Nina turned toward him and stared at him with utter ferocity. “How dare you say that, when you gave Valérie my letter, when you played me for a fool, when you did not even bother sending word for almost a whole year.”
“What letter?” he asked, frowning.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. The letter I wrote to you.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“You lie.”
“I would not.”
She looked surprised, her anger perhaps retreating back a tad, yet only a tad. She shook her head in exasperation. “Fine. That does not invalidate my other points.”
“Nina, I am sorry. For everything. I want—”
She brushed past him and he noticed the way she was moving her fingers, frustrated and angry. He could tell she wanted to dash objects about his home, her nervous energy palpable, those fingers of hers almost electric.
“No, you don’t get to want anything,” she replied. “You tricked me. Both of you. You were not pursuing me, you were chasing after her. I thought you liked me. I thought you were my friend. You should have told me the truth.”
“How could I tell you?”
“I don’t know how!” she shouted.
She sat on the chair by the window, where he’d been lounging, looking outside. On his table, papers rustled under the influence of her thoughts, and he feared she might send them scattering about the room.
But no.
She held her hands together tight, as if to keep herself from tearing his house apart.
“I do like you, Nina,” he muttered.
She did not look at him. Her eyes were on the sky.
“I thought, sometimes… I’m not sure exactly what I thought. Valérie, she was like a stubborn splinter under my skin you can’t remove no matter how hard you try. But then, at times… it was pleasant spending time with you. I thought, if I took a chance—”
“You thought you could make her jealous. Maybe you decided you could settle for second best. Never once did you think about me,” she said.
How to answer her? He could not deny it. He pressed a hand against the windowpane, staring at the same clouds she was staring at.
“How can you think to make amends? How can you send me presents, as if to purchase your peace of mind?”
“I don’t know, Nina.”
Truly, he did not. The beetles had been a bout of madness. He had wanted to cheer her up; selfishly perhaps, he had thought to summon her.
There were spells, superstitions of the troupe. Herbs for love and for good fortune and for summoning, and though he never quite believed the folktales, he hadwishedto believe them in this case. Wished her there, in his home, for it was impossible.
But she’d come and her pain was raw, and he could not think how to say any of the things he’d thought he’d tell her if he ever had the chance.
The extent of his regret.
The explanation for his grievous actions.
“I did write to you. I wrote several times. If I didn’t send the letters, it is because it is as you say. How could I ask you to forgive me in a single letter?” he asked.
She offered him no answer.
“I am sorry,” he said.
