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.
