I
t occurred in reverse, the farce of a marriage. First the banquet, then the ceremony.
They gathered in the dining room, Francis and Noemí sitting side by side, Florence and Catalina across from the groom and bride, and Virgil at the head of the table. Neither Howard nor Dr. Cummins was present.
The servants had lit many candles, and dishes were piled upon the white damask tablecloth. Wildflowers were crammed into high turquoise glass vases. The plates and the cups that evening were silver, and though carefully polished, they looked very old, older than the silver Noemí had cleaned. They must have used these to feast some four hundred years ago. Perhaps even more. Treasure troves from their vault, carefully placed in crates, just like the dark earth Howard had packed, so that they might reassemble the world where they’d reigned as masters.
At Noemí’s right Francis sat dressed in his double-breasted gray frock coat suit, white waistcoat and dark gray necktie. She wondered if this outfit had belonged to Ruth’s groom, or whether it was a relic of another relative. In Noemí’s case, they had found a proper veil for her somewhere in a chest. It was a white tulle bandeau that covered her forehead, head combs and pins holding it in place.
Noemí did not eat, and she drank only water; she did not speak, and neither did the others. The magic rule of silence had been reinstated, the susurrus of hands upon a napkin the only interruption. Noemí glanced in Catalina’s direction, and her cousin looked back at her.
The scene reminded her of a picture in one of her childhood fairy tale books, when the wedding banquet is in place and an evil fairy walks into the room. She recalled the table laden with meats and pies, the women wearing high headdresses, and the men in box coats with huge sleeves. She touched her silver cup and once again wondered at the age of it and whether Howard had been born three hundred, four hundred, five hundred years in the past and might have walked around in a jerkin and hose. She’d seen him in a dream, but the dream had been vague, or it had grown vaguer in the days since. How many times had he died, acquired a new body? She looked at Virgil, and he returned the look, raising his cup, which prompted Noemí to stare at her plate.
The clock marked the hour, and that was their cue. They rose. Francis took her hand and they walked together, up the stairs, a tiny wedding procession winding its way to Howard’s room. She’d known instinctively that this must be their destination, yet she still recoiled at the entrance and clutched Francis’s hand so hard she must have hurt him. He whispered in her ear.
“We’re together,” he said.
They walked in. The air was foul with the stench of food gone sour, and Howard still lay on the bed, his lips black and covered with pustules, but this time he was under the covers and Dr. Cummins stood at his side. In a church there would have been the smell of incense. Here was the perfume of putrefaction.
When Howard caught sight of Noemí, the old man grinned. “You look beautiful, my dear,” he said. “One of the prettiest brides I’ve had the chance to gaze upon.”
She considered exactly how many that might be. Another pretty girl for his collection, Florence had said.
“Loyalty to the family is rewarded, and impertinence is punished. Remember that and you shall be very happy,” the old man continued. “And now, here, the two of you must be wed. Come.”
Cummins stepped aside, and they took his place by the bed. Howard proceeded to speak in Latin. Noemí had no idea what he
said, but at one point Francis knelt, and she knelt with him. This choreographed obeisance to the father had meaning. Repetition, Noemí thought. Tracing the same path over and over again. Circles.
Howard offered Francis a lacquered box, and the young man opened it. On plush velvet rested two tiny, dried pieces of yellow mushrooms.
“You must eat,” Howard said.
Noemí held a tiny mushroom piece in her hand and Francis did the same. She was reluctant to place it in her mouth, lest it inhibit or reduce the progress of the tincture she’d been secretly imbibing, but more than that its provenance disturbed her. Had it been collected from the grounds near the house, or had it come from the cemetery, riddled with corpses? Or else had it grown upon Howard’s flesh and been plucked with nimble fingers, blood flowing when the stem was severed?
Francis touched her wrist, motioning for her to feed him the mushroom, and then it was her turn, he placing the mushroom in her mouth. It seemed to her this was a strange parody of the communion wafer, and the thought of it almost made her giggle. She was so nervous.
She swallowed quickly. The mushroom had no taste, but the cup of wine that Francis pressed against her lips was sickly sweet, though she hardly had a sip. It was more the scent of it that assailed her nostrils, mixing with that other scent pervading the room, the miasma of sickness and decay.
