Page 12 of The Cannibal

“To what are you referring?” she mumbled, as she reached around to hook the corset, starting on the lacing after.

“Edith, to start.” I glanced at her over my shoulder as she tugged and cinched. “Why did you stop me from speaking about it?”

“There’s nothing to tell.” She tugged aggressively, tightening up and down the back.

“Whose Nest are we in?”

My corset got tighter.

“Where’s Silas?”

“Alina,” she snapped at me, tucking the string in the bodice before she tossed my shoes in front of me. “Finish dressing, we are going for a walk.”

“You haven’t explained a thing to me since I’ve⁠—”

“Since you’ve come back from the dead? Do you not think you should adjust slowly to the world you just stepped into?” She turned on her heel to face me, her perfectly placed curls whipped against her cheek when she did so. Her eyes were sharp, fearful.

“Would an explanation not help me?” I countered.

“Not in the slightest.” She straightened her back. “We have to catch you up to the basics. No time for meandering. So dress yourself and meet me downstairs.”

I swallowed hard, the scratchiness almost enough to choke me with a breath.

When our eyes met, there was enough tension to fill the room. Was it guilt? The way her eyes glassed over when she saw me. Could it be anger? With me or herself, I wouldn’t begin to guess. But something was different, yet exactly the same as we started.

“I’m happy you’re here,” I said.

Her face immediately softened, almost mournful.

“As with you,” she said.

“Where did you bury her?” I asked, as gently as I could.

Phoebe’s face twisted as she turned for the door.

“You did bury her, didn’t you?”

She left, the click of the door fitting into place.

The rolling crackle of cicadas amassed in a chorus when we stepped past the trees.

The pond was wild, yet meticulously manicured. Exotic bog species like pitcher plants and flytraps littered among non-native orchids rising almost as tall as me. A display of nature that tried too hard to look candid.

Just past the shrubs, hiding behind the greenery, would be the man-made tree line of concrete and brick. The Veil of Cashmere, a jewel nestled within Prospect Park. It was jarring, having to manufacture parks to ensure the residents didn’t go insane between the walls of brick.

Even in the heat, the loose puffed sleeves left room for my skin to breathe on my arms and under the skirt. The cotton was a deep green, it nearly matched the trees. A dark color made lighter by the weight of the fabric. My hair was secured up and off my neck with too many pins to count. Some pieces broke free and brushed against my face.

Phoebe was dressed similarly, except her sleeves only came to her elbows. Her dress seemed to be made of something lighter, and most definitely pinker. Even the flowers pinned into her hair matched.

I tilted my black parasol over my face, shading my eyes as we walked among the cobble walkways.

“The park is marvelous, isn’t it?” Phoebe beamed.

I managed a grumble, similar to the sound of the bumbling bees around us.

“I thought fresh air would be good for you.”

“I’d prefer a cigarette.”