Chapter 4
Chapter Four
As an eighteen-year-old, I towered over Roelle.
Being well over six feet, wearing the clothes he’d purchased for me, I presented the very image of a young gentleman. Although my quiet demeanor disconcerted the staff, my dark locks, hazel eyes, and sharp features easily enamored them.
And sometimes, for my own amusement, I’d bewitch the female staff with my charisma.
But I quickly slipped back into the torment of thoughts and memories that haunted me, relentless reminders that I was nothing, as my future stretched out before me in all its bleakness.
Head down, I engaged in my duties, often avoiding interaction with others.
For my birthday in October, Roelle gifted me with one of the estate’s finest stallions. He personally taught me how to ride – but boredom made his wickedness show. He’d startle the horse, causing the animal to rear up. As I hit the ground with a thud, I could hear his laughter.
I burned with quiet fury that he’d risked my safety for a jest – silently swearing that one day, the fear would be his to bear.
I sought revenge while cleaning Roelle’s office. I’d rummage through his private papers, eager to discover something that might embarrass him. I soon found where he hid the key to a secret compartment in his desk. Inside, he’d stashed letters.
Reading one of them by candlelight, it became clear that my progress had been followed by a friend of his, Felipe Grenaldi. Puzzled, I replaced the letter, wondering why this man would be interested in me.
Shoved behind a stack of wooden boxes, half-hidden, rested an upside-down artist’s canvas. I’d never noticed it before. I eased it out, turned it over and laid it on the desk, examining the portrait of four men standing close together, all dressed in matador apparel.
One of them was my brother, Ricardo, his likeness masterfully portrayed. My heart ached and my throat tightened as I gazed at his familiar figure.
In the picture, Roelle had flung his arm affectionately around the shoulders of a man whose face had been blacked out with what looked like ink. On hearing someone approaching, I quickly put the painting back in its hiding place.
Something about that painting had me thinking it could be a clue to why my brother was no longer alive.
Or maybe my own guilt was too heavy to bear, and some part of me needed to believe it wasn’t my fault.
Guilt sunk its claws into me deep, dragging me down with every thought, until even silence felt like punishment.
I deserved this place.
Despite my seeming promotion, Roelle never let me forget my place and often provided chores that would easily remind me.
One wrong move could result in a threat of returning to that cellar.
Therefore, I strived for perfection, very often going over tasks I’d already completed to make sure I’d done my best.
One late evening while I was tidying Roelle’s bedchamber, he entered carrying matador apparel.
I recognized the embellished gold braid that swept up the breast of the jacket and down along the shoulders.
The small, black buttons had been fastened with fine, scarlet ribbon.
This outfit had belonged to my brother. Roelle slid it into the wardrobe.
I reached for Roelle’s black leather shoes and began polishing them.
He smiled down at me. “In your mother’s letter, she insisted I take it.” He paused. “Not sure who to give it to.”
Shouldn’t it be me?
It was the only thing left of my old life – other than the invisible scars I carried for what had happened that day.
Discreetly watching him, I steadied my hands and swallowed hard, unsettled by a wave of uneasiness. In the shoes’ newly shined reflection, I saw my brother staring back. But it was my own image. A quick glance confirmed Roelle hadn’t noticed my reaction.
My stone-faced expression concealed so much, even from me.
Roelle regarded me with interest. “Your mother is dead.”
I gazed at him with pain etched in my expression. “When?” I asked, my voice breaking.
“Does it matter?”
My jaw gaped in horror at his cruelty.
He shrugged. “A week ago.”
“And my grandparents?”
He looked surprised. “They died years ago.”
With a lump in my throat, I whispered, “My sister?”
His lip twitched. “Go and help Miguel in the stable.”
Dazed, I headed for the door.
“Daumia,” he called out. He rarely used my first name, so I turned to face him.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” he said. “It’s a good reminder that actions have consequences.”
I stood there wondering if this crushing pain in my chest would ever let up.
Hate for him burned fiercely in my soul. But I was powerless.
“You’re doing that thing again, where you stand there staring and waste time…my time.” Roelle slipped into the shoes I’d just polished.
Black wax stained my hands, the polish ingrained under my fingernails.
Halfway down the stairs, I stared back up at Roelle’s bedroom. That painting had been defaced and yet he’d kept it.
Back in the office, I went straight for the portrait. I turned it over and studied it more closely. In the left-hand corner, in small scratchy handwriting, the subjects’ names were written on the back: Ricardo Velde, Felipe Grenaldi, Roelle Bastillion, and Aaron Luis.
I turned the painting over again and scraped the smudge that obscured the mystery man’s face, exposing black eyebrows too close together, a familiar dark expression, and a cleft in his chin.
It was the same man who had tried to murder me in the mausoleum – before the mystery woman had appeared. Sunaria had prevented him from striking me with that awful cudgel.
Distracted, I made my way to the servants’ quarters.
On finding a bath prepared for someone else, I climbed into the tub and began scrubbing my skin, trying to wash away this agonizing feeling as the memories of losing my mother overwhelmed me.
I’d never explained the truth to her. It had been another man who had acclimated the bull, and I had stepped into the ring to warn him of the danger.
And the bull had turned on me, forcing me over the wall and into the path of those brutes who struck me down, knocking me out and discarding my body within a tomb.
Biting my hand to quiet my sobs, I slid beneath the surface of the water, and it whooshed over the sides of the tub, soaking the floor.
I held my breath, letting the truth seep in…
Roelle had pretended to save me that day, but he was the reason my family had all died.