He stopped and shook his head before clutching her hands together. He spoke softly. “You come with me, it’ll be worse. Go to the sitting room, and when I return, I’ll fetch you. I won’t be long.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
He dashed down the stairs. She rushed down the staircase too and pressed her hands against her face when she reached the bottom, tears prickling her eyes. By the time she walked into the sitting room, the tears were falling hard, and she sat on the carpet, clutching her hands together. The minutes ticked by. She wiped her nose with her sweater’s sleeve, wiped her tears with the palms of her hand. She stood up and waited.
He lied. It was a long time. What was worse, when Francis returned it was in the company of Dr. Cummins and Florence. At least there had been enough time for Noemí to compose herself.
“How is she?” Noemí asked, swiftly walking up to the doctor.
“She’s asleep now. The crisis has passed.”
“Thank God,” Noemí said, and she sank onto one of the settees. “I don’t understand what happened.”
“What happened wasthis,” Florence said sharply, holding up the bottle Noemí had fetched from Marta Duval. “Where did you get it?”
“It’s a sleeping tonic,” Noemí said.
“Your sleeping tonic made her sick.”
“No.” Noemí shook her head. “No, she said she needed it.”
“Are you a medical professional?” Dr. Cummins asked her. He was distinctly displeased. Noemí felt her mouth go dry.
“No, but—”
“So you have no idea what was inside this bottle?”
“I told you, Catalina said she needed medicine to help her sleep. She asked me for it. She’s taken it before, it couldn’t have made her ill.”
“It did,” the doctor told her.
“An opium tincture. That’s what you shoved down your cousin’s throat,” Florence added, pointing an accusing finger at Noemí.
“I did no such thing!”
“It was very ill-advised, very ill-advised, indeed,” Dr. Cummins muttered. “Why I couldn’t begin to understand what you were thinking, procuring a filthy potion like that. And then, attempting to put a spoon in your cousin’s mouth. I suppose you heard that silly tale of people swallowing their tongues? Nonsense. All nonsense.”
“I—”
“Where did you get the tincture?” Florence asked.
Tell no one, Catalina had said, and so Noemí did not reply even if the mention of Marta Duval might have shifted the burden of her guilt. She gripped the back of the settee with one hand, digging her nails into the fabric.
“You could have killed her,” the woman said.
“I wouldn’t!”
Noemí felt like crying again but could not allow herself this release, not in their presence. Francis had moved to stand behind the settee, and she felt his fingers upon her hand, almost ghostly. It was a comforting gesture, and it gave her the courage to clamp her mouth shut.
“Who did you procure the potion from?” the doctor asked.
Noemí stared at them and kept on gripping the settee.
“I should slap you,” Florence said. “I should slap that disrespectful look off your face.”
Florence stepped forward. Noemí felt that perhaps she really did mean to slap her. She pushed Francis’s hand aside, ready to stand up.