it out. She takes it with a flourish, like we’re in some Parisian salon.
I don’t pour one for myself. My stomach’s still raw from the last cheap espresso I downed before my shift ended.
“God,thank you,” she breathes, taking a sip and then curling her legs beneath her like some elegant housecat. Her dress spills over the edge of the couch in a soft pool of silk.
“You know,” she says suddenly, eyes twinkling like she’s about to tell me a secret the wallpaper might be scandalized by, “I invitedhimhere last week.”
I blink. “Him?”
She leans in, lowers her voice like a schoolgirl sharing gossip. “Mylover, darling. Twenty-nine. Spanish. Uncut. The kind of man who looks at you like he knows what you taste like before you’ve even said your name.”
I freeze. Just enough to stiffen my shoulders.
“Oh, don’t be shocked,” she purrs, waving her hand. “Conrado’s been impotent since the war—or at least that’s the excuse he prefers. Butthisone… God. He made me come so hard I thought I’d faint.”
I stare at her. I’m smiling. I think I’m smiling.
She sips her wine, fluttering. “He left bruises. I photographed them. Honestly, I haven’t felt so alive since—well, She pauses dramatically. “since before I married Conrado, if I’m being honest.” .”
I nod. Or blink. Or something.
“Anyway,” she sighs, “he had aterribleaccident two days ago. Motorcycle. Broke his wrist, poor darling. Needed money for surgery. So I sent it. Cash, of course. I couldn’t risk anything traceable. Conrado checks everything.”
She sets the glass down and clasps her hands over her chest like she’s auditioning for a tragedy.
“Iamworried though. He promised to come see me tomorrow. Before Conrado returns. Ineedto see him, Lira. You understand, don’t you?”
