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My thoughts pop like bubbles when a paw swipes at my hands resting on my face. I peer through the cracks between my fingers to spy Morrigan, my ocelot, sitting beside me.
“Oh? Not even a sign that you missed me? Just a swipe of the hand and a look of anger?” I state, then outstretch my hand to scratch behind her patterned ear. I inherited her from Ludwig, an elderly Scottish man who assisted me in designing my buildings. He became a great friend and mentor, but I lost him to chronic pneumonitis. Ludwig loved to aid me in finding potential marital candidates; he saw it as a “riveting game.” He also thought collecting exotic animals was a riveting pastime, but once he passed away, he named me his beneficiary and I donated the animals to the Zoological Society of London. The only animal I could manage was Morrigan, my dear ocelot. Ludwig had rescued her from poachers.
I move my hand from behind her ears and begin scratching underneath her chin. With this movement, she begins purring in satisfaction. I take a moment to appreciate her beautiful spotted pattern and her bright eyes as they shine, but as I continue touching her my sleeve unearths my bare forearm, exposing the glaring fresh cut I created last night. Swiftly I bring my arm to my chest and climb out of bed. Pushing my thoughts to stay focused on getting ready for the day, not dwelling on the mixture of feelings bubbling up from the depths of my chest.
Morrigan makes a small sound of disapproval as I move farther away from her and waltz over to my walk-in closet. I find my favorite long skirt with a matching tight-fitted, long sleeve button up shirt and a separate bodice hugging corset. The neckline is high, with a lace border wrapping around the seams and down the front of the shirt. I hear a small clamor of items hitting the wooden floor. I peer out the doorway, searching for the offending incident. My four-poster bed is intact, nothing on my night stands is in disarray, and the chaise in my room still has blankets and books atop the cushions. When my gaze finally catches on Morrigan, sitting atop my oak desk like a proud kitten, I find she has pushed my calendar book and writing utensils off my desk.
“Morrigan!” I scold, then march over to the items on the ground. My gaze travels to the calendar book that is conveniently open to today’s date.
The Veil 1030 — Brunch with Him.
“Oh, crisps!” I shout, while I scramble to arrange my hair and place myself into some fashion of poised composure. The formal name of the café is Le Voile, but in English it translates to “The Veil.” The name hints to the restaurant being a sanctuary for secrets and peaceful elegance. You must pay biannually for membership, as well as follow their rules and respect their code.
My heart flutters at the thought of seeing him again. This is where we meet, nearly every month.
Him.
I peer up to find Morrigan staring down at me, and I swear she has a small grin forming on those menacing whiskers of hers. Almost as if she is telling me I would have forgotten this date if it wasn’t for her chaos.
Of course, I could never forget.
3. A Voice Like a Dagger - Olive
The Death of Peace of Mind
I cannot contain the excitement building within my chest. I’m on the verge of punching myself in order to gain some sort of control over my body’s emotional responses to this man. When I first met him, we were both sitting at our assigned booths, minding our own business until I dropped my pen onto the floor. While we reached for the item, I noticed a flash of color peeking out from his wrist as he grabbed my pen and discretely handed it to me. I didn’t dare look at his face. We politely exchanged formalities, and a simple conversation formed into a secret friendship.
We exchange greetings on a monthly basis, when our schedules allow it. His job is grueling and he loathes it, but he is stuck in a binding contract.
I do not pry, nor do I ask specifics. I just listen. Something he needs desperately, in return I find comfort in listening to his voice. Learning about the small nuances of his life allows me to adopt some sort of normalcy within mine. Be vulnerable without actually having to expose myself. I could be myself for a brief moment without disclosing my identity.
To this day, I refuse to look at him. Not just to keep anonymity, but I fear I will ruin what we have, and I believe he may share the same mindset I do. For he does not pry and he does not try to push any boundaries, not with his questions and not by peering over the curtain to sneak a glance at me.
My boots and cane click on the cobblestone pathway. I find the familiar building of Le Voile and a smile instantly adorns my face. The butterflies in my stomach intensify as I think of meeting with the mysterious friend. The footman pulls back the dark velvet curtain hanging from the entrance.
“Good morning, madame.” He nods his head in my direction, holding the curtain to allow me passage as he stands in a tailored waistcoat. I place my membership card back within my leather clutch as I waltz into the café, admiring the warm surroundings.
Dimly lit chandeliers hang alongside ivory and crimson chiffon drapes hung from the vaulted ceiling. The floors are made of dark wood, and the walls are covered in dark damask wallpaper with sconces every few feet. There are two staircases several feet from either side of the entrance that allow guests to go upstairs to find more secluded areas. There are booths lined all around the walls of the building, from the upstairs and downstairs portion. These booths feature a high carved walnut backing incorporated with arches and ornate carvings. They remind me of the private confessionals in a church but have velvet curtains surrounding the booths, should a patron desire more privacy. The seating is covered in deep buttoned leather, benches long enough to lie down on.
Anticipation crawls through the atmosphere as my body impatiently awaits the arrival of him. Taking a seat in the booth, I rest my back, feeling the contrast of my lace gown against the smooth leather upholstery. An attendant circles around the tables asking if anyone would like to order. I politely ask for a coffee without sugar or cream and they usher themselves away. The top floor is empty this time of day, so I take a moment to absorb the peaceful tones of light chatter from the staff below. There is also the clinking of dishware, the aroma of baked pastries, soft footsteps, and the melodic tune of a piano playing from a distance. Resting my hands atop the table, I interlace my fingers. Feeling the silky fabric caress my senses, I give a small smile at the thought of my mysterious companion and how his spirit comforts me in this fashion. A few moments later, the coffee is delivered along with a fresh croissant.
“Thank you.” I nod toward the attendant, then they glance at the booth beside me.
“For you, sir? Any refreshments or something to eat?” he asks, then awaits an answer.
The voice I had been waiting for, the presence I’ve been yearning to get back to, speaks in its familiar tone.
“Please provide the same order you just delivered. Black coffee and croissant.”
His deep voice causes a warm shiver to slide down my spine. The tone creates haunting imagery within my mind. That of the deep blue sea, that pulls souls into its dark depths. Smothering you with its essence as you’re dragged further and further into the abyss.
The illustrious voice forces my daydream to dissipate: “How are you?”
Resting my head against the seat, I look up at the vault ceiling, picturing what his face would be like behind the bench separating us. Sliding my body closer to the end of the bench, I reply, “Well. Thank you for asking. And you?” Keeping my voice filled with pleasantry, though I would love to complain to him of my main occupation’s stress.
Maybe one day? I think to myself, swallowing while imagining the expression of anger, betrayal and ludicrousness that would probably take over his features. He’d probably have me locked up. Thus, to avoid conflict, I continue discussing that I own a women’s shelter and must travel at times for export work. We both find solace in one another’s presence through the easy conservation.
I can feel him shift in his seat and hear his arm drop down, hanging from the side of his booth. His fingers repeatedly tap on the wooden side, a tiny anxious habit I’ve caught on to over the years.
