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Madelena
I must fall asleep at some point, because I wake up when the bedroom door opens. It takes me a minute to remember where I am, what happened. I sit up in the bed, looking around. My shoes are on the floor, along with one stocking, and I’m lying on top of the bed. I have a headache, and my mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton.
A woman enters, pushing a tray, and I draw the blanket over myself. I smell breakfast. Another two follow her, and I notice they’re all wearing uniforms. Two are housekeepers. The other, room service, maybe? Do they have room service here? I’ve never spent the night, but I guess so. The building is run like a very exclusive hotel.
The two women draw the curtains aside, letting in the bright morning sun. I turn away, feeling like the bride of Dracula as I cover my eyes, then I wipe at the corners of my mouth. A glance at the pillow shows smears of black that have to be eyeliner and mascara. I can imagine what my face looks like.
“What time is it?” I manage hoarsely. There’s no clock on the bedside table, and my phone is in my clutch, which must still be in the other room.
“Nine o’clock, Miss,” the one taking the lid off the breakfast plate says. I glance into the corridor through the open door behind her. Val is gone, but I don’t see anyone else. Is Santos back? What did he do? The way he left here last night, raging, was a little terrifying—and I know one thing for sure. I don’t ever want that rage directed at me.
The two women draw the curtains of the other window open. I didn’t realize it was a two-person job, but okay. We have household staff, too. We don’t need them, if you ask me, but it’s a status thing to our father.
“Breakfast is ready, Miss. Is there anything else you’d like?” the nearby woman asks, the three of them standing back once the curtains are opened and the breakfast plates are uncovered.
I’m not sure how many people Santos thinks will be eating, but there’s enough to feed me about four times over. Then another thought comes. Is he going to come in here and eat with me? Are we going to have breakfast together?
“Where is Santos?” I ask the woman, because the thought of sitting across a table from him for something as mundane as breakfast makes me a little uneasy.
“Mr. Augustine won’t be dining with you. Shall I pour your coffee?”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know, Miss. If that’s all…” She trails off and raises her eyebrows at her two helpers. They all turn to leave the room, and I slip out of the bed. I need my phone. The woman almost has the door closed, but I grab hold of it. She doesn’t fight me off. I’m not sure I expect her to, but she does seem surprised as I draw it open.
“My purse,” I say, although I don’t know why I’m explaining anything. I take a step into the hallway but stop dead in my tracks when a woman who looks to be in her late forties steps into view. She’s dressed in a tweed fitted suit that looks like it was custom made for her, along with a pair of stiletto heeled boots. Her makeup is perfect, her skin dewy with vibrance. Her blond hair is cut short and falls in a sharp angle, and I notice not a single line forms around her eyes when she smiles the tiniest smile at seeing me.
I look down at myself, remember the smear of black on the pillow, and attempt to at least tamp down my hair. This woman is all elegance and style. Right this moment, I am the opposite.
“Ma’am,” the woman in charge of the housekeepers says with a nod to the older woman, who doesn’t bother to acknowledge her. Is this Santos’s mother? I’ve never met her, and the photo or two I’ve seen were older, of when she wore her hair longer in a less severe cut. But her eyes, those are familiar. Like Caius’s eyes.
“So, you are Madelena De Léon,” she says, entering the bedroom and walking me backward into it. “I hope breakfast is to your liking?” she asks, picking a raspberry off the plate of fruit and popping it into her mouth. She doesn’t close the door. I won’t run past her, but I’m not a prisoner here, surely.
Last night was different. Last night was… I don’t know.
“Where is Santos?” I ask because breakfast is the furthest thing from my mind.
“My son left in the early hours. Business.”
“Oh. Uh, I should—”
“Bathroom’s there. Start with washing the night off, perhaps? They say you age seven days when you don’t wash off your makeup before bed.”
I self-consciously touch my face.
“Everything you need should be there. I’ll pour you some coffee. Go on. You have a little time yet.”
I want to ask her what she means, but she turns back to the tray and pours two cups of coffee. She takes hers to the window, looks out over the rough, gray ocean, and sips. I go into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. This is weird.
The towel I’d used last night after washing my hands is still on the countertop, and I run the tap. I take in my reflection. Jesus. I think Dracula’s bride may look better. I’ve got more of a zombie vibe going.
Bending down, I wash my face. I have to use the hand soap to get the makeup off, but I don’t have a choice. Once my face is as clean as it’s going to get without proper makeup remover, I search the drawers for a toothbrush and am grateful when I find two sets of toiletries, his and hers, filled with toothbrushes and sample size toothpaste, hand lotion, and a tiny manicure kit. I unpack a toothbrush and brush my teeth, then smear the lotion onto a cotton swab to wipe away the last of the eyeliner that I couldn’t get off with the soap. I finger comb the tangles out of my hair. It’s a little wavy but not too bad to manage. The dress is wrinkled, but I’ve definitely looked worse.
I take a deep breath in and hope that maybe she’ll be gone before I open the door. No such luck.
She turns to me from the same place at the window. She brushes her hair down over the right side of her face and I realize the skin is damaged there. It looks like an old burn. She smiles. “Now I can see your face. Not too bad,” she says, although she is clearly unimpressed.
“Gee, thanks,” I tell her, annoyed, and move toward the tray to take the cup of coffee she had poured for me. I add cream and sugar, then sip. I watch her as I do. She seems to have no qualms studying me so openly. She’s very much giving off wicked stepmother vibes.
