I’d drunk too much eggnog—that much was clear. There was also the wine at dinner and the bourbon. I was not much of a drinker, even under the best of circumstances. But my nerves, my wanting to do things right, had got the best of me.

I couldn’t lie on the bed; it was spinning. Instead, I sat on the toilet and put my head between my legs and waited for midnight.

It wasn’t entirely clear to me how I was supposed to get to Dria’s room, but these were blurry details. I stumbled up the stairs to the first floor. All the lights were off, though I could see the chandelier in the dining room twinkling in the moonlight, and the beauty of this held me for a few moments.

Then a strange smell hit me, a musk of some kind, which seemed to be emanating from the rear bathroom, where I had gone to collect myself after Madelina caught us in the pantry. I thought perhaps it was Madelina herself, taking a perfumed bath. There is no reason, aside from dumb animal curiosity, that I should have tiptoed toward that door. Then again, at that particular moment, at most of the important human moments, dumb animal curiosity is pretty much the ball game.

The door was ajar (of course it was), and an aromatic steam was puffing out. I recognized the scent: eucalyptus. I should mention that this bathroom was—like all the Blacet bathrooms—tremendous and ornately mirrored, a style inspired, no doubt, by the palatial shitters of the Sun King.

I edged the door open and peeked inside. I could see only the mirror, which was mostly fogged over, but, because of the angle, allowed me a view of what I had thought was the bathtub. It was, in fact, a sort of shower/steam room with a small tile bench, on which sat Bud and Paco. They were both quite naked—Bud red with the heat, Paco a luminous brown.

This was strange enough to disorient me a little. Then Paco began scrubbing Bud’s shoulders with what I guess must have been a pumice stone, and Bud’s eyes took on a drowsy, distant, grateful look, like a dog having his ears scratched. He lowered his forehead onto Paco’s sturdy shoulder.

I wasn’t sure what to think. There was some part of me that figured this was simply how the wealthy did things—their longtime servants performed such duties. And then there was another part of me that could see, simply by the relaxed posture of their bodies, that this was something more than a professional arrangement, a prelude to further ministrations.

I shut the door with elaborate caution; my heart was chopping.