woman on the floor. She must be dead. Noemí dare not turn the body over to look at her face, but there was a pool of blood growing underneath her.
Her heart beat with a terrible, thundering force, and the blood dripped down, dirtying the pretty antique dress, dirtying her fingers. She slid the blade into her pocket, rubbed the tears from her eyes.
“Noemí?”
He was now in front of her, blocking her view, and she snapped her eyes up to stare into his wan face. “Where were you?” she asked, fingers furiously clutching the lapels of his frock coat, and she wanted to beat him for not being with her, for leaving her alone.
“Locked in my room,” he said. “I had to break out. I had to find you.”
“You aren’t lying? You didn’t abandon me?”
“No! Please, are you hurt?”
She chuckled. A ghastly chuckle, since she had fended off a rapist and escaped being choked to death.
“Noemí,” he said.
He sounded worried. He should be. They should all be terribly worried. She let go of him. “We have to get out of here.”
She turned to Catalina. Her cousin was still sitting on the bed. She had not moved, except to press a hand against her open mouth. Her eyes were fixed on the lifeless body of the maid. Noemí pulled the covers away and grabbed her cousin’s hand.
“Come on,” she said, and when Catalina wouldn’t move, she turned to Francis, whose suit was now smeared with her bloody fingerprints. “What’s wrong with her?”
“They must have drugged her again. Without the tincture—”
Noemí took her cousin’s face between her hands and spoke firmly. “We’re leaving.”
Catalina did not react. She wasn’t looking at Noemí. Her eyes were glassy. Noemí saw a pair of slippers by the bed and grabbed them, fitting them on Catalina’s feet. Then Noemí yanked Catalina by the arm, pulling her out of the bed. Catalina followed her, docile.
They hurried down the hallway. In her white nightgown Catalina looked like a second bride. Two ghost brides, Noemí thought.
Ahead of them a shadow emerged from within a pool of darkness, darting onto their path and startling Noemí.
“Stop,” Florence said. Her face was very composed. Her voice did not sound anxious. She carried a gun in her hand rather casually, as if this were a regular occurrence.
They stood still. Noemí had the razor, but even as she tightened her grip around its wood handle she knew she didn’t stand much of a chance, and Florence was aiming squarely at her.
“Drop that,” Florence said.
Noemí’s hand trembled, and the blood made the handle slick, difficult to hold, but she held it up. At her side, Catalina was trembling too.
“You can’t make me.”
“Drop it, I said,” Florence repeated.
Her preternaturally calm voice had not wavered, but in her cold eyes Noemí could read savage murder, yet Noemí did not let go of the weapon until the woman shifted her aim, pointing at Catalina. The threat was clear, there was no need to speak it.
Noemí swallowed and dropped the weapon.
“Turn around and start walking,” Florence commanded.
They did. Back the way they’d come, until they reached Howard’s room with the fireplace and the twin paintings of his wives. The old man lay in the ornate bed, as before, and Dr. Cummins sat at his side. The doctor’s bag was open, resting upon a side table, and now he took out a scalpel from it and pricked a couple of boils on Howard’s lips and cut through a thin film that seemed to cover his mouth.
This must have eased the man’s pain, for Howard sighed. Dr. Cummins placed the scalpel next to the bag and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and let out a grunt.
“There you are,” he said, rounding the bed. “It has accelerated. He can’t breathe properly. We need to begin.”
“It’s her,” Florence said, “and the trouble she has caused. Mary is dead.”
Howard lay propped against a considerable number of pillows. His mouth was open, and he was making a wheezing sound as he clutched at the covers with his gnarled hands. His skin seemed the color of wax, the veins very dark, standing out against such paleness, a trickle of black bile falling down his chin.
Dr. Cummins raised a hand, pointing a finger at Francis. “You get over here,” he told the young man. “Where’s Virgil?”
“Hurt. I felt his pain earlier,” Florence said.
“There’s no time to fetch him. The transmigration must take place now,” the doctor muttered, sinking his hands into a small