"Unless there is any other occasion I should be informed of," I answer blandly.
"I was under the impression that you requested it," he states.
"And you thought it reasonable to perform such a request without speaking to me directly?"
"It's not uncommon for a groom to make such a request," he defends. "As I’m sure you are aware, it is a standard practice within The Society. Men who are to be married often want assurances. It is also requested frequently by the bride themselves, a subtle way to alleviate any doubts, should they arise."
"Perhaps other men accept this explanation, but I do not. So, let me make my position clear, Dr. Chambers. You never should have touched my wife without my explicit consent. I don't think this is something that requires a great deal of thought. In fact, I should think it would be obvious what my feelings on the matter might be. It leaves me to wonder about your motivations for such a treasonous act."
"It was not done with ill intent." He tugs at his collar, the sheen of sweat now dripping down his neck. "I can assure you of that. If you are questioning the ethics of my practice—"
"I am questioning your very loyalty." I narrow my eyes at him. "You are aware it is within my power to have your medical license revoked. With a single declaration from my lips, you could be banished or have the lifeblood drained from your very body. So, why would you risk it?"
"I don't know what you think happened in that exam, but—”
"That's precisely what I would like to know. How did my wife end up with bruises on her body? Was it you or someone else?"
His eyes dart to the phone as if there might be someone he could call who would save him from this conversation. But he knows very well there is not. In the hierarchy of The Society, he is barely worth mentioning. He is not a Sovereign Son, and he never will be.
"Forgive me, Santiago," he answers gruffly. "If your wife feels she was hurt in any way, please allow me to offer my deepest apologies. It was not my intention to do so. I was simply doing my job. That is all."
Something about his nervous, beady eyes makes me believe otherwise. But he has always been this way around me, so it is difficult to know for certain. Without Ivy telling me the explicit details herself, there is not much else within the realm of reason I can do at the present.
"There is nothing more I should know then? Nothing more you wish to tell me?"
He wipes his palms on his trousers and shakes his head vehemently. "No. Not that I can think of."
"Very well." I rise from the chair, glancing down at him like the scum he is. "As for my wife, you don't exist to her anymore. I don't want you to look at her. Speak to her. Or even so much as mutter her name again in passing. Do you understand?"
"Yes, of course." He bobs his head. "Whatever you wish."
I head for the door, and one last thought occurs to me. "I want the notes from her chart. Send them to me. Now."
24
Ivy
My stomach growls as I make my way down the stairs at the appointed time. I feel as though I’ve been summoned, and I think back to that conversation with Mercedes. About how my husband gave me permission to leave my room. I grow angry with the memory. At the thought of it. It’s been bothering me all day, and the fifteen-minute visit with my father didn’t exactly fulfill his end of the bargain.
The lush carpet pads my steps, muting any sound. I’m generally quiet when I’m not knocking into something, and in this house, I’m even more careful. There’s a depth to the silence here. Even when it was quiet at my house or at the apartment as I sat there alone, it wasn’t like this. There was always some noise, but you don’t realize it until you hear this absolute absence of sound.
My path is illuminated by the chandeliers overhead, ancient gothic things lit with candles.
I stop for a moment and take it in, wonder who is tasked with cleaning them and putting new candles into the dozens of chandeliers in this place. They must have to do it daily. I pass one of the large iron-clad windows. It filters the moonlight to a pretty, eerie silver. Shadow is layered upon shadow here. I wonder if I’ll find ghosts when I start to wander the house. I won’t be surprised if I do.
I walk into the living room with its rose petal windows. The mural on the ceiling is obscured. I peer up at it, then turn a circle to take it in. It’s spectacular still, the art, the architecture of the house itself, all the arches, the nooks, the darkness.