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.”