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November 14, 2023 at 2:45 AM
To design for a woman is to know and to adore the very essence of her, or so Marie thought. Erwin, with whom she had shared a friendship and written numerous letters over the years — though he was a decade her senior — had recounted her tales of his passions for various ethereal muses. However, he had, some time in the distant past, intimated that it was Marie who elicited from him a profound sentiment, beyond any comparison. Though his lips had never echoed this feeling, his penned words seemed to be full of fondness for her. On occasion, he might forget to mention it in one letter, only to hastily follow it with another — apologizing for his oversight, and, in poetic flourishes, recounting the marvel of their bond. Such a bond that sent tremors through his very soul, making him both yearn for and fear her ensuing letters. The anticipation made nights restless for him, especially as Tuesday approached, the day she would finally arrive.
It was neither the aesthetic grace of her intellect nor the symmetry of her form that captured his eye. Rather, it was her inherent warmth. She shimmered much like that fleeting dance observed when a droplet of tepid milk meets boiling water in a crystalline cup, thus tempering the tea to a gentler touch upon the tongue. Marie, ever the audacious spirit, would regale him with tales of her escapades: the thrill of the hunt, the exhilaration of cycling through the shadowed forest paths, or the playful insolence directed at guests over afternoon tea. And amidst these confessions of her wild indulgences—puffing cigars and sipping brandy—lay an incongruous, yet heartfelt admission: since her days of girlish innocence, she had cherished the dream of living a life in a doll house.
In the tender days of his boyhood, Marie would often catch fleeting glimpses of Erwin amidst picnics and assorted gatherings. However, as the boyish contours of he matured into a man, she rarely had the chance to meet him. Their paths had intersected but once prior to the engagement, on the sunlit grounds of the Ascot race. And so, as Marie boarded the train, a fog of uncertainty clouded her recollection of him, particularly the nuances of his face. Yet, there persisted a vivid imprint of him sauntering down the aisle, hands thoughtfully clasped behind him and the distinguished silhouette of his broad, erect shoulders — these fragments she could summon from the depths of her memory. Driven by a cherished dream of a life as delicate and orderly as a doll’s house, and for Erwin, she boarded the train, leaving the familiar behind. After all, Erwin had vowed, and in her heart’s quiet conversations, she believed he was devoid of any intent to wound her.
To design for a woman is to know and to adore the very essence of her, or so Marie thought. Yet she often pondered the paradox of human affection: how one might find beauty most resplendent in that which they cannot truly hold dear, yet avert their gaze when confronted with the profound beauty of what they cherish deeply.
Erwin’s penned words, however, served as a balm to her restless introspections. Through his letters, he emerged as cheerful, poised, and steadfast — the epitome of what one imagines a man ready to be married. Marie was not oblivious to his romantic past; two engagements that, while she couldn’t gauge their depth, had undeniably left scars on the hearts of the women involved. Yet, Erwin placed Marie on a pedestal distinct from the rest, attributing to her a particular sensibleness, thus she felt an invisible delineation from them. He lamented that his prior affections couldn’t grasp the gravitas of his work and the sacrifices it necessitated from everyone involved. And oh, how he spoke of his seamstresses with an unyielding tenderness! So, while previous brides took flight, like skittish birds, Marie hoped, fervently, that she possessed the clarity to fathom the depths of his world without faltering.
Erwin harboured an appetite for beauty — a kind which Marie felt evaded her own reflection, eluding her grasp no matter how deeply she delved into herself. She thus imagined his gaze as perpetually restless, his yearning insatiable. He seemed to be in a ceaseless quest for beauty. But can one ever be truly satiated with it, once and for all? As she gave her assent to marry him, an underlying trepidation gripped her: would mere glimpses of her ever suffice for him? After all, a myriad of women wove in and out of his daily life. Yet amidst this whirlwind, she sought solace in the notion that perhaps he saw in her not just a face, but a kindred spirit and confidante. Even so, an elusive tremor brushed her lips, the kind that dances in tandem with a heart’s frantic rhythm.
As Marie made her entrance, the very aura of the household seemed to falter, to momentarily dim. Its dwellers found themselves gravitating, almost magnetically, towards the windows, their silhouettes intermingling with the lamplight, their eyes straining through the verdant canopy of maples. Awaiting at the threshold, as she arrived, draped in her white cashmere shawl, were Erwin and the man often shadowing his steps, his trusted aide.
Marie surrendered herself into Erwin’s embrace. He, clutching her momentarily to his chest, eventually released her, setting her aside with the delicate precision one might treat a cherished doll. This allowed her to extend a hand to the other man. When it came to this individual, Erwin’s words were always chosen with deliberate care.
“Marie,” Erwin began, his voice quivering at the edge of introduction, but as he swiveled, his gaze failed to find its mark.
“Directly to your right,” interjected a slight, almost boyish figure, fingers deftly adjusting the perch of his glasses. “Ironically, I’m the one plagued with failing vision, yet you appear to lose track of me.”
“This is Levi.”
The playful “to your right” resonated silently within Marie as she gently pressed her hand to his. He stood notably shorter. His hands, while luxuriously soft — perhaps caressed by cream — made her recall a distant word from her grandmother: that only those of dubious character sported such impeccable manicures. That old notion, lodged deep within her, stirred once more.
Levi’s gaze settled upon Marie, and in that quiet moment of reflection, a realization unfurled within him: Erwin was genuinely claiming her as his bride. There was a luminosity about her, almost overwhelming in its brightness, yet it was tempered with a warmth reminiscent of a maternal embrace — nurturing, comforting — the quality Erwin seemed to be yearning for. As they held each other, Levi felt as if he had momentarily stepped into another’s profound joy. Perhaps, he mused, every man should one day marry.
In the house, Marie had her own bedroom adorned with a grand bed and silk sheets. Each morning when she awoke, her cheeks bore a soft pink hue, and her hair cascaded just right, spilling over her shoulders. Emerging with a hint of shyness, yet not wholly timid, she sought the images that mere letters had failed to encapsulate. From a vantage point — whether shielded behind a folding screen, nestled in an armchair cast in the glow of a standing lamp, or by an open window when the weather whispered promises — she watched the workings of the atelier. Her gaze often rested on Erwin and, by extension, Levi, who seemed to never leave his side. Levi, as indispensable and versatile as a penknife, seemed to materialize just when needed, ever so seamlessly. Handsome and impeccably dressed, he was a figure of quiet assurance.
Marie, often a silent spectator, would listen to their conversations. While the technical jargon eluded her, she was captivated by their passionate debates, striving to fathom why velvet was suddenly deemed 'fit for funerals', brocade dismissed as 'excessively frivolous', and a unique shade of green silk compared to the iridescence of a beetle. She was both bemused and intrigued by their fervent arguments over minute details, such as a slight deviation in a topstitch.
