“Why haven’t you come to see me?” I asked.
“I couldn’t bear to leave her. You shouldn’t be here.” She tried to guide me back into the hallway and pull the door closed behind her, but I pushed past her and into the room. Photos lined the walls. So many of Sin, Lucius, and Teddy—beautiful boys who grew into young men as the images continued from one corner to another. Another, larger photo was framed and hung above the fireplace. It was a young woman, her hair almost the same shade as mine, but her eyes the same light blue as Lucius’.
“Cara?” A scratchy, unfamiliar voice.
I turned to find Mrs. Vinemont staring right at me, her mouth gaping.
“Cara, is it you?”
Renee went to her side and gripped her hand. “No, your sister’s gone. Remember, darling?”
“But she…” Mrs. Vinemont pointed a wizened hand at me.
“No, that’s Stella.” Renee’s voice was gentle, as if speaking to a child. “Stella. Remember?”
“Stella.” Rebecca’s eyes cleared the slightest bit, then narrowed. “The peasant?”
“Rebecca, come on now.”
“No, it’s fine.” I crossed my arms over my chest and stared down at Rebecca. “Her attitude helps.”
“My attitude?” The older woman sat up in her bed, her familiar eyes perusing me from head to toe. “No wonder my son is having such trouble with you.”
Her voice was brittle, like a dry, crumpled leaf being crushed under a boot.
“No trouble. I just want answers.”
“Well, Stella, let me get up and pour you some tea and serve you some scones while I’m at it.” She cackled.
Renee stroked her hand, but Rebecca ripped it away. “Get out of my room. Both of you are a curse. One after another. A curse!” She repeated “a curse” until the sound trailed off and she glared at me.
“I’ll leave,” I said. “I won’t bother you again. But I have some questions first.”
Renee put her hand up, as if warding off an attacking foe. “Please, Stella. Don’t. Just go. I’m begging you. She can’t handle any talk about it.”
“About the Acquisition?”
Rebecca flinched at my words. “Let her ask her questions. We’ll see if she likes my answers.” She smiled, and I realized what a beautiful woman she must have been. But now, she was nothing more than a ruined, haunted wreck.
“What is the next trial?” I asked.
She hummed some bars of a song I didn’t recognize and said, “Spring is the time for family.”
“What does that mean?”
“I answered your question. Isn’t my fault if you aren’t smart enough to follow it. Next.” She held her hand out, as if scooting me along, and I observed the same smattering of scars on the back of her hand that I’d seen on Sinclair’s.
“What are those scars?” I pointed.
“These?” She held her hand out like she was showing me an engagement ring and batted her dark lashes. “These are from one wonderful night in Brazil. Shall I tell you about it?”
Renee blanched, the color draining from her face in an instant as she shook her head. “Please don’t do this, Rebecca. Please.”
“Have you ever been cut by a sugar cane leaf?” Rebecca’s eyes drew me in, and I found myself walking closer until I stood at the foot of her bed.
“No.”
“It’s a very particular sting, you see?” She ran her fingernail across the lines, retracing whatever pain had put them there. “I took my eldest, Sinclair, to Brazil for a short vacation one time.” She grinned. “He watched me kill a man. I had never killed anyone before. But I killed Mr. Rose. Shot him dead. Do you know why?” She didn’t let me answer. “Because he was trying to tarnish my name, to take what was mine.” Her voice hardened. “No one takes from us. Not again. Not ever. We are the ones who take things.”
She leaned back, her face wistful, though she still watched me. “My son didn’t understand. He kept crying.” She threw her hands up. “The gunshots, the blood, the killing, the bodies—he couldn’t handle any of it. He was weak. He was afraid. He clung to me like I was some sort of safety in the storm.” She laughed, the sound harsh and jarring.
I put a hand to my throat, my hackles rising and my palms going cold. I could see the boy in the photos around the room, the one she spoke of. He’d been so happy, but something had changed, something was different in his older photos. Now I knew what.
She shook her head. “But I was the storm. So, after I’d gotten the Roses straightened out, I sat him down and took a sugar cane leaf. I retold the horrible things I’d done, the things he’d witnessed. Every time one of his tears fell, I cut him, and then I cut myself.” She slid her nail sharply across her hand. “I cut and cut until I could make him relive it without a single tear, until he could recite it all himself without blinking an eye—how Mr. Rose had begged, how I’d shot him in the face, how the workers had run and screamed as my men hacked them to death. And then he was strong. Like he is now.” She beamed, pride in her eyes.