“May I kiss you?” Francis asked, and she nodded.
Francis leaned forward, and it was a delicate touch, barely there, like gossamer, before he stood up and gave her his hand so that she might rise with ease.
“Let us instruct the young couple,” Howard said, “that they may be bountiful.”
They had exchanged only a handful of words through the wedding ceremony, and it was apparently all over. Virgil now motioned for Francis to follow him, while Florence took hold of Noemí and led her
out of the room and into her own chamber. In Noemí’s absence one of the servants had decorated it. They’d placed flowers in more of those tall vases, left a bouquet tied with an old ribbon on the bed, and lit many long candles. It was a parody of romanticism. The scent here was of misplaced spring, of flowers and wax.
“What instruction did he mean?” Noemí asked.
“The Doyle brides are proper girls, chaste and modest. What happens between a man and a woman is a great mystery to them.”
Noemí doubted that was the case. Howard had been a lecher, Virgil the same. Maybe they saved certain bits for last, but they did not deny themselves entirely.
“I can name all body parts,” Noemí replied.
“Then you’ll do fine.” Florence raised her hands to help Noemí take off her veil, but she brushed the woman’s hand away even though she suddenly felt a bit unsteady, and the assistance might have proven useful.
“I can manage alone. You can go.”
Florence, hands clasped under her breast, stared at Noemí and walked out.
Thank God, Noemí thought.
Noemí ventured into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, removing pins and head combs and tossing the piece of tulle to the ground. The temperature had dropped. She walked back into the bedroom and put on the sweater she liked to wear. Her lighter was hard and cold against her fingers as she shoved her hands into her pockets.
She felt a little light-headed. Nothing unpleasant, nothing like what had happened the last time she’d been in Howard’s room. This was the buzz of alcohol, although she’d not had any wine, except for that one sip during the ceremony.
In the corner of the room she noticed that same stain on the wallpaper that had scared her. It wasn’t moving now, but there were tiny golden points dancing at the edge of it. When she closed her
eyes, however, it became obvious that the golden points were in her eyes, as if she’d stared at a light bulb.
She sat down on the bed, eyes still closed, and wondered where Francis was right now and what they were saying to him, and whether he also felt pinpricks running down his spine.
She had a vague impression of a different wedding, a different bride with a garland of pearls. On the morning of her wedding she’d received a silver wedding casket and inside there had been colored ribbons and jewels and a coral necklace. Howard’s hand on her own, the amber ring, and she did not wish for this but she must… Was this…was she Agnes or Alice? Noemí was unsure. Alice, probably, because the girl thought of her sister.
Sister.
This made Noemí remember Catalina, and she opened her eyes, staring up at the ceiling. She wished they might have had a word. A single word, to soothe both of their nerves.
Noemí rubbed a hand against her mouth. It was considerably warmer in the room, where before it had felt like morning frost. She turned her head and saw Virgil standing next to the bed.
For a second she thought she was mistaken, that it was Francis and she was seeing wrong or else it was the gloom, confusing her once more. After all, why would Virgil be in her room? But then Virgil grinned, and Francis would never smile at her like that. He was leering at her.
She jumped to her feet, intending to flee, but she stumbled, and he caught her in two quick movements, grabbing hold of her arm.
“Noemí, here we are again,” he said.
His grip was firm, and she knew she couldn’t fight him using physical force alone. She took a breath. “Where’s Francis?”
“Busy being reprimanded. Did you think we wouldn’t find out?” Virgil asked, reaching into his pocket and showing her the glass vial with the tincture. “It wouldn’t have worked, anyway. How do you feel?”
“Drunk. Did you poison us?”
He tucked the vial back in his pocket. “No. It was a little wedding gift, a little aphrodisiac. It’s a pity Francis won’t be able to enjoy it.”
She had a razor, she recalled. Hidden under the mattress. It would count for something. If she could get to it. But his hand was still on her arm with an iron grip, and when she tried to brush it away he wouldn’t allow it.
“I’m married to Francis.” “He’s not here.”
“But your father—”
“He’s not here either. How funny, they’re all busy right now.” He tilted his head. “Francis is a little green boy of no experience, but I know what I’m doing. I know what you want.”
