Page 93 of The Hacienda
I was not my mother, ready to give up when the blood was spilled and the muskets leveled. No. I was a general’s daughter.
But I was so, so tired.
My feet squished across the wet carpet as I went to the desk and kicked the chair back. I sat beneath my father’s map and rested my elbows on the desk. My arms ached, my wrists ached. My throat stung from bile, and my mouth tasted sour. I wanted to lay my head down on the desk. But even that I could not do. My hands were bound and going numb from it.
The shadows in the room were lengthening. Tears filled my eyes.
I rested my forehead on my hands, my position so similar to praying it brought the image of Andrés in the chapel last night to my mind.
How many times had I heard priests lecture about prayer from their pulpits and let the words wash over me, unbelieving? I had never trusted them. Never truly trusted the existence of God. Yet a few weeks ago, I would have said I never believed in the existence of spirits.
Or witches.
Help me, I prayed.Give me the strength to fight.
I began a rosary. I built a barrier to protect myself with words, layering them around me like an impenetrable skirt, like stones, anything to keep the house at bay. Whenever I lost track of where I was, I thought of Andrés’s voice beginning the words of the next Hail Mary. It was a trick of my mind, I knew it was, but I followed, whispering when my voice grew hoarse and cracked. When I reached the end, I began again.
For the length of another rosary, the house was silent.
The sun set, its dying light bleeding across dark storm clouds. The dark deepened, from blue to gray and finally black. A distant roll of thunder.
I heard the cold before I felt it. It scraped along the floorboards like claws, the sound vibrating in my teeth more than my ears: like metal on metal, glass on glass.
I lifted my head.
Blood rushed from it. My hands were numb and bloodless. Hunger dizzied me, sucked the strength from my legs and left them trembling.
The cold slinked around my ankles, curling up my calves.
I jumped up. The rug was clammy, squelching beneath my feet. Unbidden, I envisioned it drenched in blood, like the sheets in my bedchamber that morning.
Beatriz.A whisper, girlish and light.
Cast it out.
Darkness filled the room, crackling and snapping with potential. It was kindling ready to light.
Light. Candles were in my bedchamber, I knew that. And copal.
But I would have to enter the bedchamber.
My heart curled in on itself at the thought. I couldn’t.
Deep in the house, a door slammed.
“No,” I whispered. “No, I’m so tired.”
My voice cracked. A long moment passed. My shoulders were wound tight, taut as rope. I braced, ready for the next slamming door.
It never came.
Instead, a drumming began. First it was faint, distant, from the far side of the house. Distant enough that I thought it was another roll of thunder. But it never ended. It was a drumming on the wooden floorboards, as if a thousand heavy fingers struck in quick, violent succession. The sound marched toward the north side of the house, growing, becoming louder, so loud my bones rang with it. I could not cover my ears, could not hold out my arms to protect myself.
It drew closer, closer, then it stopped at the door of the study. There it drummed an irregular beat, growing louder, frantic, so powerful the door shuddered on its hinges.
The drumming stopped.
Sweat poured down my temples and slicked my palms.
