Page 22 of The Cannibal

I swallowed the words I wanted to say. “I don’t know.”

“You have to make time to remind yourself what makes you most comfortable,” she answered her own question, poking me with her finger. “You do not feel well for many reasons, but we can begin to remedy it by making sure everything you have is yours, and taking care of what remains. Your fashion, the way you present yourself, recreating old comforts.”

Her passionate explanation made me feel a bit guilty for accusing her of being shallow.

“Well, slow your pace. I’m unfit,” I mumbled.

With a deep sigh I nodded back toward the path, and we walked at a much steadier pace.

“No black.”

The errand was already off to a terrible beginning.

“Will you have a new shipment?” Phoebe asked, sensing my glum aura beside her.

“We only have wool at this time, no silk,” the couturier said.

Phoebe rubbed her temples, already scheming.

Shadows puppeted across the floor as people passed the large shop window, interrupted by the mannequins showing sample dresses. The walls had bolts of fabric rolled up and stacked by color. The table in the middle held accessories and catalogs. Phoebe and I were now at the back counter, wondering how they could possibly run out of black silk fabrics.

“What do you have at the moment, then?” I piped up.

The couturier gestured to the wall, his brow rising.

I threw a polite smile as Phoebe continued to flip through the fashion plates fresh from Paris.

I touched the rolls of fabric, so many textures and colors. Black had always been a comfort color, something I could rely on. It was utilitarian, stainproof, and ominous. Though Phoebe’s words about appearances weighed on my mind. I understand she is trying to make me feel like myself again, but perhaps this was the perfect time for change.

There were some fabrics that caught my eye. Stripes, flowers, all kinds of embroidery and textures. But none of the colors really suited me, not in any way I would like to explore.

“Do you have this one in red?” I called out, as I placed my hand on a bolt, “perhaps more of an oxblood?”

Phoebe and the couturier looked my way.

It was hard to tell if Phoebe’s expression was one of confusion or surprise, but I suppose it is the same thing at the moment.

The couturier nodded his approval before disappearing behind the counter, past the curtain masking the work area.

“Are you sure?” Phoebe asked. “It’s quite attention-grabbing.”

“Quite salacious,” I agreed.

She laughed at the mention and shrugged. “If that is what you like.”

“I do,” I said aloud, mostly for myself.

“Please, I beg, do not feed me any more tasteless food.” My plea would fall on deaf ears as she placed another jam scone on my plate.

“You must find a way to get used to it. There will be situations where not eating is rude, but they won’t know you can’t taste anything.” She pointed to it. “Eat.”

“I will be sick,” I complained. “I would rather eat bitters from a cocktail bar.”

“Well, we will remember a flask of it for next time,” she insisted. “It is important that you get used to your senses—or lack thereof.”

“I know,” I gulped. “I know.”

“Drink the tea, at least you can taste it if you keep it bitter.”