21

21

WHEN I FLOATED DOWNthe stairwell of the house, perfumed and powdered pale as an apparition, Rodolfo met me at the foot of the stairs with a beautiful smile.

He was standing with his back to the door of the north wing. Could he not feel the cold? It seeped into my bones with each step I took closer to him, closer to the north wing.

I let him kiss my cheek. His lips were warm.

Did the callousness of guilt inure him to the cold? To the madness that sank its claws into me as deeply as the chill?

I met his smile with my own, pasting it firmly across my cheeks as we went to the green parlor to welcome our guests.

Mamá said Papá was so charismatic he could charm guns out of the hands of his enemies. I believed it until I saw him led away from our house at bayonet point. Perhaps he was not quite that charismatic. But he had a way of talking through a room that somehow drew even the most reserved members of a party out of themselves. A seed of that still lived in me; though it was barricaded behind thick walls of pride, I drew on it now as I entertained Doña María José Moreno and Doña Encarnación de Piña y Cuevas. We sat on one side of the room, bathed in delicate candlelight, our skirts spread around us like the petals of exotic flowers. Their husbands and mine drank on the other side of the room, discussing crops and sheep. The fine European glassware in their hands and the silver candelabras from the capital gleamed in the glow of the fire. From the look of the room, one could almost believe we were in the capital.

Almost.

The presence of Andrés and Juana was blatant evidence of just how far from civilization this parlor was. They were stiff islands of silence each apart from the groups. As hostess, I had ensured that Andrés would be seated strategically on the rug that covered the faint witch’s glyphs whose shadow still remained ghostlike on the flagstones, in case it flared from the energy of too many people. He sat with a Bible on his knee, his face drawn and shadowed, pretending to listen to the men’s talk of pulque. Opposite him was Juana, his reflection in discomfort as Doña María José talked of further furnishing the house.

“Oh, I completely understand,” she cooed when I apologized for the sparse decorations. “It was empty for years. I remember when Atenógenes and I took the house from his brother, oh, it must be forty years ago now. It was in such a state of neglect. The work it took to bring it back to life!”

Over her shoulder, I caught sight of Juana scowling. She made no effort to disguise it.

“At least now, with the war over, it is easier to get things from the capital,” Doña Encarnación added, nodding sagely before launching into a discussion of the benefits of lining the courtyards with Puebla talavera.

My eyes flicked to Andrés. His face was a perfect mask of interest as the men discussed rumors of Church reform and lightly mocked him for knowing as little about it as they did.

I wished I could whisk him away from all these people. For a hot, swift moment, I hated this room and everyone in it but him. I wanted to burn San Isidro to the ground and build it up from the foundation, a sanctuary for the two of us.

Mercifully, we moved to the dining room not long after. I was terrified that I had ruined dinner, that the hacendados and their wives would turn their noses up at what I had spent hours preparing with Paloma. That terror—unlike so many others in the house—turned out to be unfounded.

“You must give our compliments to Ana Luisa,” Doña María José said, sipping her wine with a flourish.

“She’s dead.”

Heads turned to Juana, for it was she who had spoken. Her posture was relaxed, too relaxed, and her words slurred ever so slightly.

She was drunk.

I shot a swift look at Rodolfo. His jaw was tight as he stared at his sister. I had to intervene before she caused any damage—to her reputation or ours alike.

“Doña María José, I’m so sorry to bear this news,” I said softly. “Ana Luisa passed away recently. It was sudden, and quite a shock to lose someone so beloved to our family.”

The hacendados’ wives made sympathetic sounds; their men nodded solemnly, following Andrés’s example in crossing themselves and sending words to heaven for Ana Luisa.

“Her daughter, Paloma, is taking her place as head of the household,” I said. “Despite the tragedy, I think we can all agree she rose to the occasion marvelously.”

More sounds of agreement, and the energy in the room relaxed. I made to catch Rodolfo’s eye and failed. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, but he fixed a cold look on Juana, who swayed slightly as she worked through her dinner.

Crisis averted. Dinner was nearly through. Rodolfo had always said country socializing never went into the small hours of the morning like in the capital. Depending on how much the men drank and talked, the whole evening could be over in an hour or two. The hacendados would leave, Andrés and Juana would leave, and then . . . it would be Rodolfo and me in the house. Alone.

I swallowed, laughing airily at some joke Don Atenógenes made. I turned to Andrés as if to ask him a question. He looked a touch nauseous; he had barely touched his food. I pursed my lips, then froze—

The chair next to him was meant to be empty.

It wasn’t.

The woman from my dream sat there. Gray silks and a golden necklace gleamed in the candlelight as she perched her sharp chin in her hands and gazed down the table at Rodolfo, thoroughly engrossed with each of his gestures.

María Catalina, the first Doña Solórzano, looked so painfully real, so flesh and blood, it sent a dagger of terror through my heart.

As if she heard my heart slam against my rib cage, her head snapped to me, avian sharp, and she caught my eye with her own glowing red ones. My chest contracted, so tight it was akin to a spasm, as she grinned savagely at me. It was too wide, with too many teeth, too long teeth, and—

She vanished.

Gooseflesh rolled up my arms; an iciness poured into the room, one so profound it was all I could do to keep my teeth from chattering.

