“Why do you want that little knife, sis?”

“For some plants. I know there’s a gardener, you don’t have to tell me, but these are my plants. I like to work on them myself.”

The impending storm was suffocating: even Gaspar had lain down on the blanket and was staring up at the sky. Was that normal? I wondered. He pays such close attention to things. I distracted him, and Gaspar, who rarely got angry, seemed on the verge of tears. Nearby, the old dog Osman was panting. It was cruel to make him spend his final days in that Misiones heat.

I saw Stephen emerge from the house. He was so pale as he entered the little garden that I got scared. Juan is fine, he’s awake and alert, he said, and my shoulders relaxed. It’s my mother. She needs to see you, alone.

“This can’t be good, judging from your face.”

Gaspar put his arms around Stephen’s leg, and Stephen picked him up.

“Come on, let’s go see your dad.” And he added: “He doesn’t need oxygen anymore; Gaspar won’t get scared.”

They were waiting for me in the first-floor room where they always met. The wooden staircase creaked and the carpet was very damp. I didn’t want to go in nervous, so I dawdled a little looking at my father’s paintings. The one by Cándido López, so beautiful, was starting to crack. I’d have to take it with me one day, steal it and give it to a museum. He wouldn’t notice. I went a little warily into the room where Florence, Anne, and my mother were waiting. The three of them all together was always a reason to distrust. What was that poem Juan had read me a few days ago? “One is a harlot, and one a child / That never looked upon man with desire, / And one it may be a queen.”

Florence greeted me with a kiss and smoothed my hair. Her hands smelled like Tiger Balm and the bracelets on her wrists tinkled. Mercedes looked me up and down: possessiveness mixed with mockery. The same way she had always looked at me.

“My dear, this is a wonderful day,” Florence said as she opened a bottle of wine. A Leroy. The smell of Burgundy filled the room. Florence’s unchecked joy tended to augur bad news. I was especially annoyed that she was celebrating whatever this was while Juan, in the room downstairs, was suffering the Ceremonial’s ravages on his body. She rattled on, peppering her Spanish with English.

“I couldn’t wait, dear. Juan should be here, I know, but it wouldn’t be right to give him the news in his condition, it might upset him. I’ll wait until he’s stronger. We owe him so much; we owe him everything. My darling, we now know how to keep consciousness alive. The words were so clear. I heard them too. The gods have dictated the Rite for the medium and his recipient. The medium will transfer his consciousness into the body of his son. The continuity of life will be given to them, first, and then our turn will come. What we mean to say—I’m so excited, it’s hard to find the words—is that the Rite is complete. The details of its execution have been given to us. First for the two of them, then for others. You can consult them yourself.”