The Golden City (11 page)

He was relieved, though, when the submersible came up next to the quay, and not only because he wanted to breathe fresh, nonpressurized air again. It had been difficult to maintain his facade of absurdity when there were so many que
st
ions he wanted desperately to ask this woman. This wasn’t the right time or place, though, and Miss Paredes clearly wasn’t the confiding sort. If he pressed her, she would likely run in the opposite dire
ct
ion. No, he needed some leverage to get her to talk to him, and he had an idea what might work.

For the moment he settled for helping her up the wide plank leading from the door of the submersible to the quay. “Remember, Miss Paredes, my mother
will
be expe
ct
ing you.”

She nodded, whatever she felt about that offer hiding behind those dark, now-opaque eyes. Then she was gone.

I
sabel Amaral’s eyes were wide in the pale oval of her face. One lock of hair had come loose and
st
reamed across her cheek, up to her lap. The air was slipping away, leaving them with the water that would kill Isabel. Her eyes pleaded for help . . . and then her lips opened and a flood of bubbles
st
reamed from her mouth, the la
st
of her breath.

Her body jerked convulsively again
st
the ropes that bound her there. Oriana tried to reach her, tried to do something, anything, but she failed.

Isabel went
st
ill. Her head began to sway loosely with the motion of the water, that single
st
rand of hair floating pa
st
her open mouth and snagging again
st
her lips. And an eldritch glow began to fill their watery prison, the table with its spells and death.

Oriana turned her eyes toward it, but it blurred, none of the letters or words containing any meaning. And if she didn’t figure it out, she would have to watch Isabel die over and over again.

•   •   •

TUESDAY, 30 SEPTEMBER 1902

O
riana sat up abruptly in her narrow bed, her gills agonizingly dry. She pressed her hands hard again
st
the sides of her neck, putting pressure on her gills to force the pain to subside. Tears slid down her cheeks, a rea
ct
ion to the terror that had pursued her beyond her dream.

After a moment, she wiped her tears away and covered her face with her hands. In
st
ead of figuring out some new method of hunting Espinoza, she’d spent the whole evening curled on the bed in her rented room, crying. Not ju
st
for Isabel, but for everything she’d lo
st
, all the pain and regrets of her life catching up to her at once.

She needed to pull herself together. She took several deep breaths, praying for
st
rength.

And she did feel better then, as if her night’s misery had floated away on her breath. The sun had already risen. Her windows faced we
st
, so it was
st
ill dim in the room, but she forced herself to get up and lay out the cleane
st
of her remaining garments, a black suit that flattered her pale complexion. She’d sewn blue ribbons around the hems of the skirt and the jacket’s bodice to smarten it up. The seat of the skirt was shiny with wear, but no one would note that unless they were seeking to find fault. She hoped it would be good enough; she had an interview this afternoon.

The decision had been an easy one. If she wanted to
st
ay in the city long enough to find ju
st
ice for Isabel, she had to get money somewhere. Should she secure this position, it would give her both an income and a place to live without the threat of Carlos and Heriberto finding her. She didn’t have time to deal with either of them as they deserved.

All the same, she couldn’t be certain Mr. Ferreira wasn’t after the same thing as Carlos. Women usually made the decisions in the home; if a gentleman offered a position, that hinted at sedu
ct
ion. The fa
ct
that he was a gentleman didn’t make any difference. She’d had more than one improper proposal from among Isabel’s circle of suitors, all of them gentlemen. She didn’t think Mr. Ferreira intended the same, though. He’d involved his mother in his offer, something that went beyond the realm of acceptable behavior if he planned a sedu
ct
ion. A gentleman did not include his family in his transgressions.

And she was qualified for the job. She had, after all, been Lady Isabel’s companion for more than a year. Although she had no letter of recommendation from Isabel’s family, she mu
st
be considered experienced. She also had her abilities as a seam
st
ress to offer, which had helped convince Lady Amaral to hire an unknown woman as a companion in the fir
st
place.

Oriana looked at her pale face in the spotted mirror and nodded sharply. She had to take the chance. Having made her decision, she drew her hair down about her shoulders and neck to hide her gill slits, picked up her pitcher, and headed down
st
airs to the kitchen to fill it.

