Chapter 8 #2
I set the plates down where Cosme instructed and prepared Senora Encarnación’s preferred digestif.
I fumbled to find the right crystal and trays, but the kitchen staff pointed this way and that with a kind to the left, chamaca and did not seem to mind having me underfoot as much as the liveried servants.
Being among their bustle provided a touch of peace, and my steps were reluctant as I carried a silver tray out of their warm domain into the hall.
I turned the wrong way; a maid pointed me in the direction of the living room with a pitying look. I doubled back hastily, ears burning, then slowed when I heard del Valle voices whispering ahead of me.
It was Octaviana and Eugenia. Their arms were linked; Eugenia’s hand rested on Octaviana’s forearm.
“Because she is family and it is right,” Octaviana murmured comfortingly. “You’re too young to remember how fond Tío Fernando was of her in the old days. She dined with him at the palace twice a week. He would have been furious if we had left her behind.”
A long sigh from Eugenia. “I can’t bear her, though.”
“Patience,” Octaviana said, patting the younger woman’s hand as Cosme opened the door of the living room for them. “Patience.”
A bone-deep chill fell over the house with evening’s mist. A fire roaring in the hearth fought a valiant, if losing, battle.
I set the tray on a table next to the deep armchair where Senora Encarnación sat and poured the alcohol into a tiny crystal glass.
Eugenia and Octaviana sat on the far side of the fireplace and pulled needlework into their laps.
The former looked determined to ignore Senora Encarnación’s presence entirely.
“Draw my bath with saffron and salts, Minerva,” Senora Encarnación said. “Then fetch me when it is ready.”
I left the warmth of the living room and stared up at the central staircase. Part of me was desperate to be away from strange voices and faces, from the tangle of dynamics between del Valles and servants alike that twined around my ankles and threatened to trip me at every turn.
And yet…
Another part of me would prefer to remain down here, close to the warmth of the fire and other people, even if that meant being mocked by servants or ignored by del Valles.
My feet were heavy on the first few steps. One, two steps—one, two followed the echo, a whisper behind my turned back.
Chispa lamps lined the walls all the way to the final landing. Despite this, the darkness seemed to grow denser as I ascended. On the third floor, only the landing was lit. Senora Encarnación must be the only family member staying up here.
The hall stretched long and black before me.
“I should have brought a lamp. I should have brought a lamp.” I repeated this as I hastened to the door, wood creaking beneath each of my steps. My palm was clammy and heavy on the crystal door handle.
The memory of the dark figure flickered in the back of my mind. Apprehension skittered down my spine like a line of beetles.
There were lamps on the mantel above the fireplace. Just five paces from the door. I could make it there.
“It was a trick of the light,” I said, and I thrust the door open.
One step. Two.
I reached out into the darkness, hands held high, grasping for the corner of the mantel.
Three. Four. Five.
Something slipped past me. A breeze. That brush of air felt when someone walked past.
It snatched my breath away with it.
My left palm collided with the sharp corner of the mantelpiece. Heart hammering in my throat, I pawed for the lamp.
There—cold metal, curved into a base. Its dust stuck to the fear-foul sweat on my palms.
I turned it on.
Golden light ignited at the bottom of the lamp, a honey-thick pool of it.
A butterfly lifted delicate wings and rose, shedding fragments of gold from its back and wings as a bird shook off rain.
Light filled the glass, growing stronger and brighter; its glow fell on my face and my arms as I lifted the lamp in my hands.
I faced the room.
“There is no one here.” I forced my voice to be firmer than it wanted to be. “Just me.”
The darkness swallowed the words whole.
That night, as I listened to Senora Encarnación’s whistling snores through the wall, I fumbled through my half-unpacked bag for the sewing kit I used to mend her clothing and mine.
My room was small enough to be filled by the light of a single lamp.
The chispa’s glow fell on a cot, a nightstand, and a plain chest of drawers, making the furnishings seem gilded and far finer than they actually were.
I pulled out a piece of black thread, long enough to fit comfortably around my wrist when doubled.
The stepmother came into my life when I was young.
Her presence scrubbed away most memories of the woman who gave birth to me, but Armando and Arnulfo remembered her better.
When I was afraid of the dark, or of neighborhood children’s stories of rabid ghost dogs prowling the dawn when I had to go fetch water, Armando tore a thread from his clothing and tied knots in it.
Seven knots, one right after the other, murmuring yancho jiarú.
Bless it with your breath, he said, and smiled when I took this literally and blew on the knots as if they were candles.
I hadn’t slept with an amulet since I was a small child. It never protected me from what I feared.
But tonight, before I crawled beneath the cold blankets, I made sure the thread was firm and tight.
“Yancho jiarú,” I whispered.