“What did I ever do to you to justify what you do to me?” I ask, snatching the bottle away and sniffing the contents. I smell herbs, something sweet. I tilt my head and swallow what’s inside. It’s only two sips. I hand it back, feeling the liquid slide down my throat almost as strong as the scotch I’d barely sipped earlier.
I exhale, lean back against the pillows when he nods, and takes the vial like he’s calmed a little by my drinking it.
I don’t know what I expect. Violent cramping. Vomiting. But all I feel is relaxed.
“Lie down,” he says, already helping me do just that.
I don’t fight him. It’s no use anyway. We both know he’ll win.
“What is it?” I ask when he walks around the room, lighting a few of the candles.
“Just some herbs to help you relax and sleep. You need to sleep now and regain your strength.”
“So you can repeat my punishments tomorrow?”
He doesn’t answer.
I look around the large suite at just a few furniture pieces I’d guess are antique. On the headboard above my head, I see the skull and roses, the dueling pistols. His family crest carved into the wood.
My eyes start to close. I try to keep them open and roll onto my side to watch him because I need to keep an eye on him. I can’t let myself fall asleep in his presence. What will he do to me if I sleep? I need to watch him, but my eyelids are so heavy. My body feels so relaxed.
He lights the candles on a candelabra in the sitting area a few feet from me then sits in the large, comfortable-looking armchair.
I must drift for a while because when I look again, I find him watching me, eyes dark and intent. His hair is wet, and he’s drinking from a crystal glass and wearing a close-fitting, V-neck charcoal sweater and dark slacks. Did he shower? I try to sit up. I want to go to my room.
He’s at my side in an instant. Too fast. Did I nod off again? On the table beside the chair is that notebook I’d seen in his study. I recognize the leather binding.
I try to say something. Tell him I want to go to my room.
“Relax, Ivy.”
I don’t want to relax.
He tucks the blankets around me. “Don’t fight it. You’re safe.”
“I’m not safe. Not with you.”
“Shh. Sleep.”
Okay. Yes. I take a deep breath in and let my eyes close. It’s warm in his bed. And his smell is around me, and I’m safe, like he said.
I startle.
No. Not like he said.
I have to fight whatever it is he gave me. Because I’m not safe. Not in his house. Not in his bed.
I’m going to put a baby inside you.
I can’t let that happen.
When I wake next, it’s to a familiar humming. A familiar scent. And light.
“You’re sleeping the day away, dear.” I open my eyes and have to squint against the bright light.
Is that the sun?
Sitting up, I feel the silk of the nightgown against my skin. I look around my room. My room. Not his. My bed. My pillows. My room.
“What time is it?” I ask Antonia as she arranges the curtain to filter the sunlight.
“Almost noon.”
I rub my eyes, look at the place where a small square had been my only source of light. It’s bigger now. A rectangle. Like a panel has been removed to expose the window behind it.
“Santiago said to make sure you have lots of juice this morning, so I brought extra. And there are fresh beignets. His request. It’s really not like him.”
I watch her pour coffee and look at the plate piled high with the sweet, fried dough. I love beignets, but since I’ve been here, my breakfast has been pretty standard. Delicious but not like this. Eggs, bacon, and toast. Fruit. Today, I have a mountain of beignets covered in powdered sugar along with berries and a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice.
“It’s such a beautiful day. I thought you’d like to get some sun and fresh air before Mercedes takes you to be fitted for your dress.”
Mercedes again?
I swing my legs out of the bed, take a moment to let the dizziness pass, then stand. I go to the window, not sure if I’m imagining it. I push the curtain away and touch the glass, look out into the vast garden, the woods beyond, and the light mist gathered in the thicket of trees.
“I don’t understand.” I look at the wood paneling, and sure enough, a piece has been removed. When? He’s uncovered about half the window.
“Come and eat while they’re still piping hot.”
I go to the table and sit down. I let Antonia put two beignets on a small plate in front of me, and I pick one up to eat it. Sugar sticks to my lips and coats my tongue as I break the pastry with my teeth, and for one moment, I just let myself feel that sweetness, taste it. I could use some sweet in my life.
“They’re delicious, aren’t they?” Antonia says.
I realize that moan was me. I nod and take another bite.
Powdered sugar dusts the deep purple negligée. Did he dress me? And when did he bring me back to my room?
I remember then, at least vaguely waking up last night. First, when he tucked me in. Then a few more times when he’d told me to go back to sleep. He’d been sitting there with that notebook on his lap watching me. Did he watch me sleep all night? Did he sleep at all? I don’t remember him getting into the bed with me.
I remember one other thing. I saw Mercedes. Well, maybe that part was a dream because we were in the hallway. Me in Santiago’s arms. Her peering at us from a dark corner.
I realize also then that I’m wearing panties too. He must have cleaned me while I was out. How did I not feel it? What exactly was in that vial he had me drink that knocked me out so thoroughly?
Heat flushes my cheeks at the thought of him cleaning me while I was passed out, and I pick up the juice glass to hide my face.
Does he feel guilty? Is all of this out of guilt for what he did?
No. That makes no sense.
Antonia pours a second glass of juice when I finish the first. I take it and drink half of it down. I’m thirsty.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“When did he do that?” I ask about the window.
“I heard something quite early this morning. Had Marco do it, I think.” She’s smiling warmly.
"Hm.” I eat another bite, and Antonia smiles kindly at me.
“I’ve known Santiago since he was in diapers, you know.” She puts another beignet on my plate. “His father was not an easy man, but his death and perhaps Santiago surviving it when in his mind at least he was meant to die, it changed him. You’re good for him, Ivy. I see it. I feel it.”
“I’m not good for him. He hates me, and I don’t even know why.”
“No, that’s not hate. He has demons, that boy, but inside, he’s good. I know it. And I think if anyone can bring it out, it’ll be you.”
“If I survive,” I mutter under my breath, then think of something. “Why does he have everyone call him master?”
She shakes her head. “That was his father. Made sure we all called them Master even when they were children. Cold as stone, that one. But I won’t speak ill of the dead.”
A knock comes on the door, interrupting us then, and the maid who was here, the younger one who every time I’ve seen her looks like she’s expecting a ghost to jump out at her at any moment stands in the doorway.