The Burning of the Palace at Versailles (or, Butterfly) [REWRITING]

Chapter 12 - The Shadow

"Who's Thomas?"

Melody jolted and blinked, feeling like she was waking up. She looked around. Pots, pans, an oven, a stove, a fridge. She could smell onions and garlic and could taste bitter medicine on her tongue.

Right, she was in the kitchen. In the Palace at Versailles. Someone was talking to her about Thomas. She looked up.

Key was kneading dough on the countertop, his thin arms straining with the effort. He had asked the question so casually to the open air that Melody looked around to make sure there was no one around that he could be talking to instead. But she and Key were the only ones in the room.

"You read my notebook," she said. Melody tried to make it sound sharp and bitter, but it came out as tired and exhausted as she felt.

Key's ears turned a bright red shade. He focused on the dough as if it was about to attack him. "Only the first page," he said. "Just to see who it belonged to."

"Right," Melody said, then rubbed her eye. It was only after she had done this that she noticed she was holding a blue plastic knife. She was cutting... carrots? "When did I get here?"

Key shrugged, his eyes darting away from the dough for a second. "About a half-hour ago or so."

"How did I get here?"

"Jordan walked you in, holding your hand and she left you here. The doctor said that was okay, so now she's with Jordan. Everyone else is outside." In his hands, the dough began to form into a well-shaped ball. He had a line of flour on his cheekbone, like he had accidentally wiped his face and not noticed.

"Why aren't you with them?"

He took in a loud, exaggerated breath and a high-pitched wheeze came out. "The cold air makes my asthma worse. And then it worries Cypress, and then everyone is annoyed. So most of the time when it's cold, I stay in here. I don't mind, I don't really like the dirt anyway."

Key didn't seem like much of an outdoor person to Melody. Then again, she didn't seem like an outdoor person either.

"Did Cypress steal my notebook?" she asked.

Key froze. That gave Melody the answer that she needed.

"Did he read it?"

Key rubbed the flour off his hands and looked at Melody, giving her his full attention. "I told him not to. I don't know if he did. He's been waiting for someone like you for a long time, I think."

Melody nodded. "I can tell."

"So who's Thomas?"

She rolled her eyes. "You don't give up, do you?"

"I don't like giving up," Key said. "So no."

"He's my ex," she said. "According to the cops, I stole his kid for a few hours."

He hummed and nodded. "That makes sense."

Melody weighed the knife in her hand. It was light, cheap. "It does?"

The heating system above the fridge started to rattle to life. "A lot of us have that one person who made us crazy. You know, like I was always BPD, and you were probably always—" he paused— "what's your deal?"

"Depressive bipolar alcoholic."

"And you were always a depressive bipolar alcoholic, but then there's that one person who made us coo-coo crazy. You know what I'm saying?"

She nodded. "I know what you're saying. But it wasn't Thomas who was my person."

"Yeah? Who was it?"