Marie felt an intrinsic need to familiarise herself with the workshop’s ambience, to steep in its atmosphere from the sanctuary of her cushioned armchair, before she would ascend the podium. There, swathed in fabrics or unveiled without, she’d stand in her raw vulnerability, clad perhaps only in an undershirt, ever aware of the measuring tape that grazed her waist with the threat of a poised gun. At those moments she yearned for Erwin’s gaze, finding solace therein, but Levi’s eyes filled her with apprehension. He observed women unabashedly, his gaze unwavering and serene, even as the fabrics hinted at contours and secrets beneath, revealing, often, more than they concealed. “Such audacity,” she mused, watching him handle the female form with such candid familiarity, sculpting it, aligning its posture, all the while maintaining a straight face untouched by any trace of impropriety.
Upon Marie’s entrance into the workshop, Levi took to addressing her as their lady. “Behold, our lady arrives,” he’d declare. Initially, Marie would smile, taking his address as flattery. Yet he persisted on every occasion until, over time, it began to elicit from her a subtle wince — exactly the response he had been angling for. They found themselves crossing paths in the most unexpected nooks, hinting at Levi’s careful evasion of areas where her presence was a given. Yet this silent demarcation eluded Marie; she hadn’t yet fully fathomed its bounds, rarely wandering the house barefoot, preferring shoes and slippers. Levi, by contrast, had once pressed his own bare feet deep into the rugs before, though that felt a lifetime ago.
Marie surmised that all that was new and unfamiliar demanded tactile exploration. Much like a child discovering the universe, she felt her way through — skin to texture, finger to fabric. Consequently, she was at times treated with a similar caution; objects deemed unsuitable for her were deftly removed, sometimes with a gentle rebuke, a nod, or a kindly worded entreaty. Levi’s interactions with her were invariably polite. His words were courteous, but scarcely more than that — dry, like summer straw. Yet, unintentionally, he cast them upon the inner warmth he had glimpsed in her during their first meeting, igniting it further.
In the pulse of her being, it was not but her receptivity, that acute responsiveness, a heightened sensitivity — a peril in its own right. Memories of Levi’s gentle hands arose in Marie with a quiet unease, especially during those stretches when Erwin found himself consumed by the whirlwind of work in the atelier. Once, letters from him punctuated her weeks regularly, but now, though he was merely a wall away, ensconced one floor below, the demands of his work seemed to swell, to the extent that a misjudged moment — offering a tray of tea at an inopportune time — could draw his ire (and heaven forbid she should spill even a droplet on his prized fabrics). It was Levi, ever the courteous one, who expressed gratitude for the tea. Yet, it wasn’t for him that she brewed it. Regardless, he always settled close to Erwin, their temples almost touching.
In the beginning, Marie felt a certain way about their habits and peculiar tendencies, speculating that perhaps a sliver of these gestures might have been destined for her as well. If she hadn’t hoped, might they have slipped by unnoticed?
Even at the breakfast table, Levi, in a brash familiarity, would lean into Erwin’s newspaper, pressing their foreheads together, whilst she, in her delicate phase of learning, was seated across, heart skipping beats when Erwin’s gaze strayed elsewhere. There were times Erwin would, without much thought, wrap an arm around Levi’s slender frame, place a hand on his shoulder, allowing fingers to brush the nape of his neck, or hurriedly, almost possessively, guide him by the waist through the corridor. Erwin’s every gesture and touch bore the signature of methodical intent, a silent symphony of what he owed and envisaged, the heartbeat of work ever-present. Meanwhile, Levi, with eyes shimmering behind the glass panes of his spectacles, assumed his role, and Marie, too. She played her part yet couldn’t avert her eyes, registering every nuance. As Erwin and Levi lost themselves in a whirlwind of sketches, amidst clouds, waves of fabric and cascading drapery, Marie turned to adorning tables with fresh blooms, assembling bouquets, refreshing the upholstery, and baking delicate shortbreads for their tea. “Our lady,” Levi would refer to her.
Drawing Erwin away from his work was a task that often required prolonged and intricate persuasion. But once convinced, he and Marie would find themselves ensconced within a gazebo at the rear of the garden, sharing tea and weaving conversations. The world beyond — the hum and buzz of cars — served as a distant backdrop. They, in their sequestered haven, felt like birds ensnared in the trees, their words flitting about, almost as if inscribing letters upon the ether. Erwin’s queries, largely tailored for Marie, were such that she could address not just with mere thought but with the incisiveness of wit, sweeping away his day-to-day anxieties — those mundane matters, including politics. He seldom broached topics that harkened back to the war, a chapter concluded a decade ago, fearing they might perturb the tranquility of his evenings and haunt his nights. For Marie, these sessions were savoured, the joy of them consumed as one might a soft boiled egg, until only the delicate shell remained. Having satiated his need for conversation, Erwin would tenderly kiss her hands and go to bed.
Upon his departure from the garden that evening, Marie remained, resembling a bloom in twilight, her essence folded inward as the petals of a flower do when nightfall comes. It wasn’t until the cool of the evening wrapped around her that she stirred, making her way back to the home where the gentle hum of life from the workshop persisted.
“If even a moment of your sleep were to be sacrificed for my gown, I’d feel eternally marked by guilt,” Marie murmured, her gaze slipping through the slight parting of the door.
There was Levi, stationed at his work table, yet he seemed averse to turning on the lights, only the gentle glow of twin wall sconces. Levi often found himself caught off guard by Marie’s buoyant demeanor, momentarily losing sight of her tender years.
“Why strain your eyes in such dimness?” she probed.
“It has a certain intimacy to it,” he responded, setting his scissors down. “Wedding gowns come with superstitions. Fear not, I’ve not brought needles or shears near yours today. Certainly not during Easter.”
“Why, then, the entire day in the workshop?” Marie inquired.
“Sketching,” came Levi’s simple retort, proffering her a few pages from his watercolor sketchbook.
The very air of the house seemed steeped in the fragrances of lilacs and the quiet persistence of calluses, newly arranged bouquets lending their perfume. Such scents rendered Marie delightfully impish from dawn’s first light. She had sauntered past the workshop multiple times, stealing glances at Levi through the door’s slightest aperture. He seemed lost in thought, not actually sketching or busying himself with any tangible task, but merely seated, gaze anchored to some distant point beyond the window, resisting the night’s call to leave. It struck Marie how Levi seemed to linger in their residence until hours that bordered on the inappropriate. This made her feel, at times, as if she were a ghost drifting through a mansion not her own, encountering Levi much as one might unexpectedly come upon a vase in a dim corridor, displaced from its usual station, or like the pristine pane of a conservatory, so impeccably clear that one might overlook it entirely.
“You know, I once helped with my mom’s wedding dress. We didn’t have any fancy sewing machines back then, so everything was done by hand — every tiny stitch, even the embroidery and the lace. She crafted it all. But she had this thing, always second-guessing herself for making her own dress. Still, working on it with her, during those evenings, was something special. And the dress was quite a sight.”
Marie’s curiosity piqued, “Where is it now?”
“In my closet,” Levi responded with a hint of melancholy. “She never had a chance to wear it, there was… an accident. Makes you think maybe she had a point with her superstitions. Anyway, all I’m saying is, you are lucky to have your gown in good hands. I’ll make sure of it.”
