Chapter 4 - The Language of Hands
The transformation of the east wing of the Moretti estate took place in twenty-four hours of frantic, quiet labor.
Four teams of painters, vetted personally by Tomas and working in twelve-hour shifts under strict orders of absolute silence, stripped the slate-blue wallpaper from Sophia’s suite. They replaced it with a soft, matte linen in the palest shade of sage. The heavy navy velvet drapes were unhooked and carried away in canvas sacks, replaced by sheer, natural linen that let the gray autumn sunlight spill across the floor in wide, diffuse pools. The dark wool rugs were rolled up and replaced with woven sea-grass and pale moss-colored wool from New Zealand.
By Sunday afternoon, when the black sedan brought Ruby Brennan through the front gates, the second floor smelled of cedar, fresh distemper, and dried eucalyptus.
Sophia had not been told she was coming.
When Ruby stepped through the doorway of the sitting room, she was no longer wearing the black cotton dress and the apron. She wore a soft cream-colored wool sweater with sleeves pushed up to her elbows, dark trousers, and flat leather shoes.
Sophia was sitting in her usual chair by the window, her knees pulled tight to her chest, her face pale, her hair unbrushed.
Ruby did not make a sound, but she did not hide her presence. She walked to the center of the room, picked up a small wooden stool that had been placed beside the low tea table, and set it down three feet from Sophia’s chair.
She sat down and waited.
For nearly ten minutes, neither of them moved. The grandfather clock in the downstairs hall struck three, its chimes muffled by the new rugs.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Sophia’s head turned.
Her eyes flicked to Ruby’s shoes. Then to the trousers. Then to the cream sweater. And finally, to Ruby’s face.
Sophia’s lips parted. Her breath caught in her throat with a soft, audible hitch. Her gaze darted to the doorway, as if expecting Santiago or Mrs. Delaney to appear with a clipboard and an order of dismissal.
Ruby lifted her hands.
She did not use rapid signs. She moved with slow, deliberate grace:
I am here. I am staying.
Sophia’s chest heaved. A sudden, violent tremor ran through her shoulders. She dropped her feet to the floor, her hands rising with a frantic, uncoordinated speed that showed how much adrenaline was flooding her system:
He sent you away. The brother.
Ruby shook her head. Her hands moved again:
He asked me to return. He changed the room. Look.
Ruby gestured with an open palm toward the walls, toward the curtains, toward the bed with its pale sage-green duvet.
Sophia looked. For the first time in three days, her eyes truly focused on her surroundings. She saw the green. She saw that the cold, drowning blue of the river had been stripped from the walls, erased from her sightline.
Her fingers rose again, trembling so violently she had to reset the gesture twice:
Why?
Ruby leaned forward. She reached out, her fingers hovering an inch above Sophia’s knee, asking for permission. Sophia did not pull away. Ruby laid her palm gently against the girl’s denim-covered joint.
Because he wants to hear you, Ruby signed with her free hand. Even if you do not use your mouth.
A single tear spilled over Sophia’s lower lid, tracing a clean path through the pale dust of her cheek. She did not wipe it away. She leaned forward, her forehead dropping until it rested against Ruby’s shoulder, her small, thin body shaking with silent, racking sobs that had been held behind her ribs for seven years.
Ruby did not speak. She put her arms around the girl, holding her tight against the wool of her sweater, rocking her slightly as the afternoon light shifted from pale gold to the deep, bruised violet of dusk.
In the corridor outside, standing in the shadow of the linen press, Santiago Moretti watched through the three-inch gap in the door.
May you like
His hands were thrust deep into his trouser pockets. His shoulders were bowed. For twenty minutes, he did not move, listening to the small, gasping breaths of his sister’s grief, until Tomas touched his elbow from behind and whispered that the evening calls from the docks were waiting.
Santiago turned and walked away, his boots making no sound on the runner.
