Page 77 of Pretty Little Princess

His fingers are still interlocked with mine, and I’m intensely aware of the warmth radiating from his palm.

I am. I’m royally confused.Who is Pyotr, really? And how does this side of him match his true personality?He wears so many masks, and he switches them out with an ease I don’t understand.Why can’t I have this Pyotr all the time?Because if I could, I’m sure I would be happy. It’s his darker, mercurial half that I don’t know how to live with.

“You’ve seriously never done this?” he presses, his well-sculpted eyebrows raising in shock.

“Gone to the botanic gardens after dark? No, never.” A bitter gust of wind whips my hair into my face, and I’m suddenly grateful for all my layers.

I shove my free hand into my pocket to protect my fingers from the biting cold, and to my surprise, Pyotr does the same with my other hand, sliding it into the silk-lined pocket of his peacoat without disentangling our clasped hands.

“Are we having dinner here or something?” I press, trying to needle the surprise from him.

I kind of hope so. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, and I was hoping he might finally tell me what’s been going on with him over a meal. He did promise me an explanation.

“So impatient,” he chides. “How about instead of playing twenty questions, you tell me what projects you’ve been working on lately?”

His gray eyes hold me captive, waiting expectantly for me to jump onboard.

“Projects?” I ask.

“Well, yeah. For school–or what you’ve been drawing for fun,” he clarifies.

No, thank you.Because the charcoal piece I’ve been working on for my final feels far too personal right now. I shrug, giving him a half-truth so I won’t have to go too far into detail.

“I’ve decided to try a big piece, a landscape of sorts, like one of Adolphe Appian’s.”

“Mmm,” he hums with interest. “And are you using pieces of bread to blend it?”

Why it affects me so deeply to know he was listening that day, I can’t say. But my stomach quivers when he recites the art history information back to me.

“No.” I laugh softly, thinking about bringing loaves of bread to school for my art. “Just an old scrap cloth.”

We reach the front of the line, and Pyotr produces two admission tickets, which the lady scans before gesturing us inside.

As soon as we step onto the garden path, I gasp, and my eyes grow wide. Rather than lights lining the walkway, I find hundreds upon hundreds of brilliantly lit Jack-o-lanterns. Some are massive, probably weighing more than I do. Others are smaller than my head. And each is carved with intricate artistry, showcasing beautiful images and designs.

“You like it?” Pyotr asks, his voice dropping to a deep murmur.

“How did you even find out about this?” I gasp, approaching the first pumpkin with awe.

He chuckles. “I did my research.”

Lost in the wonder of the beautiful carvings and the flickering candlelight, I lead Pyotr down the walkway as I admire each temporary piece of art.

Something about the fact that their beauty can’t last, that eventually, the pumpkin will wither and shrivel, makes the stunning creations that much more inspiring.

“Hungry?” Pyotr asks as we reach the first break in the pumpkin display to find a small food stand.

“Starved,” I admit, my mouth watering at the wonderful smell of hot dogs.

“Chicago dog?” the man offers behind his hot dog cart.

“Two, please,” Pyotr says, raising his fingers to confirm. Then he pulls several bills from his wallet and hands them over. “Keep the change,” he adds as the vendor passes us our food.

“Oh, thank you,” the withered old man says, his eyes going wide at the sight of the two twenty-dollar bills.

Pyotr hands me my hot dog as we continue on our way, and I fall silent as we meander along the path. A groan of appreciation slips through my lips as I take a bite of the Vienna sausage, mustard, pickle, tomato, and onion, all wrapped in a poppy seed bun.

“Nowthisis a Chicago dog,” I praise around my considerable bite.

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