Marie, unsure of why, found herself smiling, a soft, gentle curve. His words, though peculiar, lacked any hint of bitterness, making her brows arched ever so slightly.
“Rest assured, I won’t lose sleep over it, you have my word” Levi declared, snapping his fingers. “Now, your thoughts on these sketches?”
“Exquisite!” Marie murmured, her fingers tracing the delicately drawn lines on the pages. “Has Erwin seen these? Has he expressed a preference?”
Levi, with a knowing smile, replied, “No, and he should not, for this is your wedding dress. The decision, the choice, lies with you.” He gave a soft chuckle as he draped a cloth over his desk, shrouding his tools.
“I had not realized he held such superstitions.”
Levi leaned in, “He carries more of them than you’d suspect. Also, crucial decisions often rest in the hands of women. This is no exception.”
Marie, with a gentle inclination of her head, set the sketches to one side. Drawn to a manikin draped in an emerald suit, Levi delicately attached a small embroidered patch of cloth to its chest, its sheen barely catching the dim room’s light.
“That little addition,” Marie began, her brow knitting in subtle disapproval, “are you thinking of leaving it there merely as embellishment? It strikes an odd note.”
Levi, shaking his head softly, responded, “Oh, no, not at all. It’s destined for the inner lining, close to the heart. Yet another of Erwin’s charming ways. He stitches his well wishes into the fabric, an encrypted benediction, a silent charm.” With a flourish, Levi reversed the collar of his jacket, revealing the secret to Marie. “And always, in that particular spot, the stitch bears the crimson thread.”
The pronounced lapel, with its artful crease reminiscent of a crescent, seemed to graze just below Marie’s knees, and she felt like falling, a blush blooming across her cheeks.
“And how can it be termed 'secret'?” she inquired, a playful edge to her voice.
“Well, save for Erwin and myself, no one knows of messages hidden beneath each stitch. And now, I’ve let you in on our secret,” Levi confessed, an undertone of contrition in his voice.
She teased, “Tell me, when a particularly disagreeable client requests a gown, do you embroider veiled maledictions instead of blessings?”
Levi’s laugh was soft. “Not once. In our atelier, we bear no secrets. I can assure you, our hands haven’t indulged in such mischief.”
Marie’s laughter rang out, a silvery chime. His words were calculated, she mused. Crafted to ensnare her thoughts, stoking an ember of envy — a fierce, unyielding jealousy. Jealousy for him, for all who bore that crimson stitching against their skin. She had to suppress a sudden, wild yearning to implore Erwin to craft her a garment, one all red beneath its surface. She treasured his letters, and felt an overwhelming impulse to cut them all to ribbons, patches to hide beneath the crimson thread, enough to populate an entire summer’s wardrobe.
“Might there be a jest stitched beneath your collar?” she ventured.
From over the edge of his glasses, Levi cast her a fleeting smile, then dimmed the lamplight to a soft whisper.
“To be honest, I don’t have the faintest idea. Whatever’s stitched in there, Erwin kept it to himself,” he admitted, a sigh punctuating his words. But then, with an expression akin to a guardian angel’s gentle assurance, he added, “But you, dear Marie, on this unique occasion, will certainly have one of your own. Though I’ll be doing the sewing, Erwin will come up with something fitting for you. Of that, I have not the slightest doubt.”
In uttering those words, Levi cast Marie into the dual realms of joy and desolation, all at once. Oblivious he was, of the ripples his revelation might send through both their lives. For days, Marie moved through the house as if she trod upon a dream-like mist, her steps hesitant, her voice faltering each time Erwin’s presence graced her vision. Amid the everyday — while unwinding her curlers in the reflective solitude of the bathroom, lost in the pages of a book, navigating London’s winding streets, or sharing a tea with Erwin in the garden — her heart raced, and words stumbled clumsily off her tongue. Her thoughts betrayed her, urging silence. Each dress Erwin had gifted her was meticulously examined, and, to her chagrin, not a hint of the telltale red stitch could be found. In moments of pining, she’d retreat to her room, contemplating where she might peer beneath the fabric’s surface. And in quieter moments, she would reread Erwin’s letters, seeking solace within their folds.
Erwin became ever more the reason for Marie’s worries. As days waned, Erwin’s aura heightened her unease, but his letters spoke tenderness, brightened her with smiles, and caressed each fingertip. However, parallel to those letters, his inner world was sealed with wax, resistant to the keenest cut. Oh, how Marie yearned to truly know him — to love, to spar, to reconcile. But there existed no space for contention; she was merely met with gentle admonishments, thus eliminating any need for her endearing charms to bridge rifts — for rifts, with Erwin, simply did not exist. His reserve, a stark contrast to the warmth of his letters, left her grappling with emotion. His candidness, both unsettling and admirable, stemmed from his belief in unbridled honesty for all. His profession demanded this forthrightness — a clarity that sometimes teetered on bluntness. Yet, understanding the whys of Erwin’s demeanor offered Marie no respite.
In the vast world, Erwin had taken on a prominent position, while Marie, albeit an official’s daughter versed in the nuances of wit, had spent the past decade in the muted hues of a country estate. There, a sheep-herding dog was more than just a guardian of the flock; it was a confidant permitted indoors. On days when melancholy cast its shadow over Marie, the dog, freshly bathed, would nestle at her feet atop the bed. Erwin, intrigued by such quaint upbringing, cherished these tales, holding them as tokens of Marie’s distinctiveness. However, there were moments of discord; the audible sips she took of her tea, the clang of cutlery that, to Erwin, rang as brazenly as a midday bell. Their breakfasts, shared in the company of Levi — who, by some unspoken routine, invariably arrived early — were harmonious for but a fleeting week. Marie soon altered her rhythms, staying up late, arriving at breakfast just tardy enough to draw undue attention, often disrupting a conversation, much to Erwin’s chagrin. Wounded by his unwavering allegiance to “process” and “routine”, she found solace in solitude, requesting breakfast to be brought to her room.
“You were absent at breakfast,” Levi remarked, a hint of concern touching his voice. “A malaise, perhaps?”
“Something of the sort,” Marie offered, her voice a soft lilt.
“It has been a week,” he sighed audibly.
She didn’t truly see the man but heard him well — the slight tautness in the fabric, the whisper of pleats being adjusted. Poised upon a low, crescent dais amidst mirrors reflecting the languid afternoon, Marie felt cocooned in silk’s embrace, the sunlight casting gentle fingers on her back.
“Must you always?” Erwin’s voice, a tad sharper, addressed Levi, who sported a medley of pins precariously lodged at the corner of his mouth. “Use a pincushion.”
“Mine’s gone missing, the one with the waistband. I cannot find it anywhere,” came Levi’s muffled reply.
“Stand tall,” Erwin gently chided Marie.
