The Painted Kiss Read Free

day was bright and hot. As we got closer to the Ring the shady streets where moss grew on the roofs gave way to wider, treeless avenues where the monumental stone buildings offered little shade. I felt the pavement through the soles of my boots. Pauline remarked that we should have brought parasols. All of the ladies had them. They threatened to decapitate those near them with every step.
    “Little girls don’t carry parasols,” snapped our father. “What’s next? Low-cut evening dresses and beaux?” He gripped me tightly by one hand and my sister Helene by the other, as if someone might snatch us if he relaxed his grip for even a moment. If he could’ve carried Pauline on his back I’m sure he would have, but as it was she was ordered to hold on to my other hand. It made navigating through the crowds a complicated waltz.
    Pauline looked as if she was going to remind him that Mother had been seventeen when she married, not much older than she was now, but she knew it was futile and so she bit her lip hard instead. I saw the drop of carnelian blood in the center of her lower lip. Father was overwhelmed with anxiety at the thought of steering three girls safely toward marriage, and his solution seemed to be to deny that we had grown up at all. Even Pauline had to wear the high lace collar of a little girl, though she had just turned seventeen. The challenge was not to scratch at it or squirm uncomfortably. Mother said it was good practice. She said that lace collars were nothing to corsets.
    Across from the opera house we passed a silk tent. Shadows moved behind it. We could only guess at who was there and what was happening. Nobility were gathering there, sitting on velvet cushions and eating oysters. Their footmen filled their crystal glasses with cider. People milled nearby and waited to see who would alight from the carriages that kept arriving. We watched a thin man with a monocle and a variegated sash escort a plump woman in a turban into the tent.
    In the crowd, boys sold commemorative newspapers and confetti, old men sold sausages with sweet mustard, old women sold roses. My father bought four blood-red ones from a woman in a gold bonnet for us to toss when the emperor passed. Some people around us held bouquets wrapped in paper. The street smelled of frying meat and horse manure.
    It became increasingly crowded, and the throngs moved more and more slowly. I wished I were still young enough for my father to lift me on his shoulders. I was small for my age and there were people crowding me in front and on either side. I couldn’t see the avenue where the procession would soon be.
    “Don’t worry,” said Pauline. “When we get to the steps we’ll be up high. Then we’ll be able to see.”
    Next to me, Helene was worrying her neck through her lace collar and I could see red scratches like streaks of paint on her skin. I poked her; if Father saw we’d all be in trouble. Pauline showed us smugly how she didn’t move her neck at all, turning her whole body when she wanted to look at something.
    “What’s wrong with you?” said Father, catching sight of her. “You look like a chicken.”
    Pauline didn’t answer. “Why do you look so comfortable?” she said irritably to me. “You haven’t squirmed all morning.”
    When Pauline had turned away I showed Helene my secret. Underneath my collar I had pinned a pilfered linen dinner napkin. It was practically invisible, and I could turn my head in comfort.
    We looked almost like twins with our curly red hair, but Helene was nearly three years older than I. Sometimes she thought of things first, and sometimes I did, but we always shared our discoveries. We formed a strategic alliance against our proper older sister, our rule-bound father, and our mercurial mother. In sartorial matters, Pauline was our most dangerous adversary. It wasn’t just the lace collars. It was the enormous hair ribbons ruthlessly attached to our scalps with pins. It was the vigorous