My stomach growls as I make my way down the stairs at the appointed time. I feel as though I’ve been summoned, and I think back to that conversation with Mercedes. About how my husband gave me permission to leave my room. I grow angry with the memory. At the thought of it. It’s been bothering me all day, and the fifteen-minute visit with my father didn’t exactly fulfill his end of the bargain.
The lush carpet pads my steps, muting any sound. I’m generally quiet when I’m not knocking into something, and in this house, I’m even more careful. There’s a depth to the silence here. Even when it was quiet at my house or at the apartment as I sat there alone, it wasn’t like this. There was always some noise, but you don’t realize it until you hear this absolute absence of sound.
My path is illuminated by the chandeliers overhead, ancient gothic things lit with candles.
I stop for a moment and take it in, wonder who is tasked with cleaning them and putting new candles into the dozens of chandeliers in this place. They must have to do it daily. I pass one of the large iron-clad windows. It filters the moonlight to a pretty, eerie silver. Shadow is layered upon shadow here. I wonder if I’ll find ghosts when I start to wander the house. I won’t be surprised if I do.
I walk into the living room with its rose petal windows. The mural on the ceiling is obscured. I peer up at it, then turn a circle to take it in. It’s spectacular still, the art, the architecture of the house itself, all the arches, the nooks, the darkness.
I run my fingers over the closed piano lid. I wonder if anyone plays. I wish I did, but I don’t have much of a talent for it.
A clock chimes. It must be seven thirty. I walk out of the living room in search of the dining room. I find it only because I hear the barest hint of sound. Music. Low and dark and so fitting for this place.
As I follow it, I wonder if the rooms form almost a circle around the large hall. I wonder if I were to have an aerial view if the house itself would be in the shape of a rose.
I touch the back of my neck lightly. I saw the tattoo today. I expected a rose, but it’s not that. Or not only that. What caught my eye first was the skull. Then the roses. Then the dueling pistols.
Violence and death and beauty all at once.
I pause when I reach the entrance of the dining room. Santiago is standing at the window, drink in hand, facing away from me. He’s so still I wonder what thoughts he’s lost in. I take a moment to study him because I am hopelessly curious about my husband. I didn’t expect to be. He’s beautiful from here. No, he’s beautiful period, even with his skull face. It’s his pain. I see it even when he’s cruel. Maybe especially then. And it does something to me.
But it’s not his pain that draws me now. It's something much more primal. His height. His broad shoulders. The suit jacket that hugs his muscles. How very masculine he is.
Heat flushes through me as I remember wrapping my hands around his biceps. How strong he is. How much stronger than me. How much bigger.
Just as I take a step into the room, a wave of vertigo hits. I miss the single stair, and when I trip, I just manage to catch the sideboard to stop from falling to the floor but knock something off the other end. It clatters to the floor, and Santiago flinches like he’s startled, then spins to face me, eyebrows furrowed, expression dark as if remembering himself.
“I’m sorry!” I’m embarrassed. I blink hard, keeping my hand on the sideboard to steady myself and hurry around to pick up the antique silver candelabra lying on its side on the floor, grateful nothing is broken.
He stalks toward me setting his glass down on the candlelit table to take me by one arm and the candelabra in the other. He sets it back on the sideboard and turns to me, looking me over.
“Are you all right?” He studies me intently.
I nod, forcing myself to focus. “I’m fine.”
“Do I need to wrap the furniture in blankets?” he asks. I think he’s trying to make light of it. I wonder if he can see my embarrassment because I feel my face burning.
“That was just…I tripped.” In part because I was staring at you. Remembering your hands on me. Remembering how your touch felt. I don’t tell him that, though.
“Antonia said you weren’t quite well earlier.”
“I’m fine.” I pull myself free. This side of him, this almost caring side, throws me off guard, and I can’t let that happen with him. I can’t let myself believe him. And I can’t let myself take comfort from him.
“You lost your balance at the top of the stairs, Ivy.”
“I didn’t lose my balance. I just needed to sit down for a minute. And it hasn’t happened all day.” Mostly.
He studies me like he doesn’t quite believe me.
“It’s why I’ve been asking about the pool. I swim every day. Or I used to. And it helps. As soon as I’m allowed to swim again, I’ll be fine,” I start, finding my irritation again as I say it. “Santi,” I add.