With delicate fingers, he gauged the length of the ribbon adorning the ruffle of her dress, hovering just beneath her newly bared clavicles. The salon echoed with subdued sounds, a few girls rustling fabrics behind the curtains, intimate whispers. In Levi’s absence, an undercurrent of playful flirtation danced between Erwin and Marie. Specks of light pirouetted amidst the drapes, fabrics sighed, and Erwin beheld Marie as though she were a masterpiece, his most treasured find. But in Levi’s company, Erwin’s mien shifted; it became more tempestuous, smiles more scarce, reserved largely for Levi, who often wore an even graver countenance. Then all that remained of Marie in the atelier was a string of measurements, scribbled in sequence on a parchment, pinned to the ornate frame of a mirror. Her reflection, though slender, seemed pleasing, yet the mirror bore a trickster’s touch. Through its lens, Levi appeared almost spectral, reminiscent of a figure from a doomsday fresco, a stark contrast on such a sun-drenched day.
“Petra!” Erwin’s voice, clear and resonant, filled the room.
She responded, a lilt of inquisition in her tone, “Sir?”
“Cease whatever it is you are occupied with and make a pincushion for Levi.”
From beyond the screens, a youthful visage appeared. Before she could voice her thoughts, Erwin, ever the anticipator, issued the specifics: “Ensure it has a waistband, sixty-five centimeters in length. Be swift.”
Marie’s gaze flitted to Levi, now humbly kneeling at her feet. In a gesture both intimate and abrupt, Erwin extracted a pin from the very corner of Levi’s mouth, then playfully tapped his cheek.
“How impeccably smooth your shave is today,” Erwin remarked, artfully adjusting the ribbon on Marie’s dress. “And is that a new cologne I detect?”
Levi’s voice, ever soft, answered, “Just my regular one.”
“No, it has an exotic note… Incense, perhaps?”
“That’s me,” interjected Marie, her voice quivering like a plucked string. “I visited the church before my hair appointment.”
Erwin’s hands paused, their dance upon the fabric momentarily suspended. Another pin pierced the material, and Marie’s breath caught in her throat.
“Do you like my new hair?” she ventured, hoping to recapture his focus. “I felt a shorter look was due.”
Erwin’s gaze met hers, but it felt as if he peered right through her. He continued his alchemy with the fabrics, juxtaposing various hues of white near her face, perhaps to counteract the faint shadows under her eyes. After what felt like an eternity, he finally remarked, “There’s a certain boyish charm to it now. Yet, you remain radiant. See for yourself.”
Directing her to the mirror, Marie observed the slender blue ribbon now cinching her waist, the delicate pearl silk pinned to her shoulder.
“You are a vision, are you not?” His words had the veneer of a rhetorical question.
Levi, ever the silent observer, chimed in, “Absolutely.”
Lifting her gaze to Levi, their eyes met and he offered a smile, leaving her adrift. Approaching Marie from behind, he adjusted a swath of fabric. She caught a fleeting glance of his hair, trimmed shorter than hers, swept behind his ears. The sensation of the pins he wielded felt as though they punctured not just the dress but her very being, causing a phantom ache in her lower back. It was the burgeoning realization of a sentiment she had yet to name — perhaps envy, perhaps animosity — that threatened to swallow her. That morning had begun with promise, cocooned by beauty and the gentle cadence of solitude after her breakfast, the whimsical visit to the hair salon, and the church. The scent of rose oil clung to her freshly cut hair, her abode was pristine, and she had envisioned a day of leisurely reading. Yet, confronted by this man, her earlier ambitions felt distant, intangible.
The tremors of Marie’s nerves danced like the strings of a finely-tuned instrument, ever susceptible to the artful touch of Erwin. Their union, free from quarrels, required her to love him with an unwavering intensity. In the stillness, when the world of work faded, she cast her gaze upon him, warming to the thought of matrimony. She had learnt the delicate play of proximity and distance, knowing when to retreat, letting his quietude guide her. Erwin’s respect grew for her measured restraint and her mastery over emotion. The playful escapades she once penned in her letters became treasures he’d request her to voice aloud as if night tales; and with a wistful tenderness, she obliged.
The home morphed under Marie’s touch. And while Erwin’s voice rumbled in admonishment at the mere thought of her meddling in the foyer and rooms that whispered secrets of the atelier, he relinquished the rest to her artistry. With every vase she positioned, every table she introduced, every fabric she draped, Marie felt herself growing sturdier, her footsteps more assertive, her voice echoing with newfound authority. Beauty unfurled before Erwin’s watchful eyes, and as he settled, sketching, in a chair bathed in the golden hue of sunlight, he’d clasp Marie’s hand, a silent gratitude shimmering in his smile.
In her mind’s eye, Marie envisioned herself fortifying their sanctuary, a place once birthed from dreams, now tangible, cocooning them in warmth or perhaps, at times, in disarming simplicity. She sought to anchor Erwin, to nourish him as one tends to delicate greens, imagining him as a flourishing vine, with her own arm extending as its supporting bough.
Amidst the tremulous anticipation of the wedding, another moment of significance marked Marie’s arrival: a grand show. Her expertise became invaluable, for with her arrival, the house’s once chaotic mosaic of items settled into a defined order. And this order, a maze, known only to her, transformed her into an inadvertent linchpin. In the recesses of her mind, she guarded a treasure trove of seemingly insignificant secrets. The whereabouts of glasses, napkins, silver-polishing velour strips, all lay nestled in her mind. As a result of her meticulous rearrangements, which initially caused the confusion, the house echoed with a newfound rhythm: the cadenced patter of servant footsteps. To and fro, from the grandeur of the hall to the warmth of the kitchen, and invariably back to Marie, the compass for all directions.
Throughout the evening, spanning from the afternoon’s lunch until the tender touch of sunset — nature’s most forgiving light — the assembled ladies, with an air of restrained sophistication, concealed their poised lips behind their fans. But as time trickled away, one by one, they took to their notebooks, marking down dress models with an enthusiasm that spoke of purses turned the seam side out.
A torrent of work awaited, a reality Marie had yet to grasp. Erwin held each seamstress to exacting standards, a ruthlessness she had yet to see. No thought of recruiting new hands crossed his mind; the current ones, though wearied, held both the skill and spirit he deemed essential. And so, in the quiet corners of the atelier, the show’s success was marked with understated celebration, a weary acknowledgment of the impending nocturnal toils. Yet, amidst this, Erwin’s spirits soared, and he endeavored to envelope Marie in his jubilant whirlwind.
In those moments, Erwin was his most authentic self with her: unabashedly laughing, impulsively pulling her close, the sway of a silent dance promising so much more. She felt a fleeting intimacy, his hand in hers. But as quickly as it began, the music dwindled, replaced by the palpable weight of silence.
Yet, even more revealing was Erwin’s transition down the corridor, the assertive echo of his heels heralding his entrance into the workshop. Here, surrounded by Levi and the familiar faces of his staff, he unfurled. Embracing each, their cheeks feeling the warmth of his lips, even Levi’s. The closeness, perhaps a tad too intimate, did not escape Marie’s watchful gaze. Should she have voiced her unease, Erwin would likely have dismissed her concerns as mere prudishness. But her query would be more than just an expression of disapproval; it would be a silent plea, a yearning for a similar display of affection. For amidst the myriad of intimate gestures he shared with others, he seemed to have forgotten her.
