The next morning, I’m already dressed when Antonia arrives with my breakfast. She’s been the only thing keeping me from going mad in this room the past few days. I only know how long it’s been because I am marking days on a piece of paper inside the desk. I started the second day when she brought me breakfast. It’s silly maybe but keeping me locked up in here, even for just these three days, is taking its toll.
I need to swim. To move. I need to see sunshine. Open a window. That little square of light isn’t doing it, and besides, it’s been raining. I swear it feels like it always rains at this house.
But he said I’d get to see my dad today. And I feel like Santiago is a man who keeps his word.
I close the tube of salve I’ve been instructed to put on my tattoo and am up as soon as the door opens, the pain on the bottoms of my feet finally gone. That was two strokes. How had he taken more? What had he said when his back had been crisscrossed? When his feet opened up when he walked?
God. Is that how his father punished him? What a horrible man. Yet he has a photograph of him on the chapel altar.
I don’t understand my husband. He’s a complete mystery.
“Good morning, dear,” Antonia says cheerily, although I always notice that little bit of concern when she comes in here in the mornings and shifts her gaze nervously around the room, looking me over. I wonder what she’s looking for. A noose maybe. After only three days, I’m ready to hang myself, but I don’t need rope for that. I’m pretty sure I could hang myself on the end of this rosary that’s nestled against my bare skin. I’ve got it tucked under my sweater, and I’ve only taken it off to shower and sleep.
I know she doesn’t like locking the door. She’s said as much. But it’s what the Master wants.
The Master.
I roll my eyes at his formality. His arrogance.
“Morning, Antonia. Do you know if the car is ready to take me to see my father?” I ask her anxiously. I’m not really hungry, so I ignore the tray she sets down.
“Settle down, Miss. It’s early yet.”
“What time is it? If I had a clock, I’d know.” But my husband won’t even allow me that.
“Ms. Mercedes will be the one taking you to see your father, and she doesn’t rise until noon some days.”
“Noon?”
“Sit down and eat. Santiago wants to be sure you’re fed and so do I. I don’t want you falling down again.”
I sit, slouching, one elbow on the table as she pours me coffee out of a silver pot.
“I’ll tell you what, though. Once you’ve eaten, I’ll take you downstairs and show you around. I don't see the harm in you waiting for Mercedes downstairs.”
I look up at her, hopeful and as excited as a kid at Christmas. It’s ridiculous if I think about it, but I check myself.
“Will you get in trouble if you do that, Antonia?”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Where is he?” I ask as I pick up my cup. I don’t know why I ask, and I don’t know why I care, but I’m surprised he won’t be the one to take me today. Maybe a little disappointed too. Because as much as I hate to admit it and never will, the enigma that is my husband makes me curious. When he’s with me, things feel different. They feel...more. I don’t know how to describe it. I just guess I’ve never really felt so much before. So much anticipation, so much pain, so much pleasure, just so much. It’s confusing and annoying. It should be simple. I should hate him like he hates me.
I shake my head to clear it. The thought of spending any time with Mercedes makes me anxious. I don’t like her. And I don’t trust her.
Antonia makes a point of rearranging the plates on the tray. “He keeps to his own schedule.”
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, nothing, dear.”
“Is he here? In the house?”
“Most times, yes, when he’s not called away on business.”
She walks away to make the bed, which I’ve already made, but she tucks it in tighter. I need to tell him I don’t need a maid, especially this sweet old woman, to make my bed or do my laundry. It’s embarrassing actually.
“I’ll be back for you in twenty minutes, then I’ll take you downstairs. You eat all of that now. He’ll want a report after all,” she mutters that last part as she closes the door behind her.
He’ll want a report? Of what I ate?
Okay, am I really surprised at that? He’s a control freak.
I eat my breakfast, a generous plate of eggs and bacon, fresh fruit and toast along with juice and coffee. I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten as well as I have here the last few days. I’m sure my mom would be shocked to hear the number of calories I consume at breakfast alone.
The thought of mom brings me to thoughts of Evangeline. Is she getting enough to eat? Should I have pushed to see her too? Or asked to see her instead of my father.
I have to stop this, though. One step at a time. I’m getting out of this room today. And out of this house. It’s something.
Once I’m finished, I brush my teeth and I’m just putting on a pair of boots—one of the pairs of new shoes without heels that were delivered yesterday—when I see Antonia at the door.
It’s those things that confuse me about Santiago. In one breath, he tells me he wants me dead. In his eyes, I sometimes glimpse his hate. Then he buys me shoes so I don’t break my neck on the heels when he finds out about my disorder.
I shake my head.
No. He's not doing any of this for me. He just wants to be the one to torment me. To murder me maybe. It wouldn’t do if I were to have an accidental fall.
“Ready?” Antonia asks, stepping aside and gesturing to the hallway.
I smile and nod and feel ridiculous. It’s been three days, and I’m acting like I’ve been imprisoned for years and this is release day.
I follow her down the hall, taking in all the details—the dark walls, the thick carpet, the winding staircases, two of them.
“How old is the house?”
“The Manor dates back several centuries. It was built by the first De La Rosa to settle in New Orleans. They’re from Spain, did you know that?”
I shake my head, looking up at the portraits hanging along the wall as we reach the top of the stairs.
“His mother went back to Barcelona four years ago.”
I turn to watch her shake her head.
“Santiago’s mother?” I ask as I take hold of the banister. I pause when I look down, and a moment of vertigo overcomes me, so I quickly sit on the stair.
