“Why?” Noemí asked. Her mouth felt dry.
“Howard is a stickler for those kind of details. Ceremonies. He does love them.”
“Where will you find a priest?”
“My father can officiate; he’s done so before.”
“So I’ll be wed in the Church of the Holy Incestuous Mushroom?” she intoned. “I doubt that’s valid.”
“Don’t worry, we will of course drag you to the magistrate at one point.”
“Dragis the right word.”
Virgil slammed the letter down on the desk, startling Noemí. She winced. She recalled his strength. He’d carried her into the house as if she were as light as a feather. His hand, resting against the desk, was large, capable of inflicting tremendous damage.
“You should consider yourself lucky. I did tell my father Francis might as well tie you to the bed and fuck you tonight, without any preamble, but he doesn’t think that would be right. You’re a lady, after all. I disagree. Ladies are not wanton, and as we both know, you aren’t exactly a little innocent lamb.”
“I have no idea—”
“Oh, you definitely havea fewideas.”
Virgil’s fingers grazed her hair. The slightest touch, which sent a shiver down her body, a dark and delicious feeling coursing down her veins, like imbibing champagne much too quickly. Like in her dreams. She thought of sinking her teeth into his shoulder and biting down, hard. A ferocious pang of desire and hatred.
Noemí jumped up, pushing the chair between herself and Virgil. “Don’t!”
“Don’t what?”
“Stop this,” Francis said, hurrying to her side. He clutched her hand, assuaging her, quickly reminding her with one look that they had, after all, a plan, and then, turning to Virgil, he spoke firmly. “She’s my bride. You need to show her respect.”
Virgil seemed unamused by his cousin’s words, that thin, tart smile of his widening, ready to turn into a snarl. She was certain he would push back, but he surprised her by raising his hands in the air in sudden, theatrical surrender.
“Well, I guess for once in your life you’ve actually grown a pair of balls. Fine,” Virgil said. “I’ll be polite. But she needs to mind her words and learn her place.”
“She will. Come,” Francis said, quickly guiding her out of the office, oil lamp in hand, shadows wavering and shifting due to the sudden movement of the light source.
Once outside, he turned to her. “Are you all right?” he asked in a whisper, switching to Spanish.
She did not reply. Noemí pulled him down the hallway, into one of the unused, dusty rooms with chairs and settees covered by white sheets. A huge floor-to-ceiling mirror reflected them, its top embellished with elaborate carvings of fruits and flowers and the ever-present snake that lurked around every corner in this house. Noemí stopped in her tracks as she stared at the snake, and Francis almost bumped into her, whispering an apology.
“You said you’d get supplies for us,” she told him, her eyes on the decoration surrounding the mirror, the fearful snake. “But what about weapons?”
“Weapons?”
“Yes. Rifles and guns?”
“There are no rifles, not after what happened with Ruth. My uncle Howard keeps a gun in his room, but I wouldn’t be able to have access to it.”
“There must be something!”
She was startled by her own vehemence. In the mirror, Noemí saw her face reflected, anxious, and turned away, disgusted by the sight of it. Her hands were trembling, and she had to hold on to the back of a chair to steady herself.
“Noemí? What is it?”
“I don’t feel safe.”
“I reali—”
“It’s a trick. I don’t understand your mind games, but I know I’m not entirelymewhen Virgil is around,” she said, her hands fluttering up as she brushed the hair away from her face nervously. “Not lately. Magnetic. That’s how Catalina described him. Well, no wonder. But it’s not charm alone, is it? You said the house can induce you to do certain things…”
