There was something about Nina, something he struggled to name. It had to do with her hair like blackbird feathers and the way her hands fluttered when she was excited and how she bit her lips when she thought no one was looking.
Hector was focused. He looked at details. And nothing made him nervous; he could tame a crowd of hundreds with ease.
Yet he was nervous now, staring stupidly at her, and the force of that something held him in thrall.
She must have felt the weight of his gaze because she suddenly caught the book between her hands and pressed it against her chest. “Practice makes perfect,” she said, sounding unsure of herself. She placed the bookon his desk and pointed across the room, her voice cheerful yet strained. “What is that? I can’t figure it out,” she said. “Is that an ostrich feather?”
“That’s a pirate’s hat,” he said, glancing at the corner where he kept the changing screen and his clothing.
“No.”
“Do you want to try it on?”
He pushed the screen aside to reveal the mirror and a wardrobe. It was a tattered old screen, faded golden lions against black. He’d had it for a long time. The wardrobe was also a humble piece of furniture, scratched and battered, but big enough to contain an array of clothes.
The mirror was grander. Gilded, tall, allowing Hector to see himself entirely. He’d had to do with a cracked hand mirror when he was young, enduring costume changes in the back of patched-up tents.
Back when he thought only of Valérie.
That had been long, long ago.
He’d taught himself how to dress properly, how to speak properly, what items to order from a menu, and the fashionable dances. All for that one woman.
What good had it done him?
None.
And now,thiswoman, nothing of what he knew could help with her. That was the crux of the matter. He’d learned so much and yet so little.
“Come on,” Hector said, setting the hat atop her head. “There’s a coat to go with it.”
“When did you dress as a pirate?”
“Two years ago, maybe. I despise costumes, but Dufren says it can’t always be me in a black jacket. Here.”
He pulled out a coat of rich, crimson brocade from the wardrobe and set it on Nina’s shoulders. It was far too large for her, but the color was pleasing. It gave her an impish quality.
“If you ever compete against me, dress in brocade,” he told her. “Though maybe you’ll leave me without any business if you do.”
He had meant to rest a hand on her shoulder, but at the last second, he stilled himself and his hand hovered but did not touch her.
He caught her gaze in the mirror and froze.
He was not used to this.
Everything about Valérie had been violent, hasty. There wasn’t anytime for them. The minutes of the day escaped them, and they suffered each lost second. Swift excesses and even swifter emotions.
He’d been young. Now that he was older, wiser, he ought to comport himself better.
He was a man grown, self-assured and seasoned.
He was behaving worse than when he’d been a boy. At least back then, he understood what he wanted, he could string a sentence together.
Now it was like stumbling in the dark, like stuffing thorns in his mouth.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling ridiculous.
What he wanted to say, what he should say, wasI keep thinking about you, it frightens me.
