all decent. And yet, though subtly wrong, she found herself unable to reply. Don’t be silly, she thought to say. Or even, I don’t want your clothes. But she didn’t say a thing, because it wasn’t really that bad of a comment, a few words, and she didn’t wish to start a fight in the middle of a dark hallway over what amounted to almost, but not quite, nothing.
“Well, good night, then,” he said, unhurriedly releasing the lapel and taking a step back.
He held the oil lamp at eye level and smiled at her. Virgil was an attractive man and the smile was a pleasant smile—almost teasing, in a good-humored way—but there was an edge to his expression that the smile could not mask. She did not like it. She was suddenly reminded of her dream, and she thought of the man in the bed holding his arms outstretched, and she thought there was a golden cast to his eyes, a glimmer of gold among the blue. She turned her head abruptly, blinking and staring at the floor.
“You won’t bid me good night?” he asked, sounding amused. “Nor grant me a thank-you? It would be rude not to.”
She turned toward him, looking at him in the eye. “Thanks,” she said.
“Better lock your door so you don’t end up wandering around the house again, Noemí.”
He adjusted the level of the oil lamp once more. His eyes were blue without a hint of gold when he gave her a final glance and stepped away, marching back down the hallway. Noemí watched the green glow float away with him, the sudden flash of color disappearing and plunging the house into darkness.
12
It’s funny how daylight could change her mind so utterly. At night, after her sleepwalking episode, Noemí had been scared, pulling the covers up to her chin. Contemplating the sky through her window, scratching her left wrist, she found the whole episode embarrassing and prosaic.
Her room, when viewed with the curtains wide open and the sun streaming in, was worn and sad, but couldn’t conceal ghosts or monsters. Hauntings and curses, bah! She dressed in a long-sleeved button-down blouse in pale cream and a navy skirt with a kickpleat, put on a pair of flats, and headed downstairs long before the predetermined hour. Bored, she once again walked around the library, pausing before a bookcase filled with botanical tomes. She imagined Francis must have obtained his knowledge of mushrooms this way, scavenging for wisdom among moth-eaten papers. She brushed a hand along the silver frames of the pictures in the hallways, feeling the whorls and swirls beneath her fingertips. Eventually, Francis came downstairs.
He wasn’t very talkative that morning, so she limited herself to a couple of comments and fiddled with her cigarette, not quite willing to light it yet. She didn’t like smoking on an empty stomach.
He dropped her off by the church, which, she gathered, was where they’d dropped off Catalina each week when she went into town.
“I’ll pick you up at noon,” he said. “Will that be sufficient time?”
“Yes, thank you,” she told him. He nodded at her and drove away.
She made her way to the healer’s house. The woman who had been doing the washing the other day wasn’t out; her clothesline lay empty. The town remained quiet, still half asleep. Marta Duval, however, was awake, setting out tortillas to dry in the sun next to her doorway, no doubt to be used for preparing chilaquiles.
“Good morning,” Noemí said.
“Hello,” the old woman replied with a smile. “You’ve come back at exactly the right time.”
“You have the remedy?”
“I have it. Come inside.”
Noemí followed her into the kitchen and sat at the table. The parrot was not there that day. It was only the two of them. The woman wiped her hands against her apron and opened a drawer, then placed a small bottle in front of Noemí.
“One tablespoon before bedtime should be enough for her. I made it stronger this time, but there’s no harm in two tablespoons, either.”
Noemí held the bottle up, staring at its content. “And it’ll help her sleep?”
“Help, yes. It won’t solve all her problems.”
“Because the house is cursed.”
“The family, the house.” Marta Duval shrugged. “Makes no difference, does it? Cursed is cursed.”
Noemí set the bottle down and ran a nail across the side of it. “Do you know why Ruth Doyle killed her family? Did you ever hear any rumors about that?”
“You hear all kinds of things. Yes, I heard. Do you have