Page 19 of Salt in the Wound
He led me to the glass-railed stairs in the corner, and I followed him up to the second floor of the penthouse, which was lofted above the first. The stairs were meant to capture the best of the view—the park, the lights, the dark ribbon of the river—but my eyes went to the man in front of me. The narrow hips, the wide shoulders stretching the seams of his shirt. The bare forearms, suntanned even in December. It made me wonder if he really did spend all his time in Washington, DC.
“How are you liking Columbia? College life?” he asked over his shoulder, and I quickly turned my eyes away so he wouldn’t catch me staring.
“It’s good,” I answered automatically. And then more honestly, “I don’t know how much of a typical college life I’m living, so it’s hard to say.”
“You aren’t a typical person, Isolde,” Mark said as we reached the landing. “But it’s hard not to look at other people living their normal, messy lives and wonder what it would be like. To be one of them.”
It was so like my thoughts that day in the library that I wasn’t sure how to answer. It either meant Mark was incredibly perceptive, or that he and I shared this normality-nostalgia in common. I wasn’t sure what unsettled me more.
Nearly as unsettling as this almost-small-talk between us. Like I was someone worth getting to know, and not a bride paid for in advance.
The loft was open to the same windows as the lower level and floored in the same dark wood as below. It was lit by slim wall sconces and furnished with solid pieces upholstered in leather. It took seeing the St. Andrew’s Cross for me to realize that the furniture was upholstered in leather for a reason.
Mark was walking over to a lamp in the corner, flicking it on. What I had thought was a wall was actually a cleverly built cabinet, constructed so that it stretched the full height of the space, the seams of the doors concealed. That would be where the implements were kept. The toys.
The things Mark liked to use when he played.
“Have you picked a major yet?” he asked as he opened one of the cabinet doors. I knew from years of sparring and spying at parties that even though his eyes were straight ahead, his attention was completely on me.
As always, that attention was a restless flame licking at my skin. All this time being a cardinal’s little mouse, scurrying between millionaires and billionaires and politicians, and I still didn’t know why some people had that power and others didn’t. Most people were just people, but there was the rare person who somehow felt likemore, like they saw more,weremore, and to have them look at you, talk to you, listen to you…
He was a spy. A devil,I reminded myself. It had been his job to coax and cajole and coerce. But it was my job to cajole the devil now.
I had to be careful; I had to play this game better than him.
“Art history with a double major in business finance,” I said, running my fingers along the edge of a flat leather platform. It could have been a table, except I saw the cuffs dangling from the corners. A hole in the middle, not big enough for anyone to fall through, but too big to be a mistake.
“It’s for a cock,” Mark said, having observed me looking.
“Yours?” I asked without thinking, and he seemed very close to smiling then. There was a pull to his mouth, a certain light to his eyes.
It made me want—well, I wasn’t sure.
“I’m not usually the one on the table,” Mark said finally, and then turned back to the cabinet, rolling out a drawer. “You should remove your shoes now.”
“Not usually?” I asked, bending over to do as he asked, pulling my shoes off and setting them to the side.
“Never,” he amended, and he did sound amused now. “Was art history always the plan?”
“The plan was theology,” I said, which was true. It had been the middle ground between a business finance degree and joining a convent right after high school. “But my father still insisted on business finance, and so I decided to change to something that would pair better with it after I graduate. The ability to accurately value art or antiques for the private market seemed fairly employable, if niche, and I want to work in a field I’m passionate about before I’m requisitioned for the bank after my father retires.”
“Art history seems like a far cry from theology, but I suppose that makes sense.” Mark pushed the drawer closed and then closed the cabinet door. I expected to see anything in his hands just then—the things I had learned about—whips, crops, and clamps, things that could be inserted inside me—but when he walked toward me, all I saw was a length of white silk.
“I, um.” My brain was firing uselessly, trying to make sense of what he would want with a piece of silk while trying to rebut his mild assertion. “I’m mainly interested in religious art, in liturgical objects and antiques, and their valuation. I’m hoping to work for the Church eventually…”
Mark stopped just in front of me, the silk dangling casually from his fist, and I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t the only thing I was thinking about.
“Are we starting?” I asked hesitantly.
“We already have,” Mark replied.
I stared at him.
“And remember,” he said, “this is all for the sake of you learning to act the part. You are not submitting to me truly.”
“Right,” I said.
We’d already started. He was going to blindfold me.
