The House of Impossible Loves Read Free Page B

that appeared fleetingly in her dreams. A few miles from town, along the gravel road that crossed the pine forest, was an abandoned estate. The manor house was two stories high, topped by an attic. Despite the grime and mildew, the exterior was still a vivid red. An enormous yard surrounded it, protected by a stone wall. Out front, vegetation crept up stables, twisted around troughs and corral fences. Weeds filled hard beds of hydrangea and morning glories, surrounded the trunks of peach and pear trees and a chestnut tree that cast its shade over a stone bench. Out back was a garden where tomatoes and squash grew out of sheer habit. Farther back, the foliage grew thicker in a whirl of honeysuckle with a clearing in the middle; beyond that was a lilac grove and a wild rose garden.
    The horse stopped before the high iron gate that led into the property. Clara contemplated the drive leading to the front door—big cobblestones, with ribbons of earth snaking between.
    “It’s a magnificent estate, but there’s something that makes me uneasy. There’s a sad air about it,” the Andalusian said.
    “Perhaps because it’s abandoned.”
    “Would you like to live here one day?”
    “I think so.”
    Clara pressed her cheek into the back of his cape. “I want to show you something. Come. I know a way into the garden.”
    They followed the stone wall and climbed into the rose garden where part of it had crumbled. Several paths wound in a circle, where dry stalks clung to tall posts, creating a skeletal pergola. Rain clouds were scattered across the sky, reaching down, creating an opaline fog that filtered through the dried stems. Wind rustled the remaining petals rotting on top of dry leaves amid patches of snow. Clara showed the Andalusian a yellow rose that was still in bud.
    “If it can survive the first snows, then I can survive until you return.”
    He took Clara in his arms.
    “I’ll return next fall—before then, at the end of summer, if my lands allow. Wait for me, Clara. Don’t love another. Don’t even look at another.”
    “Do you promise you’ll return?”
    “I do, Clara. I promise I’ll return.”
     
    When the landowner arrived at the inn, he settled into the armchair in front of the fire to warm bones chilled through by the Castilian cold. He drank a cup of red wine and closed his eyes. He missed the warmth of his estate, rows of orange trees, the sun, black bulls in the fields and horses harnessed with bells, the songs young Gypsies sang picked up by the breeze and carried across his lands. He was anxious to cross the plateau, now covered in snow, hauling the cart with his Andalusian hounds past castles perched high on hilltops.
    Suddenly, there was a knock on his door. He opened it to find Clara’s mother with her one blind eye, one black pupil, and ashen, windblown hair. The woman held her sack with the cat bones in one hand and, in the other, a magnificent vulture’s claw on a string.
    “I brought this amulet,” she said, holding it out, “to protect you on your trip home.”
    “I have no doubt it’ll do just that. The one I bought for the hunt was very effective—I’ve got a big rack to take home.”
    “Among other things.” The old witch clucked. “Among other things.”
    “Let me pay you.”
    “I’d expect nothing less. A few coins are always welcome to a woman like me, who has to look after her only daughter.”
    “Take good care of her while I’m gone.” The Andalusian handed her the money as she hung the claw around his neck.
    “So you plan to come back.”
    “As soon as my lands allow, I’ll come see Clara and hunt again.” The Andalusian tried to smile, but this woman unsettled him deep in his gut.
    “Think it over. My daughter is already a lost cause; nothing can save her. But you still have time. I suppose you’ve heard about our curse?” the Laguna witch asked. Her blind eye seemed to glow.
    “They told me at the tavern, yes: that the Laguna women are cursed, that