basin with water and washing them clean. “Francis is here, and that’s what matters.”
“You can’t mean him,” Noemí said, shaking her head. “It’s not supposed to be him.”
“Of course it’s him,” Florence said. Her countenance was cool and collected.
Suddenly Noemí understood. Why would Howard have forfeited his son, his favorite? It made sense that he would pick the boy he cared little about, whose mind he might obliterate without remorse. Had this, then, been their game all along? To slide Howard into Francis’s skin in the middle of the night and then for him to slide into Noemí’s bed? An impostor. But she wouldn’t have known at once, and maybe they figured afterward it wouldn’t matter. That she would be content, having taken a liking to Francis’s shell.
“But you can’t,” Noemí mumbled.
Francis was walking meekly toward the doctor. Noemí tried to grab his arm, but Florence intercepted her and pulled her toward a black velvet chair, forcing her to sit down. Catalina trailed around the room looking lost, standing at the foot of the bed, before walking a bit more and settling at the head of it.
“It could have all been easy and quiet,” Florence said, staring at Noemí. “You could be sitting calmly in your room, but you had to cause a ruckus.”
“Virgil tried to rape me,” Noemí said. “He tried to rape me, and I should have killed him back there.”
“Shush,” Florence replied, looking disgusted. Things were never spoken at High Place, not even now.
Noemí made a motion as if to rise, but Florence pointed the gun at her. She sat back again, gripping the chair’s arms. Francis had now reached Howard’s bedside and was speaking to the doctor, their voices low.
“He’s your son,” Noemí whispered.
“It’s a body,” Florence replied, her face stiff.
A body. That’s what they all were to them. The bodies of miners in the cemetery, the bodies of women who gave birth to their children, and the bodies of those children who were simply the fresh skin of the snake. And there on the bed lay the body that mattered. The father.
Dr. Cummins placed a hand on Francis’s shoulder, pushing him down. Francis fell to his knees and clutched his hands together, penitent.
“Bow your head, we will pray,” Florence ordered.
Noemí did not obey at once, but then Florence smacked her head, hard. The woman’s hand felt well practiced. The sting of the blow made black dots dance before Noemí’s eyes. She wondered if they had also delivered such blows upon Ruth, teaching her obedience.
Noemí clutched her hands together.
On the other side of the bed, Catalina, mute still, imitated them, also clasping her hands. Her cousin did not look distressed. Her face was immutable.
“Et Verbum caro factum est,” Howard said, his voice thick and low, his amber ring flashing as he raised a hand in the air.
Howard recited a series of words that Noemí could not understand, yet she realized that understanding was not necessary. Obedience, acceptance, that was what he required. For the old man, there was pleasure in witnessing this submission.
Renounce yourself, that’s what he had demanded in the dream. That’s what mattered now. There was a physical component to this process, but there was also a mental one. A surrender that must be granted. Perhaps there was even pleasure in such submission.
Renounce yourself.
Noemí looked up. Francis was whispering, his lips moving softly. Dr. Cummins and Florence and Howard were also whispering, all of them speaking in unison. This low whisper sounded, oddly, like a single voice. As if all their voices had coalesced into one mouth and it was that mouth that spoke, growing louder, rising like the tide.
The buzzing that Noemí had heard before began now, also growing louder. It sounded like hundreds of bees were hiding beneath the floorboards and the walls.
Howard had raised his hands, as if to cup the young man’s head between them. Noemí recalled the kiss the old man had given her. But this would be worse. Howard’s body was covered with boils and he smelled of rot, and he would fruit and he would die. He would die, he would slide into a new body, and Francis would cease to exist. A demented cycle. Children devoured as babes, children devoured as adults. Children are but food. Food for a cruel god.
Catalina, softly, quietly, had edged closer to the bed. Her movements had gone unnoticed. All heads were down, after all, all except for Noemí’s.
Then she saw it. Catalina had seized the doctor’s scalpel and