When he carefully places the mother-of-pearl spoon on the dish and shoves it away, my lips twitch.
“Are you going to turn me into a vegetarian,katyonok?”
“I like bacon too much to be a vegetarian. And burgers.” The self-deprecation is out in full force. “And plenty of other things that I shouldn’t.”
“Life would be tedious without vices.”
“Is bacon a vice?”
“I think it counts, yes.”
I drum my fingers on the table, mimicking the beat of the orchestra—Tchaikovsky, my least favorite composer because he was my father’s favorite.
The adrenaline buzz persists, humming through my veins, and irritatingly enough, it’s also following the rhythm of Symphony No. 4, which might mean I’m due a heart attack at some point.
When I crash, it’s going to be as brutal as the cymbal clash in that godawful composition.
“I wonder how they eat without getting their hoods caught in their meal,” I ponder as all the attendees remain hooded.
“I’m sure they’ll cope.”
“Nobody’s lost their appetite.”
“Why should they? This is their bread and butter.”
“Meaning?”
“Tonight wasn’t the main event. Merely an accompaniment.”
His comment acts like a fist around my throat, making it harder to breathe. To swallow.
I reach for the glass of red wine in front of me and take care while drinking it.
The hit of alcohol has me working my neck from side to side, but the tension doesn’t abate.
He notices. Of course. “You should eat. It will settle your stomach. The first is always… a lesson.”
I can hear in his tone that it’s a lesson he never wanted me to learn. Regret is there, resignation too.
But I can’t say that I feel guilty, or that I feel remorse.
Maybe I’m more like Maxim than my sisters would be comfortable with?
Because of his experience, I eat a few bites of the salad garnish beside a spiced snapper. The meal’s like a fancy potluck, dishes plunked here and there, little to no order. I grew up eating this way so there’s comfort in that even if I’m well outside my comfort zone.
“Thank you for being here, Maxim,” I whisper from behind my glass of wine.
“There’s nowhere I’d rather be,katyonok.”
My walls lower, exhaustion slamming into me because I know I’m safe, that I’m not alone, thathewill protect me. And not just from the nasty looks the legacies send me, the bitter twists to mouths as they covet the red cloak I’m wearing.
“FYI, I preferkatyonoktopchelka.”
“Of course you do.”
There’s that indulgence again and boy, do I appreciate how it stabilizes me.
What also helps is when a soft hand, skin silky, slips into mine. The gesture is unexpected, but I bridge my fingers with Wynter’s nonetheless.
