Page 91 of Stealing Tink

He approaches Phoenix, standing next to her chair, his hands clasped behind his back.

He stares at the painting.

She knows that he knows. Lars is too intelligent not to have figured it out. Although, now that she considers it, he might consider her stupid enough not to have figured it out either.

When he opens his mouth to speak, his words are not what she expects.

“You must be relieved to be rid of her,” he says.

A pause, as Phoenix processes the statement.

She has learned not to allow Lars’s brusqueness to kindle anger inside her. He is not a man to be taken seriously when it comes to manners.

It’s not the insensitivity of the statement, the clear lack of understanding or caring for the feelings of others, that surprises her.

It’s the insight.

But Lars is like that, she supposes. What everyone else interprets from the way she’s retreated into near-silence is a woman grieving for her friend. Because that is how they would react had they lost someone so close to them, someone who experienced and shared in their trauma.

Lars would not feel this way.

So, for once, his inability to place himself in the minds of others offers him a clearer insight than most.

“She was my friend,” says Phoenix. Lars might be onto something, but that doesn’t mean he deserves her explanation.

“She was not your friend,” says Lars.

“I’ve known Venus for years. She understands things about me,” Phoenix says. “Things we both experienced that no one ever will. Things we went through together…” Phoenix trails off.

“If my understanding of friendship is correct, it is intended to be a mutualistic relationship. Your relationship with Venus was, at best, commensal. More likely, it was parasitic.”

When Phoenix doesn’t answer, Lars says, “Parasitic means⁠—”

“Yes, I know what it means,” says Phoenix.

Typically, Lars’s condescension would make Phoenix angry. But she isn’t angry. Perhaps she doesn’t have the energy for such things. Perhaps there’s a small part of her that’s relieved for someone else to know the truth. For someone to look at her and not assume feelings that are absent—assumptions that make Phoenix feel even guiltier.

She doesn’t know why she tells him. Perhaps it’s because Lars is so curious, but only for the sake of his own understanding. He has no instinct to gossip, to share the news with others.

“Venus was captured by Vulcan three years after me,” says Phoenix. “She had difficulty…” Phoenix pauses, searching for the correct word. “Adjusting,” she settles on.

She was probably understating. It wasn’t the way Phoenix used to have to drag her out of that bed those first few months. Spoon-feed her just so she wouldn’t wither away. That, Pheonix hadn’t minded.

It was what had come after.

Venus’s strength returned, but only physically. She loved Phoenix, attached herself to her. But her love, her friendship, came with expectations. Sacrifices.

Venus could barely get herself out of bed in the morning, not without Phoenix’s portion of tea in addition to her own. Her clothes never fit her in a way that was flattering. Fortunately, Phoenix’s did.

Even this wouldn’t have been so awful.

It was mostly the nights.

Occasionally, Venus would scream that if she had to attend Vulcan’s bed one more night, she would kill herself. So Phoenix would take her night for her, pretending that she wanted Vulcan’s company so that the switch, instead of insulting him and bringing wrath down on Venus, would feed his ego.

This never went over well with the other muses. “It’s because they’re jealous of me,” Venus would say, claiming they said awful things behind her back, and how could Phoenix be friends with them with how awful they were?

So slowly, Phoenix’s ties, the friendships she had made over the years of being a slave, the small glimmers that softened her otherwise terrible life, were stripped away one by one.