Santiago steps back with a smile. Now we’re on territory we both understand.
I feel myself flush again, sweat breaking out over my forehead this time. When Mercedes had used that nickname earlier, it had grated. I didn’t really register it, but I realize now as I mock call him by her nickname for him, what I felt.
Jealousy.
Because I’m an idiot.
I shift my gaze away momentarily, feeling his eyes on me, feeling that smug grin.
“Mercedes being territorial?” he asks.
I clear my throat and make myself look at him. “I just thought it was funny she had a nickname for you. I mean, you.”
His mood darkens.
I blink, trying to calm my breathing. He can’t see my heartbeat. I just need to relax.
He looks me over, taking his time. I’m wearing a knee-length close-fitting black knit dress with buttons a little lower than I’d usually wear. Not that I have much cleavage to show, but I clear my throat again and adjust the dress when I see his gaze settle there. But maybe he’s just eyeing the rosary beads.
My hair’s been cut but only an inch was taken off. And it’s been styled, which I admit does look nice. I don’t bother blow-drying it usually. I’m also wearing makeup which, again, I rarely do, and I won’t do for him. My nails have been done, and much to my dismay, I’ve been waxed in places I didn’t know you could be waxed. Mercedes’s doing. Or maybe it was at his request.
“You look beautiful,” he says, walking a circle around me, letting his fingers weave through my hair but not hurting me. “But you always look beautiful.”
My stomach growls loudly then, and my cheeks burn again, my hand moving automatically to my belly. He stops in front of me, and for a moment, I wonder if he meant to say that. To compliment me.
“Hungry?”
I nod.
“Please tell me my sister fed you.”
“If by fed you mean some leaves and a piece of cardboard masquerading as chicken breast, then yes, she fed me. She’s seriously awful. I mean, she almost makes you look nice.”
He chuckles at that, then sets his hand on my lower back and guides me to the long dining table set only for two. At least she’s not eating with us. He pulls out my seat. I sit down on the plush chair and drop my napkin into my lap. He takes the seat at the head of the table, and as if the staff have been waiting and watching, they appear out of a door in the wall that must be for the staff like they used to be in old days.
We’re silent as the dishes are laid out, and Antonia describes what everything is. I think there’s enough to feed two dozen people, but I can probably eat for at least two of those people, so I won’t complain.
“Thank you, Antonia. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Thank you, M—sir.”
After a man opens the bottle of wine and Santiago approves, they’re gone, and Santiago begins to heap food on my plate. He doesn’t ask what I want. He just gives me a generous serving of meat, potatoes, and vegetables along with bread and butter.
“It’s a little pretentious to have them call you Master, isn’t it?”
He takes a moment to set his napkin on his lap. “Just be grateful I don’t require it of you.”
“I wouldn’t ever call anyone that.”
“Would you like to test that theory?”
When I don’t answer, he raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to acknowledge his win.
“No.”
“Then learn when to keep your mouth shut, darling.”
I grit my teeth so hard I’m pretty sure I’m going to crack a tooth.
He finally shifts his attention to the bottle of wine and pours himself a glass. I see the ring on his hand then and recognize it for what it is. I’ve seen it before but hadn’t had a point of reference. Now, with having seen his mark on my neck, I realize it’s his family crest.
“Do you all have that?” I ask, remembering seeing a ring on Holton’s finger but not on the doctor’s.
He follows my gaze to his ring and nods. “Sovereign families. Males only.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t think a woman would be allowed such an honor.” I put the accent on honor, and I’m sure he hears my sarcasm, but I don’t wait for him to comment. I pick up my glass, which is already full, and take a sip as he sips his. I raise my eyebrows.
“Juice?”
He nods, then sets his wine down.
“I’m not a child, you know.” Not that I drink much. It messes with my already poor balance if I do, but I’d like the option.
“You could be carrying my baby inside you. You won’t be allowed alcohol, Ivy.”
“Your baby? I hardly think you’re that potent.” He makes a face, and I think he’s about to say something rude so I continue before he can. “And again, I’m not a child. I can decide for myself, and if I were pregnant, which I’m not, I, of course, wouldn’t have a drink.”
“It’s one of your rules. No alcohol. Period. There will not be a discussion.” He picks up his knife and fork and starts to cut into his meat like this is a remotely normal conversation.