“Ivy?”
I squeeze my eyes, open them and focus on Antonia’s kind face. “I’m all right. I just haven’t had any exercise, and it’s harder then. And the stairs…when I look down...”
“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Perhaps you should lie down.”
I shake my head and stand, feeling hot and clammy and not quite steady like I always do after one of these episodes but desperate not to go back into that room.
“I’m perfectly fine. Really.” I smile as wide as I can, and it’s not really a lie. These episodes don’t last forever. You just don’t want to be at the top of the stairs when they come.
Antonia studies me for a long moment then, and maybe against her better judgment, she nods, and we proceed down the stairs.
“Santiago’s mom left four years ago, you said? After the accident, I guess?”
We reach the first-floor landing, and I raise my head to look around me. The ceilings' vaulted arches create a dramatic effect, especially with the dark furnishings and iron-clad windows. Several corridors lead off into different directions, and straight ahead, I see the window I’d spied the other night.
“Accident, yes,” she says, but the emphasis she puts on the word accident makes me wonder what she thinks. “It killed her too, if you ask me. She passed away shortly after she returned to Barcelona. I don’t doubt it was the grief, God bless the poor woman.”
The official reports had said a gas leak led to the explosion.
“Lost her husband and one of her sons in one night and the remaining son, well, he was different after.”
“The way he looked you mean?” Did his mother abandon him for his scars?
“No, those scars, they were terrible, certainly, but what it did to him inside. She tried, his mother, but it was too hard. You see—”
“Are you gossiping about my brother?”
We both turn, startled to find Mercedes slink out from one of those dark corridors. She looks stunning, like the last time I’d seen her. Dressed in a tight-fitting red dress that sets off her olive skin, black hair and eyes, her makeup is flawless and she’s wearing five-inch heels more appropriate for evening and more jewelry than I’m pretty sure my mom, sisters, and I own all together.
“I don’t think Santi would like to hear his wife was gossiping with the help.” She looks from me to Antonia, who lowers her gaze and wrings her hands. “I don’t recall him telling you to let her out, Antonia.”
“I have permission to be out of my room today,” I say, butting in, not liking Mercedes’s tone but also hating what I just said. I sound like a child.
“He gave you permission, did he?” She grins, eyebrows raised.
My hands fist at my sides as my blood begins to boil.
“There was no reason to keep her locked in that room,” Antonia says. I wonder if she feels my rage.
“That’s not your place to say, is it?”
“Not yours either, ma’am. Your brother’s made it clear I’m to look after his wife.”
Mercedes turns her sour expression to me. “Hmm. Did he? Well. I’ll take it from here, Antonia. You can go back to your kitchen.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Antonia says, voice tight.
I’m embarrassed for the older woman as she glances at me with a nod of acknowledgment before disappearing toward the kitchen.
“We weren’t gossiping,” I say, not wanting to get Antonia into trouble.
“No, I’m sure you weren’t. Is that what you’re wearing?”
I look down at my pale blue cashmere sweater and jeans. Mercedes is a bully. She reminds me of Maria Chambers. Entitled and rich and probably never been taught right from wrong. Never been told no.
“Yes, your brother bought it for me,” I say. “We’re going to the hospital, not a fashion show. Is that what you’re wearing?”
Distaste curls her lip, and she walks past me.
I follow her into what I guess to be the formal living room with the huge rose-shaped windows. Her heels click quickly as she walks through it while I stand there, gaping at the mural on the ceiling.
“Are you coming?” Mercedes asks.
I drag my gaze away. “It’s beautiful.”
She glances up, shrugs one shoulder in dismissal, and raises her eyebrows. “I have things to do apart from babysitting you.”
“I can take myself. I’d be happy to.”
“Then you and I both would incur Santiago’s wrath. This way.” She turns on her heel and walks away. I quickly follow her through the house and out the front door where a man drives up in a Rolls Royce. It’s James, I realize, from the other day. I’d thought he worked for Abel, but I guess it had been Santiago keeping tabs on me. It makes sense.
He opens the door for us, and I follow Mercedes in, then stare like a child out the window at the mammoth of a house and gardens that seem to go on for miles.
“Is that a maze?” I ask when I catch a glimpse of the high hedges.
“Yes.”
When we finally reach the iron gates that open for us, I crane my neck until I can only see one of the house's two spires.
I remember from the wedding night that it wasn’t too far from the center of town, but it’s tucked away on its own not so little parcel of land, and the room I’ve been locked in seems even darker now.
When I turn around again, I find Mercedes studying me, her dark eyes hard but also curious. Not in an I’m interested in finding out who you are way but in a what are your weaknesses to exploit way and I’m very aware of how I look beside her. Almost like a child.
I clear my throat and shift my gaze out the window. It’ll be about half an hour to the hospital. I anticipate an awkward ride, but Mercedes just gets on her phone and ignores me altogether.
James pulls the car into a parking space, and I look over at Mercedes talking to someone while studying her fingernails. He climbs out of the car and opens my door.
“You have fifteen minutes,” she says just as I’m about to climb out.
“What?”’
“I’m not coming inside. It’s too depressing.”
“Fifteen minutes?”
“We have a lot to do. My bother has tasked me with readying you for The Society. We’ll have to take care of, well, so much,” she says with a look of distaste on her face as she lets her gaze sweep over me.
“Are you serious?”
She grins, makes a show of checking her thin diamond wristwatch. “You’d better hurry.”