I had asked Tali to take Gaspar away from Puerto Reyes: he was in Corrientes with her. I believed that in his fury, Juan would be capable of killing us. What’s more, in Puerto Reyes, near the Place of Power, it would be very easy for him. Finish it all off where it had started. That would be his form of closure.

“They can blackmail me however they want, they can, I don’t know, torture you and kill you, and Tali and Stephen. I will not occupy Gaspar’s body.”

I tried to reason with him, but it was useless. It was never just that he found it unthinkable to take his son’s body. Juan identified with Eddie and with Encarnación, with the Scottish youth, with Olanna: that was his lineage, the line of mediums used against their will. His lineage was not the Order and its exploiters. At the same time, his position in the cult had changed: now, with Gaspar, he was part of the family. I managed to convince him I hadn’t known about the Rite. It was the truth, and Juan was never stupid. What he questioned was whether I would actually refuse to carry it out—and he wasn’t wrong to wonder. The doubt made me scream, the ambivalence kept me awake at night. We were both desperate, and he decided to leave. He was gone for several days, with Stephen. They were capable of escaping together. My mother cursed me, beat me like she had when I was little. You can’t hold on to anything, it’s the only thing you have to do, keep the medium with you, that’s all. She sent for Gaspar, and warned me that if I let someone take him again without her authorization, there would be consequences. He is the medium’s body, she told me. He is valuable. Much more valuable than you.

Florence was more merciful. We can find them easily, they’re not going to escape. We have employees who can find them, and we also have the police. Still, she looked at me with scorn. I was disposable. I had given birth to the heir, and they saw me as disposable. They knew Juan’s temperament and they suspected he would be opposed to the Rite, but they were sure that in the end, they would break his will. They didn’t need me. I was alone. Some nights I let Osman sleep in the room with me: the dog was practically breathing his last, but he still kept me company. He died early one morning before Juan returned, and I cried with all the anguish of our separation, of my son’s uncertain future, of my own doubts.