Yet the conversation carried on. Doña María José laughed along with Rodolfo, opening her mouth and revealing half-chewed rice and pork; Juana shot her a murderous look and slumped glumly in her chair.

Did none of them see? Could none of them feel it? I set my fork down. It clattered onto my plate; I quickly put my hands in my lap to conceal their trembling.

When Doña María José expressed her concern at my shaking, I forced a broad smile.

“Only a chill,” I said. “The house can be terribly drafty at times.”

Andrés shot me a concerned look; I refused to acknowledge it. I kept my peace for the remainder of the meal, answering questions only when they were directed at me, watching as Juana sabotaged every attempt to draw her into the conversation with brusque replies.

I should have found her retorts excruciating. Rodolfo certainly did: the more strained the expressions of our guests became, the more his jaw tightened. The colder his eyes grew.

It washed over me in dull waves of noise. My attention was consumed by how the house shifted around us, waking and stretching as the night deepened. By my own heartbeat, its staccato and persistent drum just below my ear.

The house hated this charade of normalcy. Its loathing seeped through the walls, tangible and thick as mud. I waded through it as I followed the guests from dining room to parlor for nightcaps in a haze; everything moved too slowly, dragged by the thickness of the cold, the weight of the house’s watching.

It was all I could do to make myself obey as Rodolfo waved me over to join him in bidding good night to the guests. I kissed their rouged cheeks dutifully, echoing their empty compliments with my own empty gratitude, echoing Rodolfo’s promise that we would join them at their haciendas. I let Rodolfo lead me back to the parlor on his arm.

Andrés sat with the Bible closed on his knee. Juana was opposite him as she had been before, glowering at the fireplace.

Rodolfo released me suddenly. He crossed the room in three strides and seized his sister by the arm, yanking her to her feet.

Andrés rose to his feet in surprise. “Don Rodol—”

“You beast,” Juana spat, cutting him off. “Let me go.” Rodolfo ignored them both and dragged Juana out of the parlor, kicking the door shut behind him.

It bounced off the doorway, swinging open an inch or two into the hall.

“I am at the end of my rope.” Rodolfo’s voice carried easily into the parlor.

“So hang yourself with it,” Juana spat.

“It will be a miracle if they do not immediately tell the whole district Juana Solórzano is a drunk and a whore.” Rodolfo raised his voice to speak over her. “A miracle if I marry you off and get you the hell out of my house.”

“Father said the house was—”

The smack of palm on cheek. I jumped; Andrés and I locked gazes, eyes wide in horror.

“Do not ever dare to call him that in my presence again,” Rodolfo roared. “You and I both know he is no father of yours, and I will no longer tolerate your lying bastard tongue. You will change your behavior and act as befits the station we pretend you deserve, or so help me God, I will throw you out and make sure you inherit nothing of his honest work. Get out of my sight.”

Juana’s boots struck the flagstones, sharp, determined, leading to the front door. She slammed it shut behind her.

Surprise brought a tinge of color to Andrés’s wan face. If what Rodolfo said was true—that Juana was a bastard, that she and Rodolfo did not share the same father—it was as much a surprise to him as it was to me.

The sound of Rodolfo’s shoes striking the flagstones drew near; hastily, Andrés and I both sat in the chairs closest to us. I seized some needlework. Andrés opened the Bible and began reading in the middle of a sentence. I focused on rethreading the needle as Rodolfo entered.

I lifted my head, keeping an innocent look pasted on my face. Rodolfo seemed as calm as if he had been strolling through the garden with his sister, not shouting obscenities at her and threatening to throw her out of the house. The dying fire cast him in a soft, reddish glow; the only signs he had been angry were the twitch of a muscle in his jaw and a single lock of hair falling into his face. This he brushed aside in a smooth, controlled movement.

He was Janus-faced, my husband. A creature of rage and violence on one side, a serene, gilded prince on the other. He was a staunch defender of the Republic and casta abolitionist who raped women who worked on his property.

I could not trust him. Either side of him.

I could not anger him either. Too many women had died in this house for me to test his patience.

There was nothing I could do as Andrés, my only protection, stood and bid good night to Rodolfo.

“Yes, I think it best we retire,” Rodolfo agreed, turning to him. “I have had a long day of travel.”

I rose, shooting Andrés a look from behind my husband’s back.

Don’t leave, I longed to cry out. I was sure he could read it on my face, in the desperate glint of my eyes in the firelight, as he nodded farewell to me.

No.But there was no reason for him to stay.

“Buenas noches, doña.” A turn of the shoulder, and he departed.

My last defense gone.

From somewhere in the hall, a trill of dissonant laughter echoed. How long the night before me stretched, a black maw without beginning or end. I now stood alone in the parlor with Rodolfo, surrounded by walls that had once borne his name in fresh blood. Walls that still hummed with thick hatred for my presence, that watched my every move.

Over the course of my time at San Isidro, I had learned the different tastes of my fear: the sickening awareness that I was being watched. The dread of the sentient cold sweeping through the house, the spears of terror at a flash of red eyes in the dark.

The fear that rooted my feet to the floor as I stared at Rodolfo’s back was different. It was new.

I now knew what it tasted like to be truly trapped.