Victoria Fox - The Santiago Sisters

At first it was pitch dark, then, as her eyes adjusted, she became aware of a faint, pulsing orange. It shone from high and crept across the floor in a ladder. She imagined climbing it, unsure which way was up, and escaping that way.

Escaping what?

The question emerged with little sense of urgency. She lived each second, gradually, one second then another, deciding whether or not she was alive.

Sounds filtered through. A city siren, screaming to loud then fading to quiet then gone; a dog barking; a man calling to another man, their voices passing at an unknown distance. She wondered where they were going, if she could go with them.

Soft things pattered at a window, then her eyes adjusted and she saw white flakes, thick white flakes of winter tumbling through the black night like moths.

It was Christmas in New York. The idea was an anchor, some reminder of where she was and where she had come from. Out on the street, passers-by would be wrapped in coats and scarves, mittened hands holding another’s, noses red and hearts warm as they planned their trip home, to heat, to friends, to safety.

She closed her eyes. Perhaps if she fell asleep a while longer, she was so tired, so very tired, and when she woke up she would be home … Home …

And then she heard a voice, pulling her back from the brink of slumber:

Get out.

It was clear and precise and she trusted it.

You’re in danger. Move. Get out. Now.

She tried to push herself up on her elbows but her stomach couldn’t take it. Ropes inside her twisted and pulled; she whimpered, growled, writhed in anger.

The door opened.

She blinked, drinking the room in, desperate to see more.

Footsteps.

Someone was with her, standing right there, over her, looking down. She froze. The person stood very still. Time stopped.

She tasted terror.

‘Hello,’ said a voice. ‘I’m glad I found you. Are you glad to see me?’

2000–2005

London

Teresa Santiago woke to the sound of shouting. It was in a language she didn’t understand, and the ferocious, high-pitched squawks shot back and forth like two cats scrapping in a yard. One belonged to Simone, a literal far cry from the dulcet tones in which she addressed Teresa. The shouts were coming from downstairs, a concept she was only now getting used to since she’d only ever lived in a single-storey dwelling. She got out of bed and stood in her silk pyjamas, wondering if it was safe to emerge.

After a while, the screams died down. There followed a series of stomps and the bang of a slamming door. Teresa pictured the other girl who lived here, the blonde with the upturned nose, throwing herself on the sheets and bawling.

She stretched, and the room yawned with her. It was enormous. The ceiling stood at three times her height, with delicate cornicing like the icing on a birthday cake. A glinting chandelier hung from a central floret. The curtains were duck-egg blue and billowed gently against the open windows, of which there were three; huge and as perfectly rectangular as if they belonged in a dolls’ house. Through them, the hum of London swam up on the breeze. Her four-poster bed was swathed in peach satin, plumped with dozens of pink cushions, and the mattress was as deep and squidgy as the honeyed brioche Teresa was occasionally served for breakfast.

It was a princess’s bedroom. At lights-out, Teresa would lie still and wait for her eyes to become accustomed to the dark, and when they did she would test herself by closing and then opening them again, half fearing that the room would have been swallowed up, and she would find herself back at home in Patagonia, Calida asleep on the bunk below and the moon looking in through the window. She couldn’t believe that all this was hers. OK, it was on loan, it wasn’t forever, but boy was it something else. London was another universe. Simone Geddes’ mansion was incredible. At the beginning she had got lost every hour, exploring the furthest reaches of the house and then forgetting her way back. Simone had a loft, a cellar, a games suite, and a spa; they had a library and a music room and a reading room; they had a separate area where they ate their meals and drank their drinks and the lounge alone was bigger than the entire farmhouse back in Argentina. All the floors were piled one on top of another, like a stack of pretty boxes. When Teresa first arrived, she’d hurt her neck looking up at them all and Simone had laughed affectionately and stroked her arm.

‘Welcome to my world,’ she’d whispered.

It truly was the realm of her imaginings. Everything she had hoped for and dreamed of. Her old life ceased to exist. Poverty, struggle, longing. And Calida …

Teresa pushed away thoughts of her twin. She suffered a tangle of emotions whenever she thought of her: anger, hurt, frustration, and sadness; it was easier to bottle them up. Calida had wished her gone. She would be happy back on the farm, with Daniel, who was the only person who mattered to her anyway.

I wish you’d just disappear …

Though the bruises had faded, the scars were still tender to touch. Fine, Teresa thought, you got what you wanted. See if I care. I’m having the time of my life.

There was a knock at the bedroom door. ‘Ms Santiago?’

The maid stepped in. Vera was a kind, plump, Hispanic woman. Once or twice they had chatted in Spanish, but Vera always cut it short because, she explained, she wasn’t meant to converse with the household. ‘I’m not the household,’ Teresa said, ‘I’m a guest.’ But Vera had backed out of the room and stayed quiet on the matter.

Privately, Teresa wondered if the maid was content working here. Simone spoke sharply to her, as did the other children. The blonde girl, Emily, acted as if Vera didn’t exist, yet had vicious words to impart when her trail of bubblegum wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty bottles of cola failed to be cleared promptly from the side of the swimming pool; while the boy, Lysander, with whom Teresa hadn’t had much contact because she found him daunting, but thrillingly so, liked to make her blush.

Now, the maid wheeled a silver trolley across the carpet, which she brought to a stop at the foot of Teresa’s bed. She bobbed a short curtsey.

‘ Gracias ,’ said Teresa, marvelling at the sight.

‘ De nada —can I bring you anything else?’

‘No, thank you.’ Teresa had never been treated with such reverence: she felt she could ask for anything—a bicycle, a sandcastle, a unicorn—and it would be brought straight to her, with apologies for the delay. Vera nodded and left the room.

The breakfast was sumptuous. Teresa lifted the metal cloche and underneath was a spread of eggs, bacon, mushrooms, and tomato, diamonds of toast with the crusts cut off, a pat of butter in the shape of a seashell, a bright glass of orange juice and a goblet of fresh yoghurt topped with blueberry compote. She wolfed the feast.

Excitedly, she dressed. Simone was taking her shopping today and she couldn’t wait. She’d heard so much about luxury clothes and seen Simone’s own dazzling wardrobe, and could picture the stores with their polished displays and glossy sales people; the buzz and zing of money as it flashed in and out of the till.

In the hallway, she stopped. Emily was blasting music from her bedroom and a sign on the door read: KEEP OUT: BITCH WITHOUT A MUZZLE.

Emily’s room was forbidden territory and Teresa knew she wouldn’t be welcome. Since she’d arrived, Emily had barely said two words to her. Frequently she caught the girl scowling at her, and once Emily had brought her friends over and Teresa knew they were giggling and gossiping because they kept looking over and then hiding their smiles behind their hands. Teresa wished she could speak English because then she could explain that Simone had invited her and, since she was here, they might try to get along … It was only a couple more weeks, after all.