As I follow it, I wonder if the rooms form almost a circle around the large hall. I wonder if I were to have an aerial view if the house itself would be in the shape of a rose.

I touch the back of my neck lightly. I saw the tattoo today. I expected a rose, but it’s not that. Or not only that. What caught my eye first was the skull. Then the roses. Then the dueling pistols.

Violence and death and beauty all at once.

I pause when I reach the entrance of the dining room. Santiago is standing at the window, drink in hand, facing away from me. He’s so still I wonder what thoughts he’s lost in. I take a moment to study him because I am hopelessly curious about my husband. I didn’t expect to be. He’s beautiful from here. No, he’s beautiful period, even with his skull face. It’s his pain. I see it even when he’s cruel. Maybe especially then. And it does something to me.

But it’s not his pain that draws me now. It's something much more primal. His height. His broad shoulders. The suit jacket that hugs his muscles. How very masculine he is.

Heat flushes through me as I remember wrapping my hands around his biceps. How strong he is. How much stronger than me. How much bigger.

Just as I take a step into the room, a wave of vertigo hits. I miss the single stair, and when I trip, I just manage to catch the sideboard to stop from falling to the floor but knock something off the other end. It clatters to the floor, and Santiago flinches like he’s startled, then spins to face me, eyebrows furrowed, expression dark as if remembering himself.

“I’m sorry!” I’m embarrassed. I blink hard, keeping my hand on the sideboard to steady myself and hurry around to pick up the antique silver candelabra lying on its side on the floor, grateful nothing is broken.

He stalks toward me setting his glass down on the candlelit table to take me by one arm and the candelabra in the other. He sets it back on the sideboard and turns to me, looking me over.

“Are you all right?” He studies me intently.

I nod, forcing myself to focus. “I’m fine.”

“Do I need to wrap the furniture in blankets?” he asks. I think he’s trying to make light of it. I wonder if he can see my embarrassment because I feel my face burning.

“That was just…I tripped.” In part because I was staring at you. Remembering your hands on me. Remembering how your touch felt. I don’t tell him that, though.

“Antonia said you weren’t quite well earlier.”