The Inquisitor's Wife by Jeanne Kalogridis Page A

what I have! Marisol, hear the truth!” she cried.
    My father struck her with the back of his hand. The force sent her staggering backward against the side of her chair, which toppled, causing her to lose her balance and fall.
    I moved to my mother, too late to catch her. When I helped her back to her feet, she was wide-eyed, stunned into silence, and pressed a palm to her cheekbone and jaw. Her lower lip was split, and a ribbon of blood trickled down her chin.
    In that instant, I hated my father.
    Shaking with agitation, Diego stared down at us; a sheen of tears filmed his eyes. As I looked vengefully back at him, the first drop trickled down the side of his face.
    “Go to your chambers and stay there until I tell you, doña Magdalena,” he said, in a low, ragged voice. “Go and think on what you have almost done. I forbid you to speak of this again; I can’t let your fear destroy us.”

 
     
    Five
     
     
    My mother lifted her skirts in fury and ran from the room; my father impatiently brushed his tears away and turned his back to her as he returned to his seat and the now-cold chickpeas awaiting him. I still stood in the open doorway, watching as my mother disappeared up the stairs.
    “Marisol,” my father said sternly.
    I glanced back to see him sitting at the table, staring disconsolately down at his bowl.
    “How dare you hit her!” I was seething but kept my voice low, ever mindful of the servants in the kitchen.
    My father continued staring down at the chickpeas, his pained expression slowly fading, his face gradually becoming as unreadable as stone. “It’s my right as a husband,” he said coldly. “I forbid you too to ever speak of this again. Come sit in your chair. I won’t tolerate any more disobedience.”
    I resentfully returned to my place at the table and sat, but my tongue couldn’t rest. Somehow, I stilled my anger and managed to speak softly.
    “You wouldn’t be this upset, Papá, if Mamá’s fears were all imaginary.”
    He ran his hands through his thick hair, a sun-bleached brown that was only beginning to show glints of silver, then pressed his hands together to keep from fidgeting. Even then, he wouldn’t look at me. “Your mother’s nerves have bested her: She heard a foolish rumor and believes it to be true. Now she’s frightened herself so badly that I can’t reason with her.”
    “What ‘truth’ is so horrible that I can’t hear it?” I pressed.
    He shook his head. “Don’t go to her tonight. She’s not rational and will only upset you unnecessarily. I’ll try to talk some sense into her when she’s not so aggravated.”
    “I’m an adult now, Papá,” I reminded him. “I don’t frighten easily.”
    “Your mother was frightened terribly as a child,” he said, sighing again and staring slightly above my head at the past. “So terribly that now she always expects the worst thing possible to happen. I forbid you to see her until I give you permission; it’s bad enough that she’s upset. I don’t want two hysterical women in my house.”
    I said nothing more but was obliged to sit and finish supper, both of us silent and keeping our gazes locked on our respective plates. When we had finally suffered through the full-course meal, don Diego gave me permission to leave the table.
    I hurried at once to my mother’s chambers, to find the door closed but not bolted; this time, not even Máriam would answer my frantic knocking. I drew a breath, and for the first time, entered my mother’s room without permission.
    I held my breath, not wanting to see what I already knew, as I peered around the corner of the antechamber. There stood my mother, her head covered by the fringed white shawl I hadn’t seen in a decade, one she’d promised she’d never wear again. On the little mantel where the crudely painted Madonna stood, two golden candlesticks—ones I believed until that moment she’d given away—sported two burning tapers.
    She stood glazed in their light,