bed where Catalina was resting. Francis stood on the other side of the room, glancing out the window and tacitly offering them privacy as they spoke in whispers.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when I read the letter,” Noemí said. “I should have known.”
“You couldn’t know,” Catalina said.
“Still, if I’d simply fetched you, despite their protestations, we wouldn’t be here.”
“They wouldn’t have let you. Noemí, it’s enough that you came. Your presence makes me better. It’s like in those stories I used to read: it’s as if you’ve broken a spell.”
More likely it was the tincture Francis was administering, but Noemí nodded and grasped her cousin’s hands. How she wished that it were true, though! The fairy tales Catalina had shared with her always had good endings. The wicked were punished, order was restored. A prince climbed a tower and fetched down the princess. Even the dark details, such as the cutting of the wicked stepsisters’ heels, faded into oblivion once Catalina declared that everyone lived happily ever after.
Catalina could not recite those magical words—happily ever after—and Noemí had to hope the escape they had formulated was not a tall tale. Hope was all they had.
“He knows something is wrong,” Catalina said suddenly, blinking slowly.
The words unsettled Noemí. “Who?”
Catalina pressed her lips shut. This had happened before too, that she suddenly, dramatically grew quiet or seemed to lose her train of thought. As much as Catalina might want to say that she was getting better, she was not herself yet. Noemí brushed a strand of hair behind Catalina’s ear.
“Catalina? What’s wrong?”
Catalina shook her head and then lay back on the bed, turning her back toward Noemí. Noemí touched her cousin’s shoulder, but Catalina shoved her hand away. Francis walked over toward the bed.
“I think she’s tired,” he said. “We should walk back to your room. My mother said she wanted you to try that dress on.”
She had not really pictured the dress. It had been the furthest thing from her mind. Having no preconceptions, anything should have sufficed. Yet she was still surprised when she saw it laid out on her bed, and she regarded it with worry. She did not wish to touch it.
The dress was silky chiffon and satin, the high neck adorned with a collar of Guipure lace, and a long line of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons running down the back. It had rested in a large, dusty box for years and years, and one might have expected moths to have feasted on this creation, but although the fabric had yellowed a little, it was intact.
It wasn’t ugly. That wasn’t what repulsed her. But it seemed to her it represented the youthful fancies of another girl, of a dead girl. Perhaps two girls. Had Virgil’s first wife worn this too?
It reminded her of an abandoned snake’s skin. Howard would slough off his own skin, would sink into a new body, like a blade entering warm flesh. Ouroboros.
“You must try it on so the alterations can be made,” Florence said.
“I have nice dresses. My purple taffeta—”
Florence stood very straight, her chin slightly raised, her hands clasped beneath her bosom. “The lace at the collar, you see it? That was taken from an older dress, incorporated in the final design. And the buttons, they came from another dress too. Your children will reuse this dress. It is the way things are done.”
Leaning down carefully, Noemí noticed there was a tear on the waist and a couple of small holes on the bodice. The dress’s perfection was deceiving.
She grabbed the dress and ventured into the bathroom, changing there, and when she emerged Florence regarded her with a critical eye. Measurements were taken, alterations indicated with the required pins; tuck this, tuck that. Florence muttered a few words to Mary, and the maid opened another dusty box, producing a pair of shoes and a veil. The veil was in a much sorrier state than the dress. It had aged to a creamy ivory color, and the lovely flower-and-scroll design running near the edges had been marred by ugly mildew stains. The shoes were also hopeless, and besides, they were a size too big.
“It will do,” Florence said. “As shall you,” she added derisively.
“If you find me displeasing, maybe you could kindly ask your uncle to stop this wedding.”
“You silly creature. You think he’d desist? His appetite has been whetted,” she said, touching a lock of Noemí’s hair.
Virgil had touched her hair too, but the gesture had had a different meaning.