Requiem of the Soul (The Society Trilogy #1) - Natasha Knight Page 0,61

three days, and I’m acting like I’ve been imprisoned for years and this is release day.

I follow her down the hall, taking in all the details—the dark walls, the thick carpet, the winding staircases, two of them.

“How old is the house?”

“The Manor dates back several centuries. It was built by the first De La Rosa to settle in New Orleans. They’re from Spain, did you know that?”

I shake my head, looking up at the portraits hanging along the wall as we reach the top of the stairs.

“His mother went back to Barcelona four years ago.”

I turn to watch her shake her head.

“Santiago’s mother?” I ask as I take hold of the banister. I pause when I look down, and a moment of vertigo overcomes me, so I quickly sit on the stair.

“Ivy?”

I squeeze my eyes, open them and focus on Antonia’s kind face. “I’m all right. I just haven’t had any exercise, and it’s harder then. And the stairs…when I look down...”

“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Perhaps you should lie down.”

I shake my head and stand, feeling hot and clammy and not quite steady like I always do after one of these episodes but desperate not to go back into that room.

“I’m perfectly fine. Really.” I smile as wide as I can, and it’s not really a lie. These episodes don’t last forever. You just don’t want to be at the top of the stairs when they come.

Antonia studies me for a long moment then, and maybe against her better judgment, she nods, and we proceed down the stairs.

“Santiago’s mom left four years ago, you said? After the accident, I guess?”

We reach the first-floor landing, and I raise my head to look around me. The ceilings' vaulted arches create a dramatic effect, especially with the dark furnishings and iron-clad windows. Several corridors lead off into different directions, and straight ahead, I see the window I’d spied the other night.

“Accident, yes,” she says, but the emphasis she puts on the word accident makes me wonder what she thinks. “It killed her too, if you ask me. She passed away shortly after she returned to Barcelona. I don’t doubt it was the grief, God bless the poor woman.”

The official reports had said a gas leak led to the explosion.

“Lost her husband and one of her sons in one night and the remaining son, well, he was different after.”

“The way he looked you mean?” Did his mother abandon him for his scars?

“No, those scars, they were terrible, certainly, but what it did to him inside. She tried, his mother, but it was too hard. You see—”

“Are you gossiping about my brother?”

We both turn, startled to find Mercedes slink out from one of those dark corridors. She looks stunning, like the last time I’d seen her. Dressed in a tight-fitting red dress that sets off her olive skin, black hair and eyes, her makeup is flawless and she’s wearing five-inch heels more appropriate for evening and more jewelry than I’m pretty sure my mom, sisters, and I own all together.

“I don’t think Santi would like to hear his wife was gossiping with the help.” She looks from me to Antonia, who lowers her gaze and wrings her hands. “I don’t recall him telling you to let her out, Antonia.”

“I have permission to be out of my room today,” I say, butting in, not liking Mercedes’s tone but also hating what I just said. I sound like a child.

“He gave you permission, did he?” She grins, eyebrows raised.

My hands fist at my sides as my blood begins to boil.

“There was no reason to keep her locked in that room,” Antonia says. I wonder if she feels my rage.

“That’s not your place to say, is it?”

“Not yours either, ma’am. Your brother’s made it clear I’m to look after his wife.”

Mercedes turns her sour expression to me. “Hmm. Did he? Well. I’ll take it from here, Antonia. You can go back to your kitchen.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Antonia says, voice tight.

I’m embarrassed for the older woman as she glances at me with a nod of acknowledgment before disappearing toward the kitchen.

“We weren’t gossiping,” I say, not wanting to get Antonia into trouble.

“No, I’m sure you weren’t. Is that what you’re wearing?”

I look down at my pale blue cashmere sweater and jeans. Mercedes is a bully. She reminds me of Maria Chambers. Entitled and rich and probably never been taught right from wrong. Never been told no.

“Yes, your brother bought it for me,” I say. “We’re going to the