It wasn’t until morning light crept into the room and silence stretched long, longer than it ever had in the night, that I summoned the courage to peer through the keyhole into the study.
It was empty.
Of course.
What had I expected to see? A thousand people, snoring in heaps on the floor after a taxing night of terrorizing the lady of the house?
It took me a full hour after that to brave opening the door, and by then, it was time to greet the priests.
I expected to see Padre Guillermo, looking maddeningly well rested, his pale face cherry bright from the walk up the hill from the stables. But the first of the priests who entered San Isidro’s courtyard was younger, his thinning pale hair streaked with gray only at the temples. A light sheen of sweat shone on his brow as he strode toward me. Padre Andrés followed at his shoulder, his chest rising and falling as slowly as if he had ambled lazily across the plaza de armas on his long legs. Though he was also dressed in black, no sweat shone on his brow. Streaks of red winked in his dark hair in the midmorning sunlight as he followed the other priest’s example and nodded his hello.
“Buenos días, do?a,” the first priest said. “I am Padre Vicente.”
“Welcome, Padres,” I said. “Where is Padre Guillermo?”
“He is busy,” Padre Vicente said, taking a handkerchief to dab the sweat at his brow. He did not deem it necessary to elaborate.
He was taller than Guillermo, and not as plump; his middle-aged face had fewer lines and a cool, settled expression that stoked a curl of fear in my belly. Was it that his straight-backed confidence was that of the fiercely pious, or that his assessment scraped over me in a way that was far too close to Tía Fernanda for comfort?
I cleared my throat. “Thank you for coming all this way in his stead,” I said. “Please, come into the house.”
I made sure I spent the requisite amount of time charming them, seating them on the terrace overlooking the half-weeded back garden. I asked Ana Luisa to bring them cool drinks; she sent Paloma instead. I spoke of weather and the other hacendados with Padre Vicente, leaning on all the high-society airs I had learned while living in the capital in an attempt to impress him. Men like him only pitied women they deemed worthy of the effort: the wealthy, those of high class. I was not born one of these. I had to rely on my new surname and acting the part. Though I was exhausted and felt close to shattering from the night before, I poured all my energy into trying to endear myself to him. Despite my efforts, Padre Vicente only half listened to me; my initial curl of fear spread, winding tight and trembling around my spine.
Padre Andrés remained silent. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I caught a strange expression cross his face—it took on a distant look, as if he were eavesdropping on another conversation.
But there was no one else in the house to eavesdrop on.
A moment later, his expression cleared. It was calm and attentive as he nodded along with whatever Padre Vicente was saying.
Had he heard something? Did he understand why I had invited them here?
Would he believe me?
A small bud of hope fluttered behind the hollow of my throat. I cradled it tenderly, praying to I knew not whom that at least one of the priests would not think me mad as I brought them to the north wing.
The day before, when the sun was at its zenith—for I could not force myself when there was anything less than the brightest light possible—I went back to the north wing. It was as it had been when I brought Juana and Paloma to see: smooth, unblemished stucco mocking me. Sometimes when I headed upstairs, I would cast a glance over my shoulder, thinking I had spied a tumble of bricks out of the corner of my eye . . . but whenever I turned to face it, it was gone.
Had I imagined it? Was it there or not?
It was time to end this, once and for all.
“This is where you wish to begin the blessing?” Padre Vicente looked around the dark hall, frowning at the cobwebs, a crease deepening between his brows.
I turned to face the priests. I accidentally met Padre Andrés’s gaze; he must have been watching me with a scholarly focus. There was something in his eyes, an understanding frankness that stole the words from my lips.
He knew.
Intuition was a cool hand on my fevered brow.
He would listen.
“I know this sounds shocking, but someone died in this house, Padre Vicente,” I said, the authority in my voice echoing through the narrow hall. “Someone died and was buried in a wall. Covered with bricks. I know because I found a body. This house is diseased because of it. There are . . . there is a spirit. A malevolent one . . .”
“That is quite enough, Do?a Beatriz,” Padre Vicente snapped, his brows now drawn close together.
My cheeks flushed hot. I don’t quite know what I expected, but I certainly should not have expected it to go well. Perhaps it was because I described the house as diseased. Perhaps it was because I had no proof of this body I claimed to have found buried in the walls of the house.
“I will do what I came to do. That is all.” He turned on his heel and stalked toward the front hall, muttering prayers of blessing and sprinkling holy water on this wall and that. That wasn’t what I wanted.
“This house needs an exorcism, Padre,” I said, following him toward the front door. “I beg you.”
“I said, that is enough, Do?a Beatriz.” Padre Vicente gave me a sharp look that indicated how obvious it was to him that something on San Isidro’s property needed an exorcism, and it wasn’t the house. “Do not give me further reason to believe you mock me with Satan’s tongue.”
My breath caught. I trod on dangerous ground. We must bear this with dignity, Mamá often said—the well-worn habit of fear bade me be silent. I should have held my tongue. But the cold of the north wing sank its claws deep into marrow. I could not shake it. I would never be free of it. I needed help. I needed someone—anyone—to listen.
“Please,” I repeated softly, and caught Padre Andrés’s forearm as he trailed behind Padre Vicente.
The young man paused, his eyes falling to my hand on his arm. I dropped it as if I had been burned—laying hands on a priest was not something a woman like Rodolfo Solórzano’s wife should do. Something no sane woman would do.
Yet I had.
For there was a curl of fear in the way Padre Andrés held his shoulders, a bent to his posture that told me he felt there was a predator nearby. That he was ready to spring away, because he, too, felt there was something breathing down his neck.
He raised his gaze to mine.
He believed me.
“Padre Andrés, my work here is done,” Padre Vicente called. He was already in the garden.
“No, please,” I breathed. The holy water and begrudging blessings were not enough. I couldn’t face another night like the previous. I would lose my mind, or—
“Andrés, boy!” That was the cross bark of a superior who would not tolerate being disobeyed.