In the depth of her love, a profound solitude enveloped Marie. Adorned and radiant, she stood as an untouched emblem of beauty. A beauty, as Erwin perceived, so fragile, much like the delicate gemstone, tethered by the finest thread, adorning her finger.
The room bathed in a soft yellow glow. Most had indulged in a drink, yet Levi abstained. Instead, he sipped tea, and not just from any cup, but from the most delicate of the set that Marie’s mother had gifted her upon her departure. He laid eyes on this cherished thing, his lips pressing gently against its edge, a subtle flicker in his gaze. Both he and Erwin spoke warmly of their work, declaring their fondness for the fabrics even for the finest details — needles, those pointed reminders that true passion is seldom without its thorns. Their discussion, laden with plans and profuse gratitude for the seamstresses, seemed innocent enough, as long as the topic stayed on their shared craft. Then came Erwin’s toast, heartfelt and sincere, and as voices melded in celebration, glasses chimed in harmonious union. Yet, amidst the jubilance, Levi’s cup — or perhaps it was truly Marie’s — revealed a flaw, its handle giving way, and the porcelain fell.
Marie’s breath caught sharply in her chest. Levi, momentarily frozen, suddenly appeared more a boy than a man, his cheeks awash with a fiery hue. She had labelled him in her mind as a rogue, a scoundrel even. To her, his act, however inadvertent, seemed like a deliberate affront. His hand, and no other’s, had touched her cherished tea set. Petra, in a soft rustle, began to collect the shattered remnants with a brush, tucking them discreetly behind the lamp’s base. Marie, with a swish of her dress, turned and took her leave, finding some solace in her newfound indignation, listening to the weight of Erwin’s pursuing footsteps, echoing behind her as she ascended to her bedroom. The world seemed to sway slightly, the stairs, the rugs, and even her own reflection in the mirrors stretched and distorted. Evening gowns lay scattered on her bed, waiting to be attended to. Without a backward glance, Marie surrendered to their inviting embrace, only fully aware of her surroundings when Erwin clicked the door, sealing them inside.
The following morning found Marie awakening later than Erwin, who had already made his morning exit. Yet, no breakfast had come her way. Light-footed and donning a summer dress, perhaps ill-suited to the season, she drifted towards the dining room. The fluttering of newspaper pages carried a note of tension, giving her pause. A sense of unease told her that the day had already ruffled his nerves.
Positioning herself discreetly behind a lavish vase, she lent her ear to the room’s murmurs.
“What exactly are you insinuating?” Erwin’s voice held a hint of frost.
“She’s lost weight, Erwin. I’ve adjusted that dress of hers not once but twice,” came Levi’s retort. “She’s become as quiet as a mouse, rustling behind the walls, and you’ve denied her the simple pleasure of a shared breakfast.”
“She takes her tea noisily and seems perpetually inclined to engage in chatter when it’s better suited for the evening. My mornings should be quiet, a solace for my work. Surely, you, Levi, of all people, recognize their importance.” A swish of newspaper suggested Erwin was using it as a barricade, as he often did when irked. “Now, with this inconsequential exchange, you are violating it yourself. Perhaps solitude at breakfast is the answer.”
“Seek it if you must,” Levi responded, his tone nonchalant. “Your displeasure affects me little. But her? She’s different, Erwin, and hardly deserves such indifference.”
“She was never in the dark about my ways,” Erwin shot back.
“But how would she have known?” Levi retorted, pausing to bite into a crisp toast, an unusual choice for him who favored the softness of bread, ensuring a silent meal. “You never mentioned your true habits. Now, as you are no longer penning letters, she anticipates more of you.”
“Believing I might reshape my ways is a waste of time.”
“Indeed, I’ve always been acutely aware,” Levi replied with a pointed look, “yet she possesses the keen wit to know when the time comes to cease wasting her precious moments. Particularly on you.”
The subtle clatter of cutlery against porcelain punctuated the tension. Marie, a silent observer, sensed Erwin’s exhaled weariness as he laid his newspaper down, while she distanced herself from the wall, where an emerging damp patch marred the soft hue of the wallpaper.
“My affections for her are genuine, profound even. What more do you seek?”
“Be kind to her,” Levi said softly, shaking off his kerchief. “I’ve grown fond of Marie; she tries. Just ensure you spare her any pain.”
Upon the utterance of these words, a flush pervaded Marie’s face, an amalgam of indignation and perhaps, mortification. The chair’s legs uttered a plaintive moan as they were moved against the polished wood. Levi, his silhouette drawn sharply against the corridor’s dim light, draped his onyx jacket upon his frame and made his way towards the sanctuary of the workshop. Marie’s gaze trailed him, and a surge of determination welled up within her: a desire to close the distance, to articulate the tempest of feelings, or at the very least, to peer into those brazen eyes of his. Yet, she found herself silently thanking him, for in his tact, he feigned ignorance of her presence. And perhaps she did not truly follow, but rather, the treacherous echo of her heels seemed to play a deceitful game, mirroring his rhythm.
At their lunch, an event so rare given Erwin’s hesitance to venture out unless urged by utmost necessity, he beckoned her to join him. As they meandered through the park, he quietly extended his hand towards her. The tapestry of freckles on his nose became more pronounced as he smiled — a smile untouched by pretense but weighed with a hint of regret. The trees, nature’s gentle sentinels, swayed in a ballet of light and shadow. Birdsong punctuated the air, butterflies meandered, and the essence of spring hung thick, redolent of the tension before rain. Standing before him, she absorbed his apologetic words, which now, stripped of their usual eloquence, seemed as clumsy as a bouquet wrapped hurriedly in cellophane, crinkling and awkward to hold. She offered a laugh, part genuine and part to dissipate the tension, nestling her cheek into the familiar comfort of his chest, yearning for this moment’s sweet solace to stretch.
“Let us take a brief holiday, escape for a day or two,” she ventured, boldness brightening her voice.
The proposal caught him off-guard, but he found he could not decline. Thus, two days unfurled before them — one painted with the gold of the sun, where forests beckoned, catamarans glided on mirrored lakes, and horses waited to be fed. The next day’s rain confined them to the veranda of a quaint inn, tea in hand, engaged in the ebb and flow of heartfelt conversation. Erwin’s work, that ever-present specter, loomed at the periphery, but Marie’s gentle insistence kept it at bay. Within her mind’s eye, she pondered how this very work seemed to leech from him, slowly diminishing the man she cherished. She recalled the face of the other, those piercing gray eyes sheltered behind horn-rimmed spectacles, now, in this light, taking on a serpentine hue.
Upon the waning hours of the third day, they found themselves back at the house. Marie’s smile widened, noting the darkened windows, silent sentinels hinting at an empty dwelling — the space now only for the two of them, a sanctuary she had yearned for, perhaps the dearest of all her quiet desires.
