“I can manage,” she replied, snatching away the piece of cotton and pressing it against her head.
The doctor shrugged and tossed his stethoscope in his black bag. “Francis was supposed to talk to you, but he must not have made himself clear last night. You can’t leave this house, Miss Taboada. No one can. It won’t let you. If you try to run off, you’ll suffer another attack like the one you had.”
“How can a house do that?”
“It can. That is all that matters.”
Francis approached the bed with the glass of water and handed it to her. Noemí took a couple of sips, carefully eyeing both men. Cummins’s face caught her eye; there was a detail she had not noticed before and which now seemed obvious.
“You’re related to them, aren’t you? You’re another Doyle.”
“Distantly, which is why I live in the village, managing the family’s affairs,” the doctor replied.
Distantly. That sounded like a joke. She didn’t think there was any distance in the Doyle family tree. It didn’t branch at all. Virgil had said he’d married Dr. Cummins’s daughter, which meant that, to boot, they’d attempted to pull that “distant” relation back into their bosom.
He wants you to be part of our family, Francis had said. Noemí clutched the glass with both hands.
“You must have your breakfast. Francis, bring the tray here,” the doctor commanded.
“I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Don’t be silly. Francis, the tray.”
“Is the tea warm? I’ll very much enjoy tossing a scalding cup in the good doctor’s face,” she said lightly.
The doctor took off his glasses and began cleaning them with a handkerchief, his brow furrowed. “It seems you are determined to be difficult today. I shouldn’t be surprised. Women can be terribly mercurial.”
“Was yourdaughterdifficult?” Noemí asked. The doctor raised his head sharply and stared at her, and she knew she’d struck a nerve. “You gave them your owndaughter.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he muttered.
“Virgil said she ran away, but it’s not true. No one leaves this place, you said so. It would never have let her go. She’s dead, isn’t she? Did he kill her?”
Noemí and the doctor stared at each other. The doctor stood up stiffly, snatching the glass from her hands and setting it on the night table.
“Perhaps if you’d let us speak, the two of us alone,” Francis told the older man.
Dr. Cummins clasped Francis by the arm and gave Noemí a narrow look. “Yes. You must talk sense into her. He won’t tolerate this behavior, you know it.”
Before exiting the room, the doctor paused at the foot of the bed, his medical bag held tight in one hand, and addressed Noemí. “My daughter died in childbirth, if you must know. She couldn’t give the family the child they needed. Howard thinks you and Catalina will be hardier. Different blood. We’ll see.”
He closed the door behind him.
Francis grabbed the silver tray and brought it to the bed. Noemí clutched the covers. “You really must eat,” he told her.
“Isn’t it poisoned?” she asked.
He leaned down, set the tray upon her lap, whispering in Spanish to her ear. “The food you’ve had, the tea, they’ve been laced with something, yes. But the egg is fine, start eating. I’ll tell you.”
“What—”
“In Spanish,” he said. “He can hear, through the walls, through the house, but he doesn’t speak Spanish. He won’t understand. Keep your voice low and eat, I’m serious. Youaredehydrated and you vomited so much last night.”
Noemí stared at him. Slowly she grabbed a spoon and tapped the hard-boiled egg’s shell without taking her eyes off him.
“I want to help you,” he said, “but it’s difficult. You’ve seen what the house can do.”
“Keep you inside, apparently. Is it true I can’t leave?”