know secrets, who could divine unarticulated desires. She must not look at him.
A long silence stretched between them as the maid walked in and began taking away the dishes.
“You might have trouble getting into town come morning,” Florence said once more wine had been poured and dessert was set before them. “The roads will be terrible.”
“Yes, all these floods.” Noemí nodded. “That is how you lost the mine?”
“Ages ago,” Florence replied, waving a hand in the air. “Virgil was a baby.”
Virgil nodded. “It was waterlogged. Anyway, it’s not like it was being worked on. With the Revolution going on, you couldn’t get nearly enough workers here. They’d all be fighting for one side or the other. You need a constant influx of workers at a mine like this.”
“I suppose it was impossible to get people back after the Revolution ended? Had they all gone away?” Noemí asked.
“Yes, and besides, we had no way to hire new crews, and my father was ill for a long time, so he couldn’t oversee the work. Of course, that’ll change soon.”
“How so?”
“Catalina hasn’t mentioned it? It is our intention to open up the mine again.”
“But it’s been closed for a very long time. I thought your finances were strained,” Noemí protested.
“Catalina has decided to invest in it.”
“You didn’t mention that before.”
“It slipped my mind.”
He spoke so casually that one might be tempted to actually believe him. But Noemí was betting he had kept his lips tightly shut knowing the conclusion she would draw based on that: that Catalina was going to serve as a docile piggy bank.
If he was speaking now, it was because he meant to rile her up a little, to throw in her direction that sharp smile he had deftly shown her on more than one occasion. He wished to gloat. Because she was going away, after all, so a little gloating couldn’t hurt now.
“Is it very wise to do such a thing?” she asked. “With your wife in her condition?”
“It is not as if it’ll make her worse, don’t you think?”
“I think it’s callous.”
“We’ve long been simply existing at High Place, Noemí. Too long. It is now time to grow again. The plant must find the light, and we must find our way in this world. You may consider that callous. I find it natural. And, in the end, it was you who was speaking of change to me the other day.”
How lovely that he should pin this project on her. Noemí pushed her chair back. “Maybe I should say good night to your father now. I’m tired.”
Virgil held the stem of his glass and raised an eyebrow at her. “I suppose we could skip dessert.”
“Virgil, it’s much too early,” Francis protested.
He had spoken only those words that evening, but both Virgil and Florence turned their heads in his direction brusquely, as if he’d been saying offensive things all night long. Noemí guessed that he was not supposed to offer any sort of opinions. It did not surprise her.
“I’d say it’s about the right time,” Virgil replied.
They stood up. Florence led the way, taking an oil lamp that rested on a sideboard. The house was very chilly that evening, and Noemí crossed her arms against her chest, wondering if Howard would want to talk for long. Dear Lord, she hoped not. She wished to sneak under the covers and go to sleep as quickly as possible so that she might wake up early and jump into the blasted car.
Florence opened the door to Howard’s room, and Noemí followed her in. A fire was burning, and the curtains around the large bed were closed tight. There was an ugly smell in the air. Too pungent. Like a ripe fruit. Noemí frowned.
“We are here,” Florence said, setting her oil lamp down on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. “We have your visitor.”
Florence then went by the bed and began peeling the curtains away. Noemí schooled her features into a polite smile, ready for the sight of Howard Doyle tucked neatly under the covers or perhaps lounging against the pillows in his green robe.
She did not expect him to be lying there, over the blankets, naked. His skin was terribly pale and his veins contrasted grotesquely against his whiteness, indigo lines running up and down his body. Yet that was not the worst of it. One of his legs was hideously bloated, crusted over with dozens of large, dark boils.
She had no idea what they were. Not tumors, no, for they pulsed