With a brief embrace, she and Erwin parted, “Only for a moment,” she whispered to herself. Ascending to her bedroom, she cleansed away the day, shrugged off her attire, and cloaked herself in a silk robe. Adorning her vanity, amidst delicate vials of French perfume, lay a bouquet of roses she’d brought. These were not ordinary roses, but thornless wonders, their generous buds now blooming effusively as she placed them in water. A confession swelled within her, one she had longed to voice but never quite found the courage. Bathed in the soft hues of her robe, and with the delicate lace casting dappled shadows, she ventured into the corridor, bolstered by the certainty that he would not, could not, turn her away.
The distinct sound of two doors echoed in the corridor. Emerging from the room across — the second master bedroom — stood a figure, adjusting a crumpled neckerchief and smoothing back hair. “Of course,” Marie pondered, “he’s always near.” For in life’s tender moments, there always seems to be a jarring note, a stark reminder that every delightful thing must come to an end with the sound of a door sharply shut.
As Levi passed Marie, he offered a nod — a mere acknowledgment, then continued, uttering a brief 'goodnight'. There was no tremor in his step, no hesitation in his gaze; his heartbeat seemed to echo the steady rhythm of someone untouched, unswayed. Even having seen her, having wronged her in so many indescribable ways, he carried on unflinching. The click of the lock from Erwin’s room was a sound she couldn’t ignore, halting her in her tracks. The ambiance shifted; all that had fluttered on the surface these past days — moments of serenity and warmth — seemed stifled. And those heavier sentiments that had settled deep, now rose, bubbling to the forefront. She felt compelled to follow Levi, drawn by the decisive sound of his heels. Yet, she knew, had he moved silently, tiptoeing with a candle’s glow through this house — her home — especially after leaving that particular room, looking disoriented and perhaps aghast, she would have sought the solace of her own bedroom, allowing tears to flow as freely as they wished.
“You shouldn’t have disturbed him at this late hour,” Marie’s voice softly intercepted Levi’s descent on the staircase.
“I wouldn’t have if Erwin hadn’t insisted,” he replied, almost under his breath, his fingers lingering a touch too long on the railing. “He desired a report of events during his absence.”
“Could it not have waited until morning?” she pressed.
“You understand Erwin as I do. He puts work above all else; it knows no patience.”
Marie’s form seemed to tighten, mounting above Levi on the edge of the stairs, appearing to him as a phantom in her white dressing gown. “A bride,” was his fleeting thought, making him feel momentarily smaller, like the restless sparrow nestled beneath Marie’s window, its sounds nearly as unsettling as the rustlings within the walls.
“You, however, seem ever-patient,” her voice was a mixture of wry jest and warmth, “lingering through the night merely to convey messages?”
“Precisely so,” he confirmed.
“And was it the sole reason for your presence in his room?”
“Only at his request, Marie,” Levi confirmed, his voice tender.
The thought intruded, unbidden: Erwin would never embarrass you so, dear Marie. As the thought settled, Levi’s posture shifted, and his jacket slid from his shoulder, falling to the stairs. In a hurried gesture, he retrieved it, dusting it off as if it held immeasurable worth. A sting of emotion tightened his chest, though he thought it could no longer bear it, as he brushed back damp strands from his brow.
“I must apologize. It seems I’ve interrupted your sleep, and perhaps even startled you.”
“You neither disrupted my sleep nor did you alarm me,” she responded, a note of defiance lifting her chin. “Why should your presence cause disquiet? You’re ever near, it seems.”
Levi offered her a gentle nod. “My duties for the evening are complete. I shall not stay any longer. Goodnight.”
Marie chided him, thinking he had already stayed too long, her lips tightening in silent rebuke. The notion took hold that she might retreat to her bedroom, perhaps to find solace in shadows. Or rather, she contemplated, to ignite the lamp, parting the curtains, and observe Levi’s departure, tracing his footsteps along the stone pathway. And when he would glance back — as he invariably did — he’d glimpse her stern silhouette etched against the room’s glow. Yet, she bypassed her room, halting before another door set diagonally across. She rapped on it, insistently, demandingly, so they’d have no choice but to heed her summons. She felt entitled to his moments, hours even; days if the pull of her jealousy demanded. A jealousy, mirrored and magnified in its intensity. Words bubbled up within her, impatient utterances she was not inclined to hold till dawn.
The following morning saw Marie with an unusual request for Levi: the rescheduling of her wedding dress fitting to dawn, a demand laid bare without reasoning or embellishment. By breakfast in the dining room — a meal during which Erwin had by now surrendered to her whims — she arrived precisely as she intended: radiant, poised for silence, patient for her tea to either cool to a sippable warmth or to be diluted with an overpour of chilled milk. Her intuition had served her well; once Levi had embarked on his work (typically post-breakfast), he became lost in his craft, oblivious to the world around him, as evidenced by the absence of his familiar form in the dining room. This granted Marie the luxury of an undisturbed morning meal. From behind his paper shield, Erwin’s glances at Marie grew fonder, with smiles growing more frequent. Post meal, he took to generously buttering toast, layering it with jam, and requesting a fresh pot of steaming tea from the housekeeper — all to be transported to the workshop. Amidst precious fabrics and dedicated craftsmanship, Erwin unexpectedly began to appear with raspberries and aromatic tea in tow. Levi’s gray, silvered eyes, brimming with gratitude, would turn to Erwin as one might to a sudden burst of sunlight — squinting, but appreciative. And thus, in a rhythm as constant as the waxing and waning of the moon, they devoted their days (and for Levi, often the nights) to the studio. Marie, her fist often clenched against her mouth in a bid to keep her emotions at bay, was becoming versed in the art of waiting.
“You linger late into the night yet again,” she observed, peering into the workshop as the clock heralded midnight — her stipulated boundary. “After all, it is a Friday.”
“Work, as you can see, has piled up,” Levi responded.
“Yet, it strikes me that you don’t quite share Erwin’s love for working from home,” she mused.
The man’s head lifted, his eyes meeting Marie’s, momentarily taken aback. But almost immediately, a smile danced upon his lips, attempting to deflect her remarks with light-heartedness.
“I fear I may have tried your patience once more,” he began, the faintest trace of a wince appearing as he tasted her words, “but your observation, it holds truth. My apartment is, how do I express it… a pied-à-terre. To be honest, I wouldn’t refer to it as a home to eagerly retreat to.”
Marie’s gaze wandered over the room — all was in splendid order, reflecting meticulous care. With the graceful arc of her foot, she rectified a rug’s misbehaving corner.
“Perhaps your presence there needs to be more frequent? To cultivate, curate, to make it a haven. Look at this place. Erwin scarcely wishes to leave our home. And nor do you, it seems.”
“The house is indeed exquisite. Erwin is lucky to have you in charge, gracing every corner.”
“Pleasing him is not easy; it demands a meticulous hand. He is, you see, a rather demanding man.”
“He is perhaps the most demanding man of all.”
Levi’s lips tightened momentarily as he began to collect his scattered things: pens, pencils, brushes — items he typically abandoned to wait for his return. In what might have been an intentional flourish, he narrowly avoided toppling a vase, retreating a tad too hastily.
