“Same floor as you, sir, first door to the right when you go up the stairs.”
Up he went and knocked twice. “Come in,” the girl said.
He stepped inside. She was bent over a sewing machine and did not look up at him, her eyes on the piece of cloth before her. Her inattention gave him ample time to survey the room.
He did not spy anything of much worth; the furniture was unremarkable. On a tall bookcase there were boxes with piles of wool, cards of black buttons, bobbins of ribbon, spools of thread, and lengths of cloth in a riot of colors. In a corner there stood a tailor’s dummy with a piece of cloth wrapped around its waist and a measuring tape draped over its shoulder. The décor consisted of pictures from newspapers and magazines pasted on the wall.
The young woman, rather than hiding jewels in a box or any valuable cosmetics, instead seemed to collect all manner of sewing implements, as though the bedroom were a dressmaker’s shop and not a bedroom at all. The wrought-iron bed felt almost like an afterthought.
As he looked around, he noticed sketches traced with a capable hand showing skirts, dresses, and suits. One of the sketches was the same dove-colored outfit Perla had been wearing.
The whirring of the machine stopped, and the girl looked up at him.
“Yes?”
“I apologize, Miss Inclán—”
“Inés,” she said, cutting him off. “Miss Inclán is my aunt. I’m Inés.”
“Inés, then. I apologize. The houseboy said you have the newspaper.”
“I take it to the dining room after noon. The Zorrilla sisters don’t care to read the paper, and Professor Nepomuceno wakes up late. He’s an insomniac. I’ll have it down in a bit.” She made a motion as if she were going to return to her sewing.
“I’m used to reading the paper when I have my breakfast.”
“Are you?” she replied. The question was almost a challenge.
“Yes, I am.”
She stood up, shoved aside a piece of cloth from a table, and handed him the daily. He tucked it under his arm.
“You’ll be wanting it every morning, then?” she asked.
“I would, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll hand it to you after I’ve read it early in the mornings, then.”
Her tone was polite enough, but her dark eyes stared at him mordantly, and he felt himself being judged. She thought him a fussy, annoying guest, didn’t she? Demanding the paper, interrupting her work. He felt rather irritated with her.
“By the way, my jacket. Have you had a chance to wash and press it?” he asked.
“Your jacket will be dry and ready for this evening’s gathering,” she informed him.
“Thank you.”
“Is that all, sir?”
It was, but by the way she tapped her foot and crossed her arms, he could easily read her impatience. He decided to linger longer, to annoy her.
He pointed at the sketch he’d been looking at.
“Is that your handiwork?”
“Yes.”
“It looks like your aunt’s outfit.”
“It should. I sewed it for her.”
