Chapter 36
Ygnacio
I find Arnulfo with the other footmen lined in an orderly row outside the ballroom, against the wall.
He and other disguised Valbuenistas wait to be called on for errands; they have idle hands now that all the courses have been served and the meal is ending.
Soon, they will be put to use clearing the table.
Then, they will be put on guns.
Arnulfo is the farthest from the door. Like the others, his curls are wet and slicked, his face clean-shaven. He shudders when I approach; suppresses it. A flutter of eyelashes as he glances to the side, to the shadows where I lurk, is the only move he makes.
“I saw them drag a body,” he says through gritted teeth.
His eyes are fixed forward; he’s being as quiet as possible, but still, it must be difficult to not be overheard.
“Filomena,” I say. “She’s dead.”
He shuts his eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitches. The color has drained from his cheeks, leaving them gray beneath his deep tan.
“And Minerva?” he whispers.
“Fourth floor,” I reply. When a flicker of confusion crosses his face, I add: “It is a haunted place, an old trick of the house. She is well hidden there. And,” I add, “that is where my kin rest. She wants to release them, as planned.”
At this point, this is the only way to ensure her safe exit from the house. The Viceroy, Octaviana, and their cronies will writhe as their souls are sucked from their marrow and their bodies shriveled to husks, and no one will notice a girl, cloaked in shadow, sprinting into the jungle.
Arnulfo’s eyes flick to the doorway. A drunken general and his wife have stumbled from the hall of music and gold, sniggering into one another’s fine clothing, and turn a corner.
“And after, you will escort her to the Valbuenistas,” Arnulfo says out of the corner of his mouth. It’s less a question, more a command.
I tut-tut at his tone. Someone has become well accustomed to being obeyed. If Minerva’s not careful, she may find herself with the terrible chore of untangling him from higher up the chain of command than she bargained for.
“I am bound to the house,” I say, “but I will conceal her from sight and take her as far as I can.”
Sharing my shadows burns some chispa. It might scorch through all I have left, if I am not careful.
I don’t intend to be careful.
“Good,” Arnulfo breathes. “Tell her I love her.”
I should, but when I return to the fourth floor and am faced with the sight of Minerva sitting with the sarcophagi, rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped tight around knees drawn to her chest, I can’t. It sounds too much like a goodbye, and the night is not yet through.
Somewhere, beyond the house, I feel a tug on my awareness. I sense a shadow rise and stretch.
Hello?
I grimace. Filomena is here now. I once traced her sleeping brow, looking for nightmares, and found her dreams full of other places, drenched in sunlight and busy with laughing people.
She will not be happy when she finds out that she is trapped here.
After she was shot, there was a moment when she gasped. I caught a glimpse of chispa flying out of her mouth like spittle.
I could have swooped over her and stolen her chispa, right there. I could be strong now. I could be everything.
I didn’t.
I had no time. I made a choice.
And here I am, weightless, nearly incorporeal as I sink to Minerva’s side. I will not tell her of our new guest. I can almost smell the guilt coming off her in waves as it is.
“I found him,” I said. “I told him that you’re safe, and here.”
Minerva nods brusquely. “And that the plan remains?”
“The plan remains.”
For a long moment, Minerva does not reply.
“She died for me,” she whispers. She stares into the dark, her eyes unblinking. “She didn’t even like me. Did Arnulfo tell her to do that?”
“I don’t know.”
Hello?
I hear another call; it grows fainter. This new addition to the house has begun to explore. I don’t want to be around her when she discovers no one can see her. I still remember the waves of rage that crashed through me, their flames fanned by my sense of sheer helplessness.
Having watched Filomena’s temper flare over far less meaningful things, I make a note to stay out of her way.
Weeks ago, I considered choosing her as my victim instead of Minerva.
I couldn’t. Her dreams were full of idealistic visions of the future.
A sister whose husband served in Parliament; a brother in the university.
A dream for herself to follow in their footsteps, once she had saved enough money.
Amidst flashes of flesh and anonymous bodies, I caught glimpses of a paramour who ran with the Valbuenistas—one whose face I now recognize as Minerva’s brother.
Filomena even dreamed of casting votes. Who dreams about that?
She was steely, yes, and formidable, but her mind was set on prizes I could not reconcile with my own goals. She was too determined to bend.
And so I chose this one. This small, dark mouse, this selfish creature. This girl whose mind I thought I could warp to kill Leoncio and feed myself, then my kin.
How very wrong I was.
I want her to be able to lean against me. I want her to rest her head on my chest, to find it a warm and safe place.
“You should rest, if you can,” I say. “There are boxes of blankets up here, somewhere. I’ll stand watch.”
She moves stiffly. Finds the blankets and makes a nest of them.
Her eyes flutter shut almost immediately.
“Ygnacio?” she whispers.
A pleasant flutter trips through me at the sound of my name. I have not gotten used to it. I don’t know if I ever will.
I will miss it terribly, when she is gone.
“What do you think it’s like?” she asks. The words are almost lost in the blankets. “After you leave the house?”
“I don’t think about it,” I lie. “It makes me angry.”
The truth is this: when your one handful of hope has been shattered again, and again, and again, it begins to hurt to even hold it.
She nestles deeper into the fabric, then releases a tired sigh. “I want it to be like a garden, I think.”
Her breathing deepens. Softens. Dreams rise out of her like vines, growing and tumbling outward, leaves stretching and unfurling and reaching. Buds appear, first timidly, and then burst into bloom, like fireworks across a night sky.