He barely whispered, “Oh, dear heavens,” as his fingers clasped around the vase, rescuing it from an imminent descent.
Marie’s voice was measured, each word carved with precision. “One ought to treat possessions, not one’s own, with a bit more reverence.” Her heart, in that fleeting moment, had lurched as though it wasn’t just the vase teetering on the edge of ruin, but her very essence. “Such care speaks to one’s character.”
“That tea cup, its memory still hovers between us, doesn’t it? It’s my failing, and I acknowledge it,” he admitted, a raw honesty underscoring his words.
Levi’s inner voice murmured, “I’ve awaited your evening reproaches, Marie. I longed for you to unveil your true sentiments, to no longer shroud your words.”
“I understand your aversion to these late hours. But understand that I tread lightly, aim to make my presence barely discernible. The demands of work are ceaseless and…”
Marie interrupted, “I yearn for moments when this home is just that — a sanctuary for my family, untouched by outsiders. It amuses me that I must continually voice this wish.”
Her words, sharper than she intended, sent a chilling splash across Levi’s face. He seemed to contract, pulling inwards, as if he were desperately trying to squeeze through some impossibly tight space, eager for any escape route. As he made his departure, Marie handed him his hat and, noting the rain’s deluge outside, tentatively offered an umbrella. He refused, and for a second Marie felt a pang of guilt for shooing him away so quickly.
“Perhaps, one day, I might be fortunate enough to take a wife, don’t you think?” he mused suddenly. “It might alter things. I’d find myself eager to return home, not lingering a moment beyond necessity, yearning for dinner alongside a delightful companion. It’s an inviting thought. And then, I suspect, you’d be spared my extended visits. A bit more freedom for your evenings.”
Levi took a moment to study himself in the mirror, adjusting a rebellious lock of hair, placing his hat just so, and smoothing down his jacket’s collar. His fingers brushed over the vibrant red stitches, prompting Marie to wonder about the secrets or tales they might hide: a silent vow, a whispered hope, or even a blessing.
Imagining aloud, he added, “Picture me in the suburbs, my preferred rocking chair stationed in a gazebo, a table laid out with tea cups within easy reach.” His eyes, full of a teasing light, met hers. “Isn’t every man fated to marry at some point?”
She replied, succinctly, “Not necessarily.”
A blessing — it was a notion so distant to Marie, one she could scarcely fathom. However, the glint in Levi’s eyes, that persistent hope, made her yearn to shatter any illusion that her extended silence might be harbouring such a sentiment. Observing him, she thought anyone would deem marriage a melancholy affair.
“Wait,” she uttered softly, just as his fingers alighted upon the latch. “Do not step outside until you’ve given me a promise.”
His eyebrows arched in surprise. “Would you now hold me against my will? Moments ago, you seemed all too eager for my exit.”
“You exaggerate,” she said, a touch of defensiveness in her voice.
The patter of footsteps sounded from above. Both of them, caught between apprehension and hope, lifted their eyes to the stairway.
“Speak then. What would you have of me?” he prompted.
Taking a deep breath, she began, “Promise me that you’ll not let another woman endure what I have. Not on my behalf, at least. It offers me no solace.” Her voice quavered, betraying her emotions. “You are welcome to stay as long as you wish here, if it means another is spared my kind of disquiet.”
Levi regarded her, a soft laugh escaping his lips. In his gaze, there wasn’t a hint of jealousy; perhaps it had never dwelt within him, or maybe it had long since faded. Instead, what she discerned was a melancholy and an ancient sort of loneliness, a feeling perhaps so old that it teetered on the edge of unreality. His eyes, reminiscent of a gray mist, seemed to weave narratives to Marie, tales of never having been cherished, of perpetual neglect, all in an attempt to allay her concerns. Had Levi ever permitted himself to discern in those morning repasts, which Erwin brought to the workshop, what Marie so clearly saw, perhaps he would be quick to dismiss his own arguments. And maybe, just maybe, those very eyes would carry a flicker of vibrancy, rather than their usual pallid gray.
“Now, I see why he was drawn to you,” he murmured. “Good night.”
Levi’s hand, briefly entwined with hers, was a fleeting sensation before he stepped out onto the porch, passing directly beneath the pot of vibrant red geraniums. Marie had always harbored a disdain for the abrupt sound of doors slamming — they carried a jarring finality. With that sentiment in her heart and inhaling the verdant scent of a May shower, she gently and silently closed the door behind him.
The weekend seemed to elapse in a breath. The impending wedding, it felt, had an orchestra gathering momentum just beyond one’s sight, and Erwin, reconciling to the urgency of the moment (after all, come Monday he had commitments to his father), devoted those fleeting days to Marie, both of them submerged in shared preparations. Amidst the gleaming copper, shimmering silver, elegantly draped curtains, and ornately painted screens, she discovered delight. Erwin observed her with an enigmatic glint in his eyes, as though witnessing an element he hadn’t known before. She, with innate grace, navigated the intricacies of their upcoming nuptial celebration — the blossoms, the melodies, the revelry, the feast. With utmost trust, he pressed his lips to her hands, the very hands that orchestrated their salvation. And so, when night graced them, Marie’s slumber was profound. They had, it seemed, accomplished all that was within their realm. Drifting into dreams as one might sink into a bed of plush feathers, she found herself amidst an array of sewing tools, desperately seeking, but never finding, a spool of red thread.
That Wednesday afternoon, Erwin’s telegram arrived, urging her not to hold out until their planned Friday meeting. His aging father, bearing the frailty that often accompanies advancing years, required his attention. Yet, as twilight bled into evening, the doorbell rang. Marie, deep in her reading by the bedroom window, took a few breaths longer to respond. With a lightness in her step, she descended the stairs, momentarily losing herself in the motion, and halted. Before her stood a stranger, attired in an unusual hat and a blue suit of an indistinct shade. But it was Levi’s presence, fingers gracefully poised on the latch — those fingers, thin and yet somehow supple — that truly caught her attention.
“For Mrs. Smith,” came the delivery.
Mrs. Smith. The name seemed to wrap around her, and just as she began to process it, Levi, in a quick motion, closed the door. He turned to her, a bouquet cradled against his chest. Marie’s eyes, clouded with a surge of emotions, accused him silently. This man, she thought with a hint of bitterness, had robbed her of a joy, one that was fresh, new, and perhaps foreign to him. Levi, with his penchant for living in moments gone by, appeared to overlook time and again that she was now Mrs. Smith — here, present, and continuous. How she wished to sometimes be oblivious to him, his very essence — so pronounced, and yet contained within such a delicate frame — a presence that never failed to command her attention.
“Erwin has sent these flowers for you,” Levi remarked, a hint of self-consciousness playing on his lips as he proffered the bouquet.