I shake my head but drop it. I honestly would only have taken a sip anyway, but it’s the principle. I stab a bite of meat and put it into my mouth. It’s even more delicious than it smells. We eat in silence for a moment, and I watch him, wondering if he feels any discomfort in the silence. I get the feeling he doesn’t.
“She only let me see my dad for fifteen minutes,” I finally blurt out.
He pauses, but I can’t quite read his expression.
“Was that your doing? Because I can tell you that having to endure a spa day with your sister is not worth fifteen minutes. I want to see him again. For longer. And I want to see my sister.”
He smiles, studies me, then shakes his head and returns his focus to his plate.
“I mean it, Santiago. This wasn’t fair, and you know it.”
He puts his fork and knife down and wipes his mouth. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were purposely trying to push my buttons.”
“I’m not. I just wanted to see my dad. We had a deal.”
“A little bit of respect will go a long way. I realize you’re quite young, and your upbringing leaves much to be desired, but I thought you’d understood that at least.”
“You want me to ask you for permission? Is that it? Do you get off on that?”
“That’s one.”
“One what?”
“One strike. And I’m being generous. You have two left so take care.”
I open my mouth to tell him where he can shove his strike but think better of it and stuff a potato in while I think. I have a pretty good idea where strikes two and three will lead me.
“Mercedes mentioned the masquerade ball at IVI?” he asks.
“She said something about readying me for an event, but she wasn’t specific, and I didn’t get a chance to ask when she proceeded to remind me how lucky I am you chose to grace me with your attention. How grateful I should be to carry your last name. How I have a duty as your wife to devote myself to you and to The Society. Etcetera, etcetera.”
“Well, she is thorough if not dramatic.”
“Can I at least call her?”
“My sister?” he feigns confusion.
“My sister.”
“I will personally take you to see both your sister and your father myself after the gala.”
I’m surprised. “You will?”
“If you behave.”
I bite my lower lip. “For more than fifteen minutes?”
He nods.
“When is it?”
“In two nights.”
“Do you promise it’ll be a normal visit? No tricks? Nothing stupid you can talk your way out of?”
“You’re not a very trusting little thing, are you?”
“I’ve learned my lesson with you.” I resume eating, feeling at least a little victorious.
“You’re close with your sister?”
I nod. “I was close with both of them until Hazel left.”
“I remember that. Have you had contact with her?”
I look up at him, study his face in the play of candles. I would give anything to see him in full light.
“If I said yes, would you report it to The Society?” I know what will happen if they ever find her. She’ll be punished publicly for having turned her back on The Society. For having walked away from a Sovereign Son.
“Have you, Ivy?”
“No, Santiago, I have not. But if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Your father doesn’t search for her.”
“What?”
“He hadn’t ever really.”
I’m confused. I’m sure he sees it on my face, too, and maybe he’s just trying to figure out if I’m lying or if I know anything. Because he doesn’t fill in any blanks.
“How do you know that?” I ask a little more uncertainly.
“I know a great deal.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Of course he’s looking for her. She disappeared after—” I stop abruptly. Was he friends with the man she was supposed to marry? They’re all like brothers, right? The Sovereign Sons. All have each other’s backs.
Hazel ran away days before her wedding. She just vanished into thin air. No note, no nothing. I understand her not leaving anything for our parents because they were the ones pushing her, but she didn’t even leave one for me. I have always wondered if she could because I don’t believe she’d leave without a single word to me.
“They won’t stop looking for her. But you probably know that,” he warns.
I do. The Society does not let those who wander from the path they’ve laid out for them go unpunished. If they let them go at all.
Especially a woman.
Especially a woman ranked as low as we are.
“And they will find her. In time,” he adds.
I shudder at the thought and slip my fork and knife diagonally on my plate. I’ve lost my appetite.
“It’s been six years. They can’t…hurt her anymore,” I say. He remains silent. “Can they, Santiago?”
“They? Don’t you mean we?”
I just watch him. Is he trying to scare me? Or is he trying to figure out if I truly have information on her whereabouts? I don’t, and for the first time in six years, I’m glad I don’t because I have a feeling my husband can detect lies.
“You’ve gone pale.” He pushes his chair back, stands, and comes to pull my chair out. He holds his hand out to me.
I look at it, then up at him.
“Come, Ivy. I will put you to bed.”