It wasn’t the same as a bath, but it would ease the ache in her gills. After days without being able to bathe properly, her skin was beginning to feel dull and dry. And she should sponge off her skirt as well. If she was going to ask after a position in a fine lady’s household, she had better be presentable.

•   •   •

T
he Ferreira family lived near the end of the Street of Flowers, not far up from the Church of São Francisco—an indicator of the family’s social
st
atus. When the ari
st
ocrats had built along that
st
reet, the mo
st
influential located nearer the palace, closer to their prince. The lesser nobles and the gentry had been relegated to the far end near the river. When she’d lived in the Amaral mansion, Oriana would have had to travel some di
st
ance downhill to reach the Ferreira household.

Of course, to get from the boarding house to the Ferreira home, she had to go
up
the
st
eep hills. Climbing had never been easy for her. She’d been told once that the air bladders on the outside of a sereia’s lungs were ve
st
igial. That didn’t matter; they took up space. Her smaller lungs made the
st
eep
st
reets hard going. She might have taken the tram, only she didn’t want to spend what few coins she had—not when she didn’t yet have a position.

So Oriana headed up the Street of Flowers, carrying her portmanteau, her heels clicking along the cobbled edge of the road. When the cool wind tried to pluck away her plain
st
raw hat, she held it with one mitt-covered hand as she walked. Glancing up at the sky, she saw that clouds were rolling in, rain in them. She hoped she would have a place to spend the night.

She felt a sudden pang of homesickness for the house on Amado where she’d grown up among her father’s family. She missed her grandmother’s tile-roofed home with its terrace where she and her si
st
er would sleep under the
st
ars. She missed the beaches and the red-sailed fishing boats that cluttered them. She missed the heady smell of flowers on a summer breeze. Amado was, of all her people’s islands, the mo
st
similar in culture and archite
ct
ure to Portugal, but it wasn’t crowded and formal and
st
uffy like the Golden City. For better or worse, she’d left it behind long ago. Now she had to make the be
st
of the situation she’d landed in.

When she reached the Ferreiras’ address, she paused, caught her breath, and pulled the bell chain. After a moment, a gray-haired butler appeared at the door.

“I am Miss Paredes.” Fortunately, she didn’t sound winded. “Mr. Ferreira asked that I speak with Lady Ferreira regarding a position here.”

“Yes, Mr. Duilio said you would be coming, Miss Paredes.” He took in her tired co
st
ume with perceptive eyes and ge
st
ured toward the bag clutched in her hand. “Why don’t you set that on the table over there, miss, and I’ll take you through to meet our lady.”

Our lady.
It was a possessive title, sugge
st
ive of an elderly woman or an invalid. Oriana did as the butler sugge
st
ed, leaving her single bag on an exquisitely carved table of dark wood. A fine mirror hung above it, so she took a quick moment to check her hair and make certain her clothes were neat, and then obediently followed the elderly butler through to the front sitting room.

It was elegant, all ivory and gold, and the fine furnishings made Oriana curious to see the remainder of this house. Nothing about the couch or the low tables or chairs was o
st
entatious, but having worked with fabric in the pa
st
, she could tell that each was con
st
ru
ct
ed of quality materials. The brown figured rug under her feet appeared to be wool and silk. The whole room sugge
st
ed wealth but not extravagance. She wondered if that were only true of the public areas, as in the Amaral home.

Enthroned in one of the chairs across from the sofa, Lady Ferreira sat alone, a wi
st
ful expression on her face as she gazed out the window in the dire
ct
ion of the river. A great beauty, the woman had her son’s dark, clear eyes. The lady wore a dark brown suit, sugge
st
ive of a working woman’s efficient garb—no frills or lace—yet shantung silk that fine would never be seen in the city’s offices. The skirt was trimmed in black velvet that matched the smart velvet cuffs and lapels on the jacket. Jet earrings dangled next to the lady’s slender throat. A newspaper lay abandoned on the small table next to her right hand, along with a cup of coffee.

“Lady, this is Miss Paredes,” the butler intoned. “Mr. Duilio said she would come by.”

The lady
st
ared out the window as though she hadn’t heard him.

“Lady Ferreira?” Oriana tