Once Written

Phoebe radiated elegance and hospitality. My own aura had always been a bit unapproachable, maybe a bit macabre. It was not an issue personally, as I preferred some distance between myself and strangers. I already brought too much attention to myself by existing most days. When I thought about it, seeing what kind of characters dared to approach was amusing. Phoebe was chatting up some pompous characters I had never seen before. Faces all began to look the same after a while, so I would not remember if I did meet them once upon a time. “This is my dear friend, Alina Lis. She owns the apothecary next to the florists in the West End. She’s a sort of scientist!” I tensed when I realized she had been talking about me. I appreciated her enthusiasm for my profession, but not every man was appreciative of women owning or inheriting property, never mind working in any scientific field. The shop was my father’s and was passed to me when he died. “Nowadays I write for scientific journals about the toxicity of beauty products and offer safer alternatives. If you read the tabloids, you may have read my work.” I gave a polite smile, not looking for remarks about women working outside their “expertise.” It put men at ease sometimes, to know that my skills involved something more feminine. Explaining myself was exhausting. I would instead dumb it down to keep my peace. Speaking of peace, there was the matter of the under-the-table products reserved for women looking to eliminate any unsavory characters, bound by marriage or otherwise. My exceptional understanding of botany and chemistry had allowed me to aid in the disappearance of many men—a professional poisoner, if you will. Phoebe didn’t know that half of the business existed, but her up-to-date gossip made choosing my next subjects fairly easy. I preferred not to call them victims. They were anything but. A poisoner’s job was never finished, as a poison could always be better. More refined, purified, deadlier—until you made something new and started the process again. That was why every recipient was a subject, each corpse leaving more flirtatious hints as to how the poison could be improved for the next sinner. It wasn’t long before Phoebe turned her attention to hosting-related endeavors while I spoke, leaving me alone with the crowd. “Ah, so you are like a pharmacist?” The man’s words were accurate, but he turned to his friend to scoff before returning any acknowledgments to me. “Say, what is wrong with the color of your hair? There—on your face.” I pulled a tight smile in response, my fingers brushing over my eyebrow. “There is nothing wrong. It is poliosis. It just turns the hair on the left side of my face white.” My voice was kind for the sake of educating, not that a loaf like him would know. “Surely if you are a pharmacist you must know how to fix an ailment like that.” “It is no ailment, more a curious biological happening.” A deep, steadying breath was drawn to keep myself from falling into more unfavorable expressions. “I prefer to call it a rarity.” Ignorance was expected, and I never blamed them. It is not a choice to be stupid, though I gave my best efforts to be sympathetic. I doubted that it would have been such a talking piece if I were born blond. Unfortunately, I was gifted with my mother’s black hair, which stood out like a melanistic rabbit on freshly fallen snow. I excused myself from the interaction, swapping out my empty champagne flute for a full one on my way to the other rooms. There were many repetitive conversations with other ladies about some of my writings, mainly those from the tabloids about beauty regimens. It was nice to know that my work was appreciated, even if the other half was otherwise unknown—for good reason. Someday maybe I would be as notorious as Giulia Tofana, but for now, it was between myself and the women who needed it most. Personal pleasures were like drying flowers, best kept away from the light to preserve their vibrance. My eyes lifted to take in the new scene in the room. The ceilings were tall, with an impressive collection of paintings climbing up the walls. Mismatched sizes of canvas were placed together in eclectic harmony on each wall. There were portraits, exotic landscapes, beloved animals, and an odd folklore scene here and there. All were displayed proudly in gold-leaf frames. I leisurely strolled through the crowd, my attention jumping from one painting to the next. Rooms like these just screamed money. The trill of instruments tuning up tore my attention away from the decadent display of art. All guests gravitated toward the main ballroom. The wood on the floor was stained with complementing hues of brown and tan, laid out in a convoluted pattern framing the floor. There was a piano in the corner, and some musicians were tending to their instruments. I stood at the edge of the room among many others, anticipating the festivities soon underway. I twisted a strand of hair between my fingers, sipping down the rest of my champagne and nearly spilling it from the corner of my lips. Slow down, Alina. The night is too young to be this sloppy. Hugging the corner, I watched the crowd excitedly split into dancers and spectators. I chose to be a spectator this time. There was something comforting about people-watching. I liked to wonder what it was like to be different people. My eyes flicked to the assortment of couples swaying and fluttering around each other. Some were seasoned married partners going through the evening’s motions, some were magnetic lovers glowing in each other’s presence, and then there were the ones meeting eager eyes for the first time, displaying caution and curiosity in each other’s movements. It reminded me of different species of birds and how they choose to attract their mates. The room’s temperature was rising, and my head was starting to believe it could float. It was a good thing I paused my pursuit of spirits. The herd of bodies made slipping out and into the next room difficult. I knew there was a lounging area from when I walked through it before. Why do I do this to myself? I should have used tonight to rest. I stumbled into the room with two fingers pinching the bridge of my nose, easing the spell of nausea that quickly approached. A sharp yelp returned some of my sobriety. Two figures were on the chaise on the other side of the room. A man was seated in the middle of the lounging chair, his knees resting in a wide stance with a woman poised between them. He had a black-gloved hand gripping her neck to the side, his other hand tightly around her arm. He was dressed entirely in black. It made the woman’s baby-blue dress jump out against him. The click of my heels alerted him to my presence. His eyes trailed across the room slowly before settling on me, no haste to his demeanor. He didn’t move, not even a flinch to indicate any remorse for his disgraceful position. His eyes were a cold, pale gray color. The type that could cut you down with a quick glance. His golden blond hair fell slightly over his face. One might describe an angel in any other situation, though that heavenly warmth never reached his gaze. I could not remember anything but those dead eyes, leeching any form of comfort from the air between us. His grip on the woman tightened, and she let out a sob that rang blurry in my ears. All I could hear was my blood rushing through them. A hungry grin crawled across his sharp features. There were wet crimson trails dribbling down her neck, staining the lovely blue silk of her dress. I swore I saw a flash of light reflect in his eyes. Brutish men were no mystery to me. I had come to know them well. But I had never seen one so brash as to rejoice upon being caught. No discretion, an absence of shame. There was a feral air to his expression before he grabbed her jaw, extending her neck out farther. A red glistening tongue dragged up her jugular. He kept me in the corner of his eye as if to ask, What will you do? I wish I could say that I made that man suffer—that I put his hands in jars and severed the tongue