The voice stopped.
At the far end of the parlor, the dark shape of the chest came into view, its lid still arched open like an animal’s gaping maw. I cut it a wide berth and tripped over the doorway into my bedroom; I threw out my arm to catch myself and realized my mistake too late.
“No, no,” I cried as the flame of the candle vanished, extinguished by the rush of movement.
Darkness fell over the room like a wool cloak, stifling. Airless.
No. I could not be in this bedchamber in the dark. I could not. Not without Rodolfo.
My chest tightened at the memory of the flash of red eyes in the dark.
There were no cats on this godforsaken hacienda.
Juana had lied.
And she had sent me here alone.
My heartbeat raced as I fumbled through the dark for the matches I kept on my vanity, my hands clumsy because I would not release the fistful of herbs. There. There they were. Strike, strike, and a flare of flame burst to life.
“Thank God,” I whispered hoarsely, and lit the candles on my vanity. All of them. When I had an altar of trembling flame, their reflection in the mirror casting light into the rest of the room, I turned around.
Like an animal, the dark drew back.
A feral instinct unfurled at the back of my neck, under skin and muscle, flush to my spine.
I was not alone.
8
I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING with a stale taste in my mouth, my lips sticky and dry. Handfuls of blue sky winked at me through the windows set high in the walls. I stretched, wincing when the throb behind my eye sockets reminded me why I had fallen asleep in my dress, why I had let the candles melt down to shapeless mounds on their tray.
I rolled over onto my back and stared at the beams in the ceiling.
Something was wrong with this house.
Something lurked in it during the day and grew stronger at night.
I had slept curled in a tight ball, the herbs clutched to my chest like a talisman. I unfurled my hand stiffly. The herbs’ stems and leaves left red indentations on my palm and fingers.
I frowned. Was my mind playing tricks on me? I had not had my senses around me last night.
But . . . the blood in the chest. The cold hands shoving me forward on the stairs.
I shuddered. Were the servants testing me? Did they worry I was going to disrupt their way of life, their easy neglect of the house, and so thought to drive me away?
I was slow to bathe and dress myself but accomplished these as quickly as I could. I then walked into the study. I went straight to where I had hung Papá’s map and stood there for a long moment.
A weak part of me was quite ready to be driven away. In the capital, I could truly play the role of Rodolfo’s high-society wife, entertaining in the gilded rooms of his family’s house . . .
My mouth soured further when I remembered who I would be entertaining. Members of the government. The men who had ousted the emperor.
The men who had fought alongside my father, only to then turn on him.
Could I smile blandly at them and pour them chocolate? Could I chat mindlessly with their wives, coo over their children? As achy and stiff and nauseous as I was, I was overcome by the hot desire to seize one of the perfume glasses on my vanity and throw it as hard as I could against the stucco wall.
No. I could not. I would not.
This was my house. I would not shrink away from it the way Juana and Ana Luisa did, jumping every time boards creaked underfoot. I would scald its soot stains clean. I would strip its protective layer of dust and straighten its crooked edges, rebreaking and setting broken bones. I would make it mine, I would make it my home. My safe haven.
I had no other choice, after all.
Even if it meant facing a chest full of blood-soaked clothing. I had to face it at some point or another, to see what could be salvaged. Better to face it now, when the sunlight was hale and bright.
I turned. The chest was open, as Juana and I had left it. I braced myself, anticipating the buzz of flies, acidity preemptively rising at the back of my mouth as I drew close enough to peer inside.
Blue.
The silk was the dark, rich blue of traditional blown glass. And it was clean.
I fell to my knees, clenching my teeth as the sudden movement rattled my sore skull. I touched the silk tentatively, then moved it around, searching for any trace of blood. The room was filled with the sound of shifting fabric.
“What on earth?” I murmured.
Distantly, as if from three rooms away, a girlish giggle echoed.
I stood as fast as my aching head would allow and slammed the chest shut.
The room was silent.
I had not imagined it. I could not forget the expression that contorted Juana’s face as she drenched my hands, desperate to clean skin that was already bare of blood.
Juana saw what I had seen.
I needed to talk to her. If it was late morning, she must be in the fields, or tending to some other running of the hacienda beyond the house that I was not privy to. I would find her in the evening, then. First, I needed food.
The house watched me coyly as I descended the stairs. I shook the feeling off like a horse twitching flies from its hide. Houses did not watch. It simply was not true or possible.
But still my steps quickened. A faint smell of copal shrouded me, thanks to my hair; it had reeked of the incense when I brushed it out and pinned it into a knot high off my neck. I thought of the kitchen with its smoky sentries, how safe I had felt within that room.
When I reached the kitchen, the hope building in my heart dissipated. The incense had burned down; no smoke wreathed the doorway, no herbs scattered on the floor. No relief from the eerie feeling of being watched.
A bowl clattered to the ground.
I jumped, a cry in my throat, and whirled to face the sound.
It was Paloma, Ana Luisa’s reserved daughter. She dipped to the ground to collect the bowl and rose to put it on its shelf. “Do?a! I wasn’t expecting you.”
I gave her as kind a smile as I could muster with my heart racing so wildly. I willed it to slow. How silly of me, to be frightened by her presence.
“I was expecting Ana Luisa,” I said. “Isn’t she the cook?”
“When the patrón is here, yes,” Paloma said quietly. “She still could be, if you wish. She sent me to tidy and with this.” Here she pointed at eggs, tortillas, and a small jug of chocolate atole. Steam curled above the jug, visible in the crisp morning air. “For you.”
I thanked Paloma effusively and sat to eat as she swept the kitchen. The slight spice in the atole soothed my nausea, and I savored it.
I had been dreading spending the morning scrubbing dried blood from silk, and now I would not have to. That was good. I could return to the task of compiling a list of things I wanted Rodolfo to send from the capital.