Mexican Gothic(62)

She touched her wrist, wanting to feel the blue-and-white beads.

She’d taken off the bracelet against the evil eye. Her wrist was bare.

So was she, for that matter, wrapped in the white bathrobe, with water droplets still clinging to her body.

She stood up.

“I’ll be heading back now,” she declared.

“You know, when you wake after sleepwalking you are not supposed to go back to bed right at once,” he said. “I really think you could use a little more wine.”

“No. I’ve had a terrible night and don’t wish to prolong it.”

“Mmm. And yet if I didn’t agree to let you take my lamp you’d be forced to remain here for a few more minutes, wouldn’t you? Unless you plan to find your way back by touching the walls. This house is very dark.”

“Yes. I do plan to do that if you won’t be polite and assist me.”

“I thought I was assisting you. I’ve offered you a towel to dry your hair, a chair to sit down, and a drink to calm your nerves.”

“My nerves are fine.”

He rose with the glass in one hand, eyeing her with a dry amusement. “What did you dream tonight?”

She did not wish to blush in front of him. To turn crimson like an idiot in front of a man who wielded such meticulous hostility toward her. But she thought of his mouth on hers and his hands on her thighs, like it had been in the dream, and an electric thrill ran down her spine. That night, that dream, it had felt like desire, danger, and scandals, and all the secrets her body and her eager mind quietly coveted. The thrill of shamelessness and of him.

She blushed after all.

Virgil smiled. And even though it was impossible, she was sure that he knew exactly what she had dreamed, and that he was waiting for her to give him the smallest hint of an invitation. The fog in her brain was clearing, though, and she remembered the words in her ear. That single phrase. Open your eyes.

Noemí curled a hand into a fist, her nails digging into her palm.

She shook her head. “Something terrible,” she said.

Virgil seemed confused, then disappointed. His face turned ugly as he grimaced. “Perhaps you were hoping to sleepwalk into Francis’s room, hmm?” he asked.

The words shocked her, but they also gave her the confidence to stare back at him. How dare he. And after he had said they could be friends. But she understood now. This man was an absolute liar, toying with her, attempting to confuse and distract her. He turned kind for a second when it suited him, granted her an inch of cordiality, then took it away.

“Go to sleep,” she said, but in her mind she thought fuck you, and her tone plainly indicated that. She snatched the lamp and left him in the shadows.

When she reached her room she realized it had started to rain.

The sort of rain that does not ease, a constant patter against the window. She ventured into the bathroom and looked at the bathtub.

The water was cold, and the steam had dissipated. She yanked up the plug.





18





N


oemí slept fitfully, afraid she’d launch into another somnambulistic escapade. Eventually, she dozed off.

There was a rustle of cloth in her room, the creak of a board, and she turned her head in fright toward the door, her hands clutching her bedsheets.

It was Florence in another of her prim dark dresses and her pearls. She had let herself into her room and carried a silver tray in her hands.

“What are you doing?” Noemí asked, sitting up. Her mouth felt dry.

“It’s lunchtime,” Florence said.

“What?”

It couldn’t be that late, could it? Noemí got up and pulled the curtains aside. Light streamed in. It rained still. The morning hours had burned away without her noticing, exhaustion bleeding her dry.

Florence set the lunch tray down. She poured a cup of tea for Noemí.

“Oh, no, thanks,” Noemí said, shaking her head. “I wanted to see Catalina before eating.”

“She’s woken up already and has gone back to bed,” Florence replied, setting the teapot down. “Her medication is making her very sleepy.”

“In that case, will you tell me when the doctor arrives, then? He is supposed to come today, isn’t he?”

“He won’t be here today.”

“I thought he visited every week.”

“It’s still raining,” Florence said, indifferent. “He won’t come up with this rain.”

“It might rain tomorrow too. After all, it’s the rainy season, isn’t it? What’ll happen then?”

“Well get by on our own, we always have.”

What neat, crisp answers to everything! Why, it almost felt like Florence had written and memorized all the right things to say.

“Please tell me when my cousin wakes up,” Noemí insisted.

“I’m not your servant, Miss Taboada,” Florence replied. Her voice lacked animosity, though. It was merely a fact.

“I am well aware of that, but you demand that I not visit Catalina without warning and then you set up an impossible schedule for me.

What is your problem?” she asked. She realized she was being incredibly rude, but she wished to draw a crack through Florence’s calm fa?ade.