He put me to bed after dinner last night, exactly as he said. Dressing me in a sexy silk slip, then taking care to rub salve into the tattoo, he tucked me in like a freaking child, knowing all along how angry it made me. He didn’t touch me apart from taking care of the tattoo. When I saw the negligée, I assumed there would be something, and the fact that I’m bothered by that is even more frustrating than the rest of it.
He’s a control freak. I know that. And I’m just one more thing he can and will control and that includes my pleasure too, I’m sure. And I’m also sure my defiance only makes him that much more determined.
I haven’t seen Santiago all day apart from the glimpse I caught of him getting into a little silver sports car and speeding off a few hours ago. I want to know where he went and who he’s with. Is he at a fancy dinner or an evening out on the town while I sit here night after night isolated and alone? Mercedes is gone too. I heard her telling Antonia she wouldn’t be back tonight. That’s at least a silver lining.
Which gives me the perfect chance to do some more exploring. Maybe check out some of those off-limits rooms. Because I found something I don’t think I was supposed to find today.
Antonia wishes me a good night, telling me she’s off to bed, and leaves the room. It’s almost ten, but I've been anxious to get going for hours.
I give it a few minutes after she’s gone before I get up. I tuck the heavy rosary under the black slip. The stones of the thing are cold against my bare skin, and I pull on a sweater. I don’t want to run into the staff and have them see it around my neck. It will only reaffirm his dominance over me. It’s humiliating enough to submit to him, but to have them all know it? Well, I don’t think I could handle that.
I searched for a phone during the day, but there doesn’t seem to be one anywhere. It’s not unusual not to have a landline, though. I found the pool too, and it took all I had not to just slip right in and swim. It’s beautiful. Twice the size of the one at my parents’ house with two-story-high glass ceilings and walls and tiny little turquoise and gold tiles as far as the eye can see.
I’d swim if I was sure I wouldn’t get caught. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m afraid of what he’d do if he did catch me. I have a feeling even if no one reported back, he’d smell the chlorine on me somehow, even if I scrubbed my skin raw.
The conversation last night about Hazel still has me rattled. And his comment about my dad not really ever searching for her, is that true? Why? Or was he somehow protecting her from The Society?
And now I’m wondering if Santiago himself is looking for her. Does he care enough to bring her back to be punished? Why? He used to be like a son to my father. Does he realize that, I wonder? Surely, he wouldn’t do anything to cause my father pain. Right?
I step out into the hallway and turn toward the stairs that lead down to the first floor and back to the large and well-stocked library, which just happens to be near his study. I only know that because I’d been in the library when I’d overheard Antonia tell one of the maids she wasn’t allowed to be in that part of the house and to clear out.
So I make my way toward the dark corridor with the double doors at the end that lead to the library. I feel my heart race and keep glancing over my shoulder, but all is quiet.
And I’m not doing anything wrong. Yet.
If anyone asks, I’m just going to get a book and read. I’m allowed in here.
I let myself in through the double doors. The chandelier offers slightly more light than those in the living and dining rooms, and reading lamps are set beside each comfortable, plush chair of which there must be a dozen, some set up in pairs, most alone. This is where I spent most of the afternoon. I even took a nap in one of those chairs. Not on purpose but I dozed.
I pick up one of the candles in its old-fashioned holder and make my way toward the darkest part of the library. It’s a little creepy in here but honestly no less so than my own bedroom, so I shake off the thoughts of ghosts and go to the cutout door similar to the one in the dining room.
I hold my candle up and have to peer close to see the outline, but there it is. The young woman had been whistling as she cleaned. It’s what had woken me from my impromptu nap. I hadn’t thought much of it until Antonia mentioned she wasn’t to go into the Master’s study.
I roll my eyes at the fact he makes them call him master.
Pretentious prick.
I search for something resembling a doorknob, but there isn’t one. Setting the candle on a shelf, I feel around, and a few moments later, when I push at just the right place, I feel the spring beneath my fingers, and the door creaks open.
Feeling victorious, I grin. Then look over my shoulder to make sure I’m still alone before I step into Santiago’s study.
I stand and survey the space, the light of my candle dimmer than the flashing artificial green of the half dozen monitors across from his desk. They're the only modern thing in here. It’s a good-sized room with the huge antique desk at the center and a single chair across from it. A cognac-colored leather couch extends almost the length of the wall nearest me, and like the walls in my room, those here are paneled in dark wood. The far one is taken up entirely by leather-bound books and before it are two comfortable looking chairs with a small table between them.
I walk toward it, pausing at any creak in the floor, trying and failing to ignore the lingering scent of his cologne. It’s subtle, like when I smell it on him, but just as in the confessional the night of our wedding, it’s his scent, and I will never forget it. It’s like my body has a visceral reaction to it, too, my stomach fluttering, my heart racing.
I don’t know what it is about this man whose mark I wear etched in my skin. Whose ring circles my finger and whose rosary hangs heavy around my neck, but I am so highly aware of him past and present.
When I get to the wall of books, I see a glass with its remnant of amber liquid beside a book on the small table. The book itself is open and lying facedown.
I sit on the chair, and when I do, I see the pencil that must have rolled to the floor. I pick it up without even thinking and set it beside the book.
Santiago must have sat in this chair while drinking his drink.
I set my candle down and pick up the glass to inhale. Scotch. My dad had it for company at home. I bring the glass to my lips, and I’m not even sure why I do this. I’m not really thinking, and if I were, I couldn’t make sense of it. But I put my lips to the glass, and I drink the last sip of his scotch.
As the liquid burns its way down my throat, I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the chair. Leather combines with the scent of scotch and him. Keeping my eyes closed, I inhale, aware of the shudder that makes its way down my spine. I know it’s not the scotch. It doesn’t work that fast.
I open my eyes and set the glass down, then touch the tips of my fingers to the leather spine of the book. No title. The leather looks and feels ancient. The tome is thick and probably shouldn’t be laid facedown and open like he’s got it. It’ll damage the binding.
Picking it up, I turn it over and peer at the page. But it’s not words at all that I see. It’s a drawing that takes up the whole of the page. A skull.
I turn the page and find detailed black and white drawings on the next one. This one is a woman. She’s beautiful. Older with dark hair and sad eyes and a veil that hides part of her face. I study it, something about how she seems to be peering out at me so intriguing I can’t look away.