Page 22 of An Immaculate Deception

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Mirrors are channels into the spirit world, my grandmother used to say.

I sit alone at the breakfast table, having arrived late. I barely slept. I lay in bed awake for hours, then my mind hovered in a hazy semiconscious state, wavering between slumber and consciousness for what felt like the remainder of the night. All I could do was pray.

I feel as awake as a sleepwalker or a zombie. The breakfast table is set with cheese spreads, breads, and fruits, all covered with soft cloth to keep mosquitoes at bay, yet I have no appetite. Breakfast was served nearly two hours ago and Leandro is working in his study now. This fazenda needs a priest. But is there any amount of holy water that can fix this? I simply cannot imagine us raising our baby here.

I sip the lukewarm coffee and force myself to eat a sweet bread. A dull ache tugs at my temples. I worry about my baby, and whether I gave him a fright. My poor baby. He is surely feeling all of my feelings, all of my worry and dread.

I fear I am beginning to understand what has happened here. Why Leandro is a wreck. Why the renovations were never done. Why the police inspector visited. The foul woman I saw haunts this house. Leandro is haunted by a woman who was once his lover, and who died here. Maybe she killed herself. Maybe it was a fateful accident or tragic illness. She is haunting the house, sucking the oxygen out of the rooms and the life out of its dwellers, Leandro first and foremost.

It explains everything, I consider as I chew on stale sweet bread. Why Leandro is normal when he’s at the fairs with me, far away from these haunted walls, but when here he is sullen. Why the police inspector visited—he’s investigating her death.

This and the fact that the room still smelled of her perfume suggest that she hasn’t been dead for long.

Doctor Lobo’s words come to mind: Perhaps you didn’t know him as well as you thought you did.

Where was he last night?

Maria das Dores bounces into the room wearing a white linen apron with wings. She wishes me a stiff good morning, glancing pointedly at the clock. “Did you sleep well, Sinhá Madalena?”

“Not at all. I had a dreadful night’s sleep. I apologize for being late to breakfast.”

“What happened?”

I hesitate. What does Maria das Dores know about this house, exactly? She’s hard to read. Her eyes are shifty, as though she doesn’t want to look at me directly. As though she knows something.

“Do you sleep here, Maria das Dores?”

“No. I leave at dusk every night.”

“I heard sinister sounds,” I breathe. “In the middle of the night.”

Her eyes widen. “Sounds?”

“Thudding, like footsteps.”

“Perhaps Senhor Leandro was moving about—”

“I saw a dead woman in the big room.”

She gasps. Hand goes to her mouth. “Jesus!” Maria das Dores crosses herself. “A dead woman?”

I nod. “Do you know if a woman died in this house?”

Her face darkens. She hesitates.

“You can tell me,” I say.

Maria das Dores shakes her head stiffly. “I don’t know.”

“You must know. She was here, she slept in that room, the one where the perfume broke yesterday, with the vanity.”

Something creeps into her eyes. “What did she look like, the dead woman you saw?”

“Hideous, but I think that’s because she was dead. I imagine she was beautiful in life.”

Her features twist. “We must dispel such dark thoughts.”