Page 151 of Insolence
Deep down, part of me knows how fucked I already am. I won’t admit it for a long, long time.
Rarely does an hour pass where her words don’t recirculate in my head, along with the reassurance of context.
She didn’t say she’ll have it picked up.Shewill pick it up, she said.
One month and sixteen days have dragged by since we met. At times I can still feel her satin lips pressed to my cheek, her lip paint tingling there.
By this point Ma and Pop have stopped questioning my newfound devotion to the print shop. Most days I’m here from open to close.
I’ve grown used to clients’ stares. Their invasive questions and underhanded remarks while I go about my business in men’s shirts and slacks. This, in addition to the usual comments my family and I endure. (“Where are you from? … No, I meant originally.”Even though I’ve grown up in Aronya Dar my whole life.)
Pop stands up for me at first, but I tell him I need to figure out how to handle myself. The plan was always to return from Nehel like this and not look back. The prospect of encounteringthe young Lady Jedrek—of wanting to be recognized—reinforces my decision.
Finally, one otherwise unremarkable Morday in Tideturn, the bell over the door chimes around sixteen o’clock. I look up from arranging metal type in a composing stick.
My blood stands still in my veins.
She lingers by the door, black felt skirt hugging her hips. Her starched shirt is pleated at the breast and buttoned to the emblem brooch at her high collar. Lavish diamonds, gold, and lapis sparkle in the slanting sunlight. A cocktail hat sits on her head, embellished with glossy feathers. Its netting falls to the tip of her nose.
“Good afternoon, El Asher. I’ve missed you,” she murmurs through carmine lips.
I finally remember how to breathe. “Lady Jedrek. I was beginning to wonder if that day in Nehel was a fever dream.”
Her grin is arch, one shoulder lifting. At her request, I retrieve the finished landscape. Lay it on the counter between us.
Eyes piercing the canvas, she touches the blue streak on the lower corner. Has the audacity to toss her head and say, “You didn’t fix it.”
“No,” I snort. “I wasn’t reworking that area because you threw a fit from not getting your way. Besides, you already paid me. Now you have no recourse, do you?”
A quick laugh escapes her. “I suppose not.” Desire laces her next words: “I want to commission you for another piece.”
“Oh? And what would you like to have done, my lady?”
“A portrait.” She places her hand on the counter. Near mine. “And please, call me Tiss.”
“Well, Tiss, I’m afraid I specialize in landscape and still life.”
Lashes fluttering, she studies me through her veil’s black netting. A curious bird peeping through the bars of its cage. “I’ll sit as long as it takes to get it right.”
Her pretty pout stalls my mind for a beat. Finally I say, “You aren’t told no very often, are you?”
Laying her hand over mine, lips simpering sweetly, she says, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
This is the precise moment that breaks my brain.
Her focus trained on me, the air thickens between us. My throat constricts. Heart squeezing, all of the blood drains from my head and rushes downward as dangerous obsession kindles within me.
Nooo. Nope. Get hold of yourself, El.But it’s too late. I’m already wrapped around her manicured finger. I just don’t know it yet.
She begins coming to the backroom atelier after hours. I have her sit for me in various poses, holding various props, while I make sketch after sketch.
Late summer stretches into autumn. We shut the windows to keep the chill air at bay. Most nights she brings something to eat, which we share before starting the session.
Get to know one another. Catch up on the week together.
I grow fond of how she eats with gusto, eschewing the rigid manners she grew up with. Defenseless to her casual charms, I watch her reach across the table, cram food in her mouth, lick her fingers, talk with her mouth full.
It means she feels safe to let her guard down. To be herself.
