I bounce on his shoulder and look back at the house. It’s even bigger than I’d realized. Four floors with spires disappearing into the low-hanging clouds and thick ivy crawling along the walls. At the center is a large arched window, the glass stained, at the head the window segments creating an ornate circle.

No. Not a circle.

A rose. The segments make up the petals.

De La Rosa. Of the rose.

A light goes on in one of the upstairs windows in a separate part of the house. Through the cast iron I see movement. A woman’s figure. When she sees us, she draws the curtain wider and openly watches.

But in the next instant, I hear a heavy door creak on its hinges as its opened, the smell of church enveloping me again. I crane my neck to look around the small chapel as Santiago closes the door and sets me on my feet.

I take in the pews, six on each side. The wood simple. Kneelers in each without cushions and worn Bibles in two of the pews.

At the back left corner is the baptismal font. It’s large and ornate, made of the same material as the altar. In the opposite corner is a simple confessional. In the place of doors is a deep red velvet curtain to give the penitent the impression of privacy.

Santiago walks to the altar. He doesn’t stop to make the sign of the cross. Doesn’t bow like the nuns taught us to. I wonder about that. About his devotion. His belief. He has a fascination for religion, I think. I don’t know. But after what he did yesterday, how he did it bending me over the altar in the chapel, a sacred place, pouring wax from the altar candles onto my hips. A devout man would not do that, certainly. And then there’s the rosary. Why give me a rosary on our wedding night? Why become so angry when you find I’m not wearing it?

At the altar, he doesn’t raise his head to acknowledge the crucified Christ. Instead, he picks up a box of matches and lights several candles. I notice, though, that the red of the tabernacle lamp glows, and I wonder who maintains it. If there’s a priest or if it’s him.

I think about the woman at the window. “Does your sister live here? At the house I mean?”

He finishes lighting the candles and blows the match out.

I take in the two framed photographs on the altar. It’s a strange place to keep photos, but I wonder if it isn’t his father and brother. I step closer and think yes. I remember seeing them just a few times, and there is a resemblance. They died in that explosion that scarred him.