The Tenth Girl by Sara Faring

Author:Sara Faring
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Imprint

17

MAVI: ARGENTINA, JUNE 1978

I confess: In the royal-purple room, I bare myself, weaving for Dom the gloomy tale that roots me. Somehow—somehow—I leave feeling as if I, the impoverished orphan Mavi Quercia, could carry and reshape the entire broken world, when perhaps a wiser woman would feel vulnerable and more than a touch afraid. But the truth holds: Though I may wonder why Dom changed, I no longer question who he is now, not at all. This Dom is good, no matter what secrets the hidden nooks in him contain.

Even so: I can’t reconcile the confidence I feel around Dom, his oversize hands warm gloves around mine, with the inexplicable helplessness I feel when thinking about these unknowable spirits haunting the girls. How can I kill worry without also murdering that precious tenderness I feel? I think they stem from the same part of my overactive brain. I need a noble distraction until the late evening. So before I return to my room, I deviate from the prescribed and lawful path to check on poor old Lamb.

I knock on his door once, hearing a muffled noise from the inside. Come in, it might’ve been. I push inside and find him wearing a voluminous taupe sweater and pants, seated in a plush cloth chair. His forest-green room is blessed by two of these chairs, plus a narrow bookshelf, as well as a cocktail-size table crowned by a few glasses. He reads a mathematics journal by the look of the boring, numeral-filled cover, and he perks up when he sees me.

“Miss Mavi?” he asks, setting down the journal. All-white eyelashes fringe his eyes like snowflakes. “You’ve caught me up when I should be resting in bed. Dr. Molina will be none too pleased. Oh, but it is a pleasure to see you!”

I can’t help but smile. He looks well—full-faced, only a shade greener than usual.

“How are you feeling, Lamby?” I ask.

He smiles warmly. “Much better, my dear. It’s so kind of you to visit—and the girls, the girls, too. They brought me sweet alfajores with dulce de leche and warm tea!” He motions at an empty mug, eyes bright. “I had a bit of a scare, that’s all. You know the elderly and their health—nothing to be done about it but keep a good attitude. And I am much improved.” He gestures to the matching tufted chair opposite his. “Please make yourself comfortable, won’t you? I must be a good host. Ah—wait. I’ve just the thing.” He stands, his back cracking, and pulls a book from the shelf titled The Blind Widow Weeps. “I have a delicious treat for you.”

I sit, settling into the cushioning. “A novel?”

“Not quite,” he says, chuckling. With quivering fingers, he wiggles a yellow-labeled bottle of brandy out from behind the book: a secret stash. His eyes sparkle when he faces me. “Have a tipple for me? A bit of sobremesa. It will calm my own nerves to smell the stuff. But Dr. Molina’s strictly prohibited me from drinking it, naturally.

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