Page 9

II

That night, María doesn’t sleep.

She lies in bed beside her husband, body aching as it cools, fingers drifting not to the pain between her legs, but the ruby at her throat.

She lies there, trapped beneath the weight of Andrés’s hand, and stares up at the ceiling beams, trying to find faces in the whorls of wood.

She lies there, and for the first time in years, she thinks of the widow who came to town.

There are teas and tonics for many things, she said. To shed a fever, or ease a cough. To help a woman get with child, or get rid of it.

María lies there, and listens to the fire die, one crackling ember at a time, until the room is as dark as the night beyond, and Andrés finally, mercifully, rolls over.

Then she rises, footsteps silent on the floor as she crosses the room, past the untouched meal.

Steps back into her dress, eases the door open, and slips out.

Not yet dawn, but she finds her way to the kitchens using a lamp stolen from the stairs, begins studying the herbs stopped and bottled on the shelf.

They clatter softly as she turns them, studying their labels.

She cannot read, and even if she could, she doesn’t know what she is looking for, but she can still feel her husband’s hand on her stomach, the ghostly weight of it turning rancid in her guts, and—

A gasp. She turns in time to see a short woman in the doorway, one arm clutching a bowl of dough, the other crossing herself. The light lands on María’s face, her hair, and she exhales.

“Mi senora,” gasps the startled cook. “I thought you were a ghost.” She starts forward, setting the bowl down on the counter. “Is something wrong? Are you unwell?”

María weighs the words in her mouth. “Not yet,” she says after a moment, “and I do not wish to be.”

A knowing look enters the cook’s eye, displeasure on its heels.

“This is a kitchen,” she scolds, “not an apothecary.”

But María has never been easily cowed, not by a tone, or a look. Not as a child, not as a woman, and certainly not as a viscountess. Hers is a problem as old as time, and she expects there is more than one cure.

“Kitchens have some of the same herbs,” she says, holding the cook’s gaze, “and more discretion.”

As she says it, she draws a coin from her pocket and sets it on the counter. Even in the low light, the metal shines. The cook flashes it a hungry look, then swipes the coin into her apron, and shoos María from the shelf.

The cook moves quickly, fetching the right bottles with a surety that makes María think this isn’t the first time.

She watches as the cook adds small spoonfuls of each herb into a cup, then stokes the embers in the fire, swings the kettle over the flame to heat just until tendrils of steam begin to rise, then pulls it off and pours the water over the herbs to steep.

To this, she adds a drop of honey.

“For the taste,” says the cook, handing over the concoction. She looks like she wants to say something else, but a look from María is enough to change her mind. The cook purses her lips while she lifts the cup and drinks.

It is bitter, and earthy, and the first sip sends a cramp through her empty stomach, but she doesn’t stop. She swallows every drop and then exhales, her muscles loosening in relief.

She hands the cup back, but when the cook reaches to take it, María catches the other woman’s hand and pulls her close. The cook is short, much shorter than the new viscountess, and María looms over her, thin fingers digging into old wrists.

“If you tell a soul,” she whispers, her voice low, almost gentle, “I will come back and cut out your tongue.”

The cook looks up at her in horror. María smiles down, and then lets go, returning to her room, where she climbs back into bed beside her new husband and sleeps soundly until dawn.