“Erase the memory? My memory you mean?”
She nods. “That’s the impression I had. He said it was an ugly night that shouldn’t have happened at all.”
“It’s the night my brother was killed.” I wonder how much Jericho knows about that. Why he cares.
She puts her hand over mine and squeezes. “Then I understand why Jericho would want you to forget it.”
This is a whole other side I haven’t yet heard. I’ve never considered. Did he really make the tattoo what it is to help me forget what happened? No. No way.
The gong sounds then and Ivy and I both look toward the sound. People begin to move toward the chairs set up at the opposite end of the room and I see Jericho and Santiago approach.
“Here we go,” Ivy says and stands, keeping my hand in hers. “Remember, if you need anything just call me. Here,” she says, slipping a piece of paper and a pen out of her clutch. She scribbles her phone number down and squeezes it into my palm. “That’s my cell phone but you can always call the house too.”
“Thank you, Ivy. Really.”
“Of course,” she says and gives me a quick hug before Santiago takes her hand, nods a farewell to me and leads her away.
“How was your tête-à-tête?” Jericho asks as he wraps a possessive hand around the nape of my neck again.
“Much more interesting than any conversation I’ve had with you,” I tell him.
He smiles, gives a squeeze of his hand. “Oh, sweetheart, you are so earning your evening.”
I don’t get a chance to ask what he means as he leads us through the crowd to the very front of the room where our seats are located. I’m surprised. He’s not one to seek out attention. He’s more like the cat who watches from the tree unseen but seeing everything. Waiting to pounce.
It takes a few minutes before everyone is seated and after a welcome and a mention of the charity for which funds will be raised tonight, the auction begins.
A painting opens the auction. It’s a beautiful, gold framed landscape from a Dutch artist painted three centuries ago and the amount of money the auctioneer names to start the bidding has me choking.
Jericho doesn’t bid on this item. He flips through the booklet instead as the first, second, third and fourth items are set on the stage and taken off the stage once sold.
“Ah,” he finally says, sitting back and setting one hand on my knee. He leans toward me as two men carry in whatever is hidden beneath the red velvet blanket. It’s clearly heavy. “This one’s the one I’m after. It’s actually a gift for you.”
I only have time to glance at him before the item is placed and the blanket covering it tugged off. And I swear everyone in the room must hear my gasp.
Because there on the stage in the front of the room is a pillory much like the one used during the marking ceremony.
43
Jericho
Isabelle doesn’t speak another word until we’re in the car later that evening. I watch her, feeling smug. When we get to the house, she tries to slip free, but I hold on to her wrist.
“Let go. I’m hungry and I’m tired,” she says.
I remember what Angelique had asked. If she was feeling better. “Didn’t you eat dinner?”
“I didn’t feel good so no, not really.”
“I’ll make you a sandwich.” I walk her to the kitchen.
“I can make my own sandwich. You can go to bed or play with your new toy or whatever. Just leave me alone.”
“Yeah, no.” I switch on the kitchen light and pull out a chair at the counter. “That new toy is our toy,” I tell her with a wink. “Sit.”
“Why would you buy that thing?” she asks as I gather bread and cheese from the refrigerator. I look at the cold cuts but remember she’s a vegetarian.
“I liked how you looked in it,” I tell her, returning to the counter and getting a plate.
“I didn’t like how I felt in it.”
“It’ll be different. Just me. No audience.” I unwrap one of the cheeses and she makes a face.
“Not that one.” She pinches her nose dramatically. “I feel sick at the smell of it.”
I study her, smell the cheese which is as neutral as possible. “It smells fine.”
“Just butter. Okay? Just butter is fine.”
I put the cheese away and butter a thick slice of bread. Once I place it in front of her, she reaches for the saltshaker and sprinkles some on then picks it up and bites into it.
“That’s not enough if you’re hungry. You need a protein.”
She raises her eyebrows as she takes a second bite. “You’re concerned about my protein intake?”
“What did you eat today?”
“This. Some juice. An apple.”
“That’s all?”
“I told you I didn’t feel well. Why do you care? Are you upset I’m spoiling your night? You won’t be able to lock me in your medieval torture device?”
I butter another two slices as she crams the last piece into her mouth. She doesn’t hesitate but picks up a second piece, salts it and starts eating. I get her a glass of orange juice and watch her, thinking. She’s been here about two months give or take.
“I talked to your brother today,” she says, interrupting my thoughts.
I feel myself tense. She cocks her head and I notice how the pulse at her throat beats wildly. I narrow my gaze and understand why as soon as she speaks again.
“He told me the three of you were an item.”
“Pardon?”
She puts her slice of bread down. “You, Ezekiel and Angelique’s mom. You were together.”
Ah. The silence drags on while she chews, eyes on me. Waiting for my reaction. “Just eat, Isabelle.”
Her eyes narrow like she’s concentrating. “Is it true?”
“Eat so I can take you out to the pillory.”
“I don’t want—”
“It doesn’t matter what you want. It’s what I want. Eat.”
Her eyes search mine and she takes a bite then wipes her hands, leaving the final slice untouched. I see the peaks of her nipples pressing against her dress. Notice the flush in her cheeks. It’s not the reaction I expected.
“Finished?” I ask.
She nods.
“Let’s go then.” I gesture to the door.
I don’t know if I expect her to run but she doesn’t. Instead, she slips off the stool and walks toward the door. I open it and she steps out and, without speaking, we walk toward the cemetery, the chapel. Her steps slow when I open the gate for her to walk through. I take her hand to lead her around the back of the building because the chapel isn’t where I want to be tonight.
She hesitates. It’s darker back here, the trees denser.
“Come,” I tell her. Not that she has a choice. I unlatch the heavy wooden door around the back of the building and pull it open. Candles are already lit inside, a hundred of them, the scent that of melting wax and abandonment.
“What is this?” she asks, stepping back to me, her eyes landing on the reason I brought her.
I rub my hands over her arms, keep her back against my chest. “Back in the days mass was said here it was the room the priests used to dress. That door connects it to the chapel.” I point to the short, narrow door.