Part 8…
The conversation had unsettled her.
The evening had unsettled her.
And Eveline did not care for being unsettled.
She pushed her make pretend spectacles further up the bridge of her nose annoyed. Their arms pinched at her scalp, digging into the tender skin just above her ears.
The letters in front of her were starting to get blurry. She’d been at it for hours, trying to make up for the time she spent earlier in the day curled up in bed with Lucy, retelling a child-like version of the events that led to the dark bruises covering her lower back and the stitches that reminded her how careless she’d become.
With a heavy sigh, she pulled off her spectacles and pressed her fingers to her eyes, making black spots dance behind her closed lids. Pushing back the chair, she rose and faced the market square from her window. Outside, the sun had given up its hold on the day, and the room was cast in a soft glow from the lanterns that had been lit by one of the helpers.
„I want my friend back”, the words echoed in her head again. Involuntarily her palms took reach of her elbows and she had to lean into the desk behind her to steady herself. He sent her a letter later that day, inquiring about her health, with a wonderful bouquet of flowers. The letter still rested unanswered in her study at home, the smell of peonies lingering in the air. She couldn’t bring herself to write anything. What exactly was she supposed to say? Why are you here now? Why couldn’t you stay away? Why did you give up on me?
The question popped unwelcomed, making her wince. There was a time in her life when she’d fall asleep over crumpled paper, filled with rows of smudged words; questions she’d never dared to ask out loud; resentfulness mixed with despair building a home out of her until she was left with nothing.
And it was all for the best because, in the end, nothing could’ve prepared her for what came next.
A short knock on the door disrupted the pattern of her thoughts. She heard muffled voices down the corridor and that made her exhale a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Eve took a glance at herself in the window, acknowledging the unfamiliar eyes starring back, then she returned to her chair, making one last note in the book opened in front of her.
– I thought you were gone for the day.
She lifted her eyes from the papers scattered on the desk to meet the ones of her partner, who was leaning into the doorframe, his booted feet crossed and a half a glass of whiskey in his hand, dressed impeccably, as he always was. He had blonde hair that fell carelessly over his forehead and around his ears, framing sharp cheekbones and intelligent eyes. She’d never seen that shade of blue before.
She put the pen down, ignored the raised brow, and rested her head on the back of the chair.
– I’ve reviewed the information we’ve got so far in the Seaton situation. I feel like we are missing something. I should talk again to the cook. She was very proud of maintaining a tight schedule around the kitchen, but then again, she got all flustered when I asked her about the party, saying she doesn’t remember who got in and out of the kitchen that day. This is such a mess. Are you sure this job is worth it?
The question was mostly rhetorical, but when met with silence, she closed her eyes for a second feeling the heaviness of the day in her bones. Beneath her jacket, the skin around the stitches was throbbing angrily; pain she was trying a great deal to ignore.
– I’d rather know the story of those bruises. For someone who prides herself in being good at disguises, you did a lousy job at covering them.
Right. Nothing ever passed his sharp eyes. A bubble of something rose in her throat, but Eve wasn’t quite sure if was hysterical laughter or a hysterical sob.
– I’d say share that glass of whiskey first.
Her gaze traveled back to the door not surprised at all by the smirk she was met with.
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