She held my hand and stroked it, calming me.
“Everything passes, believe me. Everything.”
Despite myself, I could feel my eyes filling with tears and I turned my head so that she couldn’t see my face. Isabella turned off the light on the bedside table and stayed there, sitting close to me in the dark, listening to the weeping of a miserable drunk, asking no questions, offering no opinion, offering nothing other than her company and her kindness, until I fell asleep.
7
I was woken by the agony of the hangover—a press clamping down on my temples—and the scent of Colombian coffee. Isabella had set a table by my bed with a pot of freshly brewed coffee and a plate with bread, cheese, ham, and an apple. The sight of the food made me nauseated, but I stretched out my hand to reach for the coffeepot. Isabella, who had been watching from the doorway, rushed forward, all smiles, and poured a cup for me.
“Drink it like this, good and strong. It will work wonders.”
I accepted the cup and drank.
“What’s the time?”
“One o’clock in the afternoon.”
I snorted.
“How long have you been awake?”
“About seven hours.
“Doing what?”
“Cleaning, tidying up, but there’s enough work here for a few months,” Isabella replied.
I took another long sip of coffee.
“Thanks,” I mumbled. “For the coffee. And for cleaning up, although you don’t have to do it.”
“I’m not doing it for you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m doing it for myself. If I’m going to live here, I’d rather not have to worry about getting stuck to something if I lean on it accidentally.”
“Live here? I thought we’d said that—”
As I raised my voice, a stab of pain sliced through my brain.
“Shhhh,” whispered Isabella.
I nodded, agreeing to a truce. I couldn’t quarrel with Isabella now, and I didn’t want to. There would be time enough to take her back to her family once the hangover had beaten a retreat. I finished my coffee in one long gulp and got up. Five or six thorns pierced my head. I groaned. Isabella caught hold of my arm.
“I’m not an invalid. I can manage on my own.”
She let go of me tentatively. I took a few steps toward the corridor, with Isabella following close behind, as if she feared I was about to topple over at any moment. I stopped in front of the bathroom.
“May I pee on my own?”
“Mind how you aim,” the girl murmured. “I’ll leave your breakfast in the gallery.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You have to eat something.”
“Are you my apprentice or my mother?”
“It’s for your own good.”
I closed the bathroom door and sought refuge inside. It took a while for my eyes to adjust to what I was seeing. The bathroom was unrecognizable. Clean and sparkling. Everything in its place. A new bar of soap on the sink. Clean towels that I didn’t even know I owned. A smell of bleach.