His line of questioning turned on me—how had she acted before when she had the absinthe? Did she hallucinate?
“It did something to her. It didn’t make her hallucinate. She seemed to feel more. After some time, irritated, almost angry.”
“She has never tried to harm herself before?”
“No. She wasn’t trying this time. She was scared, wanted to be clean after being around filth.”
He put a hand to her stomach and she moaned and trembled.
“Hallucinations, mydriasis, excessive energy—I can feel it down to her bones—the heightened awareness of touch, a speeding heartbeat. I would say he gave her a hefty dose of ecstasy. Paired with the absinthe, which has been known to affect her, most likely heightened her reaction. The absinthe gave her the down, while the ecstasy lifted her up. I also believe she is in shock—the setting in that room, along with the drugs, made the fantasy altogether too real. She became the hunted.”
Picking up his black bag, he dug around some more, pulling out sterile cotton, a clear solution, a vial of medicine and a long needle.
“I do not believe she has had head trauma from the incident in the sea. She has not shown any signs of this. She has endured a deep flesh wound. The drug,” he sighed, “must run its course. What I will give her will relax her and give her the benefit of sleep. When she wakes, almost as good as new.”
“You will stay,” I said.
The doctor turned to me. “Ah, yes. Fausti blood for sure.”
“She doesn’t remember,” I said. “Herself. Or me.”
“We will have to see about that.” He glanced at Rocco.
The look conveyed what he was unwilling to say out loud—the damage could be permanent.
“Now,” he said, turning the solution over onto the cotton and applying it to her head.
Her hands swung up, fighting him. She thrashed about, screaming, crying for me, and I had to hold her down. The doctor quickly sucked the vial clean with the needle, inserting it into her arm. Not long after, her body went slack, her eyes held mine, and then she faded.
* * *
I stared at her for so long that my eyes tricked me into believing she had stopped breathing. I shook her and she made a slight noise, her breath drifting over my face in a soft, cool brush.
“She needs her sleep, nephew. Let her be.”
Dr. Sala sat in the corner, lamp on, pencil in his mouth, crossword puzzle in his hands, eyes finding mine over his glasses. Wind brought the rain against the glass window behind him in sharp taps.
She had warned me about the weather—not that we were in any danger, but dangerous enough not to be able to get off the island. More than that, I believed it was her premonition that had tried to warn her, even if she didn’t know the true reason behind the fear. She had always been…touched.
“There was nothing for you to do,” the doctor said, capturing my attention.
“I shouldn’t have married her.” But I’d be damned if I didn’t want to swallow those words after I had said them.
“Do you love her?”
“More than my own life.”
“Well, perhaps. But how is one to know that life will bring them here? We cannot predict the future. Still, I am ashamed of my family today. I do not believe my good brother would have done this if he thought—if he knew. We take our women seriously. We are not a family that does this.”
“It was done to me.”
“What could Nemours have possibly told them to convince them of this?”
“That she is a creature not of this world—that she can lure men from their beds with her dance.”
“She is just a woman.” He sighed. “I have seen her dance, like I mentioned before. My wife—your aunt—wanted to take her home and attach her to a music box. That is how enchanting she was at the ballet.”
“She can spin sugar beneath her feet.” I tucked a hair behind her ear, kissing her cheek. Warm. Alive. “Più dolce dello zucchero.”
