Page 25 of An Immaculate Deception

Of course.

The ceiling is so low that the crown of my head almost brushes against it, and I am not particularly tall. Various instruments of punishment and torture lie at the foot of the pillars: rust shackles, iron handcuffs, spiked collars, and others I cannot name. They make me shudder, but are to be expected in such a place. What is not to be expected is the long chaise longue positioned in the middle. It has a wooden backrest with Gothic carvings, wings, and bulbous finials. A cream cushion covers the full length of it.

This fine French piece belongs inside the casa grande, not here. I remind myself that many people store old furniture in basement-level rooms. And yet, just then I notice a small round wooden table beside the chaise longue, with an oil lamp, a book, and a small cylindrical box on it. The oil lamp still has oil in its lower compartment, and when I turn up the dial, the wick rises. It is still usable, not a broken or discarded lamp. The book is The Three Musketeers. I am puzzling over this, picturing the foul woman attempting to read this book under the feeble light of an oil lamp, not knowing if it is day or night and having lost track of the days from being in captivity for so long. I try to shake away the awful thought, because that would mean Leandro is…

I notice, hidden almost out of sight on the ground, a bucket and a rag. I do not have the nerve to check what’s in the bucket.

I pick up the remaining item on the wooden side table: a small velvet box. I open it and a brightly feathered mechanical bird emerges. I turn the dial. The bird starts singing while spinning on its axis. It’s a singing bird box.

Not something the slaves would have.

This is something a woman would have, or a child. My insides crumble at the thought of being trapped in this place with only this singing bird as company.

My eyes fall upon a bundle of sheets at the base of the chaise longue. A shiver runs down my spine. The sheets prove that this chaise was someone’s bed—someone slept here at night. It’s almost unthinkable, yet what else could it mean? I wrap my arms around myself and look about, trying to imagine such a dreary thing. I bring the sheets tentatively to my nose and draw an inhale, expecting the sweet fragrance of lavender rose. Because the foul woman was here, maybe even died here. But the smell is different, albeit familiar as well…

Vertigo sweeps through me and I feel lightheaded and unwell. Doctor Lobo said I must avoid distressing situations, which can exacerbate my symptoms. Yet an even more disturbing thought enters my mind: Did Leandro make use of the chains and shackles lying about to imprison the foul woman here? The heavy ache grips my muscles again, as before, like a rock pulling my limbs downward. The infernal chorus starts as a low rumbling in the back of my mind, then higher and higher: sighing, sobbing, moaning, plaintive wailing, discordant tongues, tormented words, the twang of rage, strident voices…

I am inside the carriage riding furiously in the wind. The horse gallops at breakneck speed, panicked, letting out a shrill scream as it veers into the dark unknown, the utmost deep, the hollow underbelly of the earth.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…

I open my eyes. The sounds of Hell subside, as does the vertigo.

But I am no longer alone.

Leandro stands at the door, watching me.

He is still. The sun is behind him so I can’t see the expression on his face. His hand rests on the door. It would be so easy for him to shut the door and lock me in here.

“Leandro,” I say.

“What are you doing here?”

“I…” I hesitate. “I was just taking a stroll in the yard when I saw this door and I suppose I became curious to see…” I am flailing. I have no idea how to explain why I would come here, other than my own dark suspicions.

“You became curious?” he asks.

“It’s a very peculiar room.”

I am at the foot of the steps now. But he still blocks my way.

He stares at me.

This would be a perfect time for him to speak. If there is a rational explanation for all this, if I am merely hysterical, missing something, then say so, Leandro!

His gaze shifts to the little “room” behind me. I know he is looking at the chaise longue and the side table. I cannot bring myself to ask about it. My heart thuds in my chest and my blood is frozen in my veins.

I start up the steps. If he wants to lock me in, he’ll have to push me with his bare hands. “I feel unwell.” I raise my hand to my forehead. “I wish to lie down.”

He steps aside. I emerge from the senzala into the sunlight, avoiding his gaze, but still keenly aware of his stare.

“I will send for Doctor Lobo,” he says.

14

I make up my mind to leave this evening. I do not know whether there is a reasonable explanation for what I’ve seen, but at any rate I am not recovering well here. This house makes me ill. Leandro, in his current state, makes me ill. I do not know how I will face Mother, but it is clear that no proposal will come of this retreat, no matter how long I stay.

Once I am home I can get my bearings and think more clearly about the situation. If I confide in Eloisa and my sister, I may be able to determine if my fears are warranted or if I am jumping to premature conclusions. The idea that Leandro kidnapped a woman and held her prisoner is quite far-fetched. But even so…