Page 11 of An Immaculate Deception

Leandro shifts on his feet, cheeks crimson. He shakes his head. “Nothing, I…I am sorry.”

I am at a loss. Doctor Lobo places a hand on Leandro’s shoulder and says, “All is well. Let’s give her leave to rest now.”

He sounds as if he is speaking to a child.

And then they are both gone.

As I listen to their fading footsteps, I am still rattled by Leandro’s strange demeanor. Why scream at me to wake up? I wasn’t even asleep yet. Prior to this, Leandro said barely a word the whole time. His way of staring, too, unsettled me.

He’s just in shock, I tell myself. He’ll recover.

6

A subtle movement and a warmth near my mouth. Gentle yet invasive.

Breath against skin.

I startle awake. It takes me a moment to orient myself, to remember where I am. This room…this place…I’m in Leandro’s farmhouse, recovering from the accident. He stands before me, by the bed.

He steps back quickly.

“Are you well?” Leandro asks, eyes wide.

I rub my eyes. “Uh…”

I sit up slowly. A sharp pain shoots up from my abdomen. The weight of a dozen rocks pulls on my muscles and a current of drowsiness tries to drag me under. I shut my eyes until the discomfort subsides. When I shift my legs, my lower back aches.

“I feel unwell,” I say, pinching my brows.

Leandro regards me, wide-eyed.

“Doctor Lobo said this is to be expected,” I add. “Perhaps there is no great cause for concern.”

I stare at Leandro, who’s staring at me. I pull the covers over my body, feeling awfully indecent. I’m still wearing the medical gown, and the physician isn’t here; it’s just me and Leandro.

A moment ago he stood so close to me, I thought I felt something warm near my mouth or nose. As though he put his hand near my face. Then as soon as I opened my eyes, he stepped back quickly. Or did I dream that?

“I’m not dressed.” My voice sounds thick, rusty.

“Oh,” Leandro says, as though only just then realizing this fact. He clears his throat. “I apologize.”

I’m relieved that my muscles don’t throb as much anymore and my headache is gone. But I want him to leave so I can get myself together. How wiry and disheveled must my hair be? Is my face puffy and swollen? This is so unflattering. I need to wash up and make myself presentable.

“How long have I been asleep…?”

“A couple hours. I didn’t mean to disturb your rest.”

He asks me three times if there’s anything I would like—cafezinho, bolinho de milho, water, tea, a warm rag for my sore muscles, a servant to wait on me by the door—to which I reply in the negative, then says he left a fresh change of clothes for me and will have the servants bring up warm water for a bath.

“You’re talking!” I say as the realization hits me.

I didn’t intend to say that aloud. But he was talking, and before he had been silent as a mule.

He gapes at me. I’ve stunned him into silence again.

“I mean,” I start, “you weren’t talking much before. It just seems like you’re better, that’s all.”

He doesn’t respond.