said.”
“Murder, I think that’s the word. You murdered all those miners. You made them sick, you didn’t tell them what was wrong with them, and your doctor, he let them die. And you must have killed Ruth’s lover too. Although she paid you back for that.”
“You’re not being very nice, Noemí,” he said, his eyes fixed on hers. He sounded peeved and turned to Francis. “I thought you had smoothed things out with her.”
“Noemí won’t try running again,” Francis said, sliding his hand upon her own.
“That’s a good first step. The second step is that you are going to write a letter to your father, explaining that you will remain here until Christmas, to keep Catalina company. Come Christmas, you’ll inform him that you’ve been married and intend to live with us.”
“My father will be upset.”
“Then you’ll have to write a few more letters, to assuage his concerns,” Virgil said smoothly. “Now, why don’t you start writing that first letter.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Come here,” Virgil said, patting the chair he had been occupying behind the desk.
Noemí hesitated but stood up and took the seat he was offering. There was a sheet of paper ready and a pen. Noemí stared at the writing instruments but did not pick them up.
“Go on,” Virgil said.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Write a convincing message. Because we wouldn’t want your father visiting us and maybe falling ill with an odd disease, would we?”
“You wouldn’t,” she whispered.
Virgil leaned down, gripping her shoulder tight. “There’s plenty of space in the mausoleum, and as you pointed out, our physician is not very good at treating illnesses.”
Noemí shoved his hand aside and began writing. Virgil turned away.
She kept scribbling, finally signing the letter. When she was done Virgil came back to her side and read the letter, nodding.
“Are you happy?” Francis asked. “She’s done her bit.”
“She’s far from done her bit,” Virgil muttered. “Florence is rummaging around the house, trying to find Ruth’s old wedding dress. We’re to have ourselves a wedding ceremony.”
“Why?” Noemí asked. Her mouth felt dry.
“Howard is a stickler for those kind of details. Ceremonies. He does love them.”
“Where will you find a priest?”
“My father can officiate; he’s done so before.”
“So I’ll be wed in the Church of the Holy Incestuous Mushroom?” she intoned. “I doubt that’s valid.”
“Don’t worry, we will of course drag you to the magistrate at one point.”
“Drag is the right word.”
Virgil slammed the letter down on the desk, startling Noemí. She winced. She recalled his strength. He’d carried her into the house as if she were as light as a feather. His hand, resting against the desk, was large, capable of inflicting tremendous damage.
“You should consider yourself lucky. I did tell my father Francis might as well tie you to the bed and fuck you tonight, without any preamble, but he doesn’t think that would be right. You’re a lady, after all. I disagree. Ladies are not wanton, and as we both know, you aren’t exactly a little innocent lamb.”
“I have no idea—”
“Oh, you definitely have a few ideas.”
Virgil’s fingers grazed her hair. The slightest touch, which sent a shiver down her body, a dark and delicious feeling coursing down her veins, like imbibing champagne much too quickly. Like in her dreams. She thought of sinking her teeth into his shoulder and biting down, hard. A ferocious pang of desire and hatred.
Noemí jumped up, pushing the chair between herself and Virgil. “Don’t!”
“Don’t what?”
“Stop this,” Francis said, hurrying to her side. He clutched her hand, assuaging her, quickly reminding her with one look that they had, after all, a plan, and then, turning to Virgil, he spoke firmly. “She’s my bride. You need to show her respect.”
Virgil seemed unamused by his cousin’s words, that thin, tart smile of his widening, ready to turn into a snarl. She was certain he would push back, but he surprised her by raising his hands in the air in sudden, theatrical surrender.
“Well, I guess for once in your life you’ve actually grown a pair of balls. Fine,” Virgil said. “I’ll be polite. But she needs to mind her words and learn her place.”
“She will. Come,” Francis said, quickly guiding her out of the office, oil lamp in hand, shadows wavering and shifting due to the sudden movement of the light source.
Once outside, he turned to her. “Are you all right?” he asked in a whisper, switching to Spanish.
She did not reply. Noemí pulled him down the hallway, into one of the unused, dusty rooms with chairs