#I have no idea when this is queued for. Happy yule? Boxing day?? New year's???

[saviolum-sanguineus]

encore

A woman meets another for lunch; the latter's hair is the same color as the coat of the first. Something crystallises between them.

(1930s/pre-war AU)

Taran never sorted out his own mail, but whoever had been working at it was good enough at it to read the invisible currents of the city. They slid the envelope between a postcard from a friend somewhere in Spain and the riveting gossip hiding between the lines of this month’s issue from his Club.

—Something for you.

The vaguely bemused interest in his voice—I was still his little secret, traced out in the shape of winks and coy allusions to whatever domesticated animal he was feeling most metaphorically allured by that day, and not at all in the position of being written to by anyone with casual access to the expense clothing this missive—faded at the more immediately tantalizing letterhead from his Club. He handed the letter over without looking up, his other hand moving to slit open the Club envelope with the silver opener at his side.

It was addressed to Miss Esme Odile. Starting at ‘O’, the slant of the letters became slightly more capital, as if to highlight the awkwardness of it against the easy richness of twenty-dollar paper. I could have taken it as the slight it was meant to be, but this city made certain things cheap, like closing my eyes to the generosity of Taran’s mouth, and other things free, like rearranging your name until it fit like a second skin under bright lights.

Taran took a sip of his martini and I opened the letter.

The mother of Taran’s son took me out to lunch at Veselka. It had occurred to me on the walk over that she could derive no small amount of pleasure from watching me flounder at ordering—Taran’s habits and dictation were painfully obvious to the both of us, even in his absence—but two platters of varenyky were already on the table when I arrived, neat piles of golden-brown onions nestled beside dollops of sour cream along the cerulean pattern edging the plates.

Her son was noticeably absent, and for a moment I wasn’t sure if it was relief or dread that panged through me at the realization. Dahlia and I shared a vital commonality: our individual relationships to a very specific man were very well-defined, but to each other? I thought suddenly of Andrey, as if a tenuous alliance might bolster my spirits, but just as suddenly I remembered our first meeting. The uptick in morale was therefore short-lived.

—So good to see you again! Esther, isn’t it? Charming name, it suits you.

—You wrote it correctly. Lovely handwriting. Just like the primers.

Dahlia smiled thinly. In the restaurant’s clear light, the coldness of it turned her hazel eyes into something like the Hudson. It made sense why she’d be wearing a fur coat in October then: the thing lay over the back of a third chair at the table in a quiet, glorious rustle of tawny fox fur and soft ostentation.

She watched me sit, still smiling, and offered: Cassius is off with his father today—and isn’t it nice that we could chat?

Of course, she waited until I had taken a sip of water (brunch’s mimosas were too generous a mercy for Dahlia, apparently) to speak, so I kept her waiting with another, crossing my legs beneath the table and relishing the tiny flicker of annoyance in her eyes.

—Lovely of Taran to take him out to a show. It must be a treat for Cassius to spend time with him, I said with a smile.

Those came cheap in the city too.

—Mm. I heard he keeps you entertained the same way.

The barbed irritation in Dahlia’s voice went well with my forkful of varenyky; almost too rich. She watched me eat in silence for another breath, the corners of her mouth taut. Just as I began to swallow, Dahlia took a minuscule, impossibly dainty bite of her own, swallowed like a smug cat, and dabbed feathers of sour cream off her lower lip.

—You must feel like you’ve accustomed yourself to the city very well.

I looked at her and felt my fingers start to curl hard into the swell of my palms, leftover defenses that didn’t care about French tips or keeping up appearances. Dahlia smiled at me, hazel eyes sparkling. My patience shriveled, all dry husk and jagged edge against the soft rustle of her fur coat.

—Well, once you start receiving mail at a place, it really does become home, I said. I find the city suits me well.

—Is that what he told you? Very sweet.

Neither of us were smiling anymore, but somehow I preferred it that way. This felt realer than all the performances Taran and his circle demanded of me: more tangible and genuinely enticing. As much as I embraced the ease of leaning into the image of a willowy enigma ricocheting as desired between ingenue and seductress, there was meat here to sink my teeth into, an itch that could stand to be scratched instead of aching.

Dahlia took another bite, then laced her bare fingers together in front of her. She paused, ostensibly to give me the chance to pluck low-hanging fruit off the bough she’d offered.

My smirk pulled unexpectedly dry. The weight of it grated my tongue against teeth like cogs in a machine finally realizing how far the rust had crept. All the bright crystalline light surrounding us suddenly smelt of a circus. For the first time in my life, the thought of dancing under a spotlight was not an exciting one.

—You ought to know better than me that he doesn’t say anything for other people’s sake. What do you think I’m here for, Dahlia?

Her lips twitched and for a very serious second I thought she might slap me. Part of me wished she would. That would be familiar. That would be known.

—You don’t belong here, Esme.

And there it was, the elephant slain and skinned on the table between us and our naked hands.

Dahlia took a deep breath and pressed one slim palm flat against her temple. It was the sort of pose Mary took in the windows of St. Patrick’s, immaculate sufferance on display for the world to see.

—It’s not just you, Dahlia said in a voice that suggested she was angling for the patience of a saint. There are plenty of girls like you—you know, they come here from some plains town in Iowa or Georgia or wherever, and they think the dream is coming true. You wanted to be a star, didn’t you? Make it big, land the albatross.

She studied my face for a while. Whatever Dahlia found, it introduced a soft, squirming streak of dismay to her expression.

—I’m trying to save you some heartbreak. Yours, whatever family you’ve got hoping to hear from you back home, whoever you care about enough to lie to yourself about. Certainly not his, don’t mistake me. This isn’t the life for you.

—And what makes us so different?

I had played into her hands without realizing it, but Dahlia didn’t take the easy, immediate kill. She lifted her hand from her head and set it over mine.

—I think you know.

I could not move her. I could not move myself. For all the things seething under my skin, the only thing I could do was unclench my jaw and release my bite to bark.

—I wish he’d mentioned you. I’d have known to ask for advice. That coat brings out your eyes so well.

Dahlia matched my desperate spite, which made my own less desperate. An accidental kindness on her part, no doubt, but one all the same.

—Nothing stopping you in the future! He always did like my eyes, loved the lashes especially. And Portia has such beautiful hair. She keeps it long, you know, like the milkmaid girls in those God-awful European pictures. But it suits her.

Dahlia’s eyes flicked over me: up, down, and back up again. We smiled at the same time and in the same way, and she released my hand.

—Seems like he’s trying out a new flavor. On a diet, maybe.

She laughed: high, clear, glassy. I tasted it in the back of my own throat, the same phantom ache. The waiter came over from the wings of the circus tent and refilled our glasses without a word.

Another one of the city’s whimsies: watering the animals became a thankless task.