“You don’t know anything,” she whispered.
“You dream of me, you come looking for me as you dream,” he said. “Life bores you, Noemí. You like a hint of danger, but back home they wrap you in gauze, to keep you from breaking. But you’d like to break, wouldn’t you? You play with people and you wish someone would have the guts to play with you.”
It was not a real question, he awaited no answer, and his mouth covered hers. She bit him, but it was not in an attempt to deter his actions, and he knew it. He was right that she liked to play, that she enjoyed flirting and teasing and dancing, that they were so careful around her because she was a Taboada, and once in a while a coil of darkness wrapped itself around her heart and she wished to strike, like a cat.
But even as she was admitting this, even as Noemí knew this was a part of her, she also knew it was not her.
She must have said that out loud without realizing, because he chuckled.
“Of course it’s you. I can nudge you, but it’s you.” “No.”
“It’s me you want, me you fantasize about. We have an understanding, don’t we? We know each other, really know each
other. Underneath the layers of decorum all you do is want.”
She slapped him. It accomplished nothing. There was the briefest pause, and he caught her face between his hands and turned her head, running his thumb along her neck. Lust, thick and heady, made her gasp in ruinous delight.
The mold in the corner of the room was shifting and blurring, and his fingers were clenching hard into her flesh, pulling her tighter against him. The mold was streaked with veins of gold, and he was trying to gather up her skirts, shoving her against the bed, touching her between her thighs. The motion made her panic.
“Wait!” she said, as he pressed down on her, undaunted, impatient.
“No waiting, you tease.”
“The dress!” He frowned, annoyed, but Noemí spoke again, hoping to buy time. “You’d better help me take off the dress.”
This seemed to improve his mood, and he gave her a radiant smile. She managed to stand up, and he peeled off her sweater, tossing it on the bed, and pushed her hair away from her nape as she furiously tried to think of a way out of—
In the corner of her eye the mold, with its streaks of gold, had spread across the wall and was dripping onto the floor. It refracted and changed, a pattern of triangles turning to diamonds and then whorls. She nodded, feeling as if a great hand were pressed against her face, quietly smothering her.
She was never getting out of this house. To have considered it had been a folly. To have wanted to leave had been a mistake. And she wished to be a part of this, wanted to be one with the strange machinery and the veins and the muscles and the marrow of High Place. She wanted to be one with Virgil.
Want.
He had undone the top buttons on the back of the dress. She could have left long ago. Should have left in the beginning, when the first tingle of disquiet assailed her, but there had been a thrill to it,
hadn’t there? A curse, maybe a haunting. She had even been excited to tell Francis about it. A haunting, a mystery to solve.
All along, the sickly pull of this. And why not? Why not.
Why not. Want.
Her body, which had been cold, now felt too hot, and the mold dripped down, forming a black puddle in the corner. It reminded her of the black bile that Howard had spit down her throat, and that memory awoke a wave of disgust, her mouth tasting sour, and she thought of Catalina and Ruth and Agnes and the terrible things they’d done to them, which they’d now do to her.
She turned around, away from the shimmering, changing mold, and shoved Virgil away with all her might. Virgil stumbled against the chest at the foot of her bed and fell down. She immediately knelt by the bed and stretched an arm under the mattress, clumsy fingers grabbing the razor she’d hidden there.
Noemí clutched the razor and looked at Virgil, who was sprawled on the floor. He’d hit his head, and his eyes were closed. Here was luck at last. Noemí breathed in slowly and leaned down next to his body, reaching into his pocket for the tincture. She found it, uncapped it, and drank a little from it, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
The effect was immediate and noticeable. She felt a wave of nausea, her hands trembled, and the flask slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor. She held on to one of the bedposts and breathed quickly. My God. She thought she’d faint. She bit her hand hard to jolt herself into wakefulness. It worked.
The black puddles of mold that had accumulated on the floor were receding, and the fog in her mind was evaporating. Noemí put on her sweater, tucked the razor in one pocket and the lighter in another.
She looked at Virgil still sprawled on the floor and considered sticking the knife into his skull, but her hands were trembling again, and she needed to get out of there and away from him. She must fetch Catalina. There was no time to waste.