In response, she offered a soft “thank you,” her voice trailing off towards the direction of the workshop. She then carefully unfurled the bouquet’s wrapping, snipped the stems at a precise angle, and settled them in water. Tucked beneath the ribbon, a note read, “Dear Marie.” Her lips tenderly grazed the rosebuds, and she let the soft petals press against her cheek. “Even if he intercepted the delivery,” Marie mused, “here they remain, my roses, emitting their fragrance and heavy with vibrant hue.” Yet, a genuine smile evaded her; her heart throbbed with a raw, silent intensity.
As Levi meticulously worked on the hem of her dress, Marie approached, her presence silent but palpable.
“You’re filled with anticipation, aren’t you?” he ventured, her distinctive footfalls having betrayed her presence. “Your wedding draws near.”
“Just a touch,” she conceded, never one to lay bare her entire heart. “The dress, it’s beautifully crafted. Yet at times, when my gaze lands upon it, there’s that feeling, suggesting something lacks.”
“Do elucidate,” he prompted, standing erect, hands clasped behind him. His tone was respectful, but layered with an unfamiliar nuance. He felt as if he had surrendered previously, stepped back, yet old tendencies stubbornly echoed back. It was instinctual, answering the door the moment the bell chimed — actions practiced over countless iterations cease to be mere habits, tricks, or reflexes. It had come to define him, this role of the aide. But in this moment, amid the familiar walls, he felt misaligned, a puzzle piece not quite fitting where it once belonged.
“There remains a week,” began Levi, his voice lilting with thoughtful reflection, “ample time for subtle refinements. Though a wholesale transformation isn’t the order of the day, I believe you won’t press for such.”
“No sweeping transformations,” Marie responded, her smile hinting at some concealed mischief. “Yet, there’s an elusive element, something the dress seems to yearn for.”
From the back of a chair, Marie gently lifted Levi’s jacket, laying it with care upon the sewing table, its collar revealed in vibrant red. With a sudden, striking clap, she arrested his attention. Levi, caught in the spell of the moment, found his features stiffen; his nose, often tilted, now seemed more defined, while his shoulders and elbows cast pronounced angles against the soft fabric of his shirt.
“Your dress,” he remarked, “deserves an embroidery of its own.”
“But it’s yours that I precisely need,” she replied.
Swiftly, Levi deftly undid the seam, showcasing an inner lining that held a message intricately embroidered in satin stitch. Marie, with a kind of reverence, held it to the light. Levi barely had a moment to read the words, but Marie held no sympathy, her fervor mirroring the depth of his own intrigue and concern.
“Mon petit ami,” she murmured under her breath.
“My dear friend,” Levi echoed, the click of the switchblade punctuating his words.
“I’ve not forgotten my French,” she said, casting a knowing glance, “those words bear a double meaning, do they not? Somewhat more intimate?”
“You recall correctly, but rather innocent, nonetheless. Its implications are distant from me.”
“And your translation?” she pressed.
“A companion,” he conceded without a beat’s hesitation.
“Then tell me, what embroidery could be more apt? If not this, then what?”
Levi’s hand overlaid hers, a gentle coercion, as though the very fabric might gasp for air beneath her hold.
“Would you care to listen to me, just this once?” Marie’s voice barely rose above a whisper.
“Take it as a keepsake, if you must. But that fragment won’t find its way into your bridal gown, not by my hand,” Levi declared resolutely.
A sharp pang seized Marie’s spine; she felt as if she might arch backwards, snapping in two from the sheer intensity of her distress.
“If your hand falters, mine will not. I’ll see to it personally,” she retorted.
As Levi’s fingers danced over the blade’s edge, he was caught in silent contemplation. For, in that moment, he felt paradoxically powerless, despite the weapon he wielded.
“Because it is crucial!” Marie’s voice broke through. “This need gnaws at me, yet none extend a hand in aid. I won’t give it back to you, or to anyone for that matter. I’ll embed it into this gown, and into every dress that follows.”
“To guard it from all other eyes,” Marie mused, wishing from this moment on to cloak from Levi the moments when that patch nestled close to her heart and when it did not. For Levi was seldom seen without that jacket, stitched with red, even when the warmth of the days rendered it superfluous. He’d casually sling it over a shoulder or drape it across an arm. Observing her now, in the throes of her despair, it unveiled his innate struggle: an inability, perhaps a weakness, to disregard that which mattered, even remotely, to Erwin. This very trait was both his failing and his merit. Deeply affected, he extended a hand to Marie. She teetered on the precipice of flight, but if he could offer her the solace of his vulnerability, they might avert the looming disaster. Her ardent folly, her unwavering faith in symbols and omens, stirred a distant memory within him. It evoked a yearning to handcraft lace once more. His future now seemed interwoven with this same impassioned naivety, appearing as fragile as dust ready to be scattered by the merest breath.
“It so happens that you have a rather quarrelsome helper,” murmured Levi. There was a brief interlude of hesitation as he sought to extricate the cloth from Marie, whose hands shimmered with a delicate dew of sweat. “This embroidery, this patch, it’s not quite right. 'Amie' will sure fit you better,” he mused, unfolding the fabric as one might a page from an old diary. “Notice here, the 'e' is missing. Without it, the blessing is not any good. May I?”
“Please,” Marie acquiesced with a gentle nod.
Levi bent a bit closer to the embroidery, his fingers deftly adjusting the spectacles perched upon the crest of his nose.
“The exact shade of this red might be hard to match, but I will try.”
“Let it be,” she responded, her voice soft yet assertive. “Preserve the original stitching, and amend with a thread of contrast. A testament, if you will, to its previous owner.”
“As you wish,” Levi replied, a shiver passing through him as if intending merely to shrug, but instead, his entire frame trembled.
In the subdued light, he threaded the needle with vibrant cerulean, then settled into an armchair nestled by a lamp’s glow. His hands, betraying a tremor, allowed the thread to flutter like the delicate ribbon held by a dancer. Encircling him were relics Marie had gifted — the intricately carved table, a box adorned with Japanese mother-of-pearl, and an ottoman dressed in silk fringe tassels. Surrounded by such beauty, a bittersweet mix of appreciation and anxiety gripped him. He found himself both envious and admiring of Marie’s audacious spirit. An involuntary twitch in his leg prompted him to tap his heel against the floor, as if to rally his scattered thoughts into a cohesive parade.
Marie, on the cusp of departure, remained. Drawn, as many are, to the allure of the unfamiliar, she wished to observe, to understand — for she had known the suffering herself.
“Do spare Erwin knowledge of this… caprice,” she whispered.
“It shall remain between us,” he assured, “Our shared secret.”
With a sigh carrying both relief and reminiscence, Marie delicately retrieved Levi’s jacket, taking her place on the sofa near a partially opened window. She rested.
“I had half-expected you to confide in him. After all, your friendship is with him, not me.”
“It’s for that very reason, dear Marie, that I’ll hold my silence.”
A gentle smile graced her lips as she began mending the vibrant gash on his collar. A fragile peace, thin yet palpable, settled between them. Conversation seemed superfluous, save for the soft commentary on lanterns illuminating the alleyway. And with every stitch, Marie, using the red thread, seemed to be weaving together not just fabric but also the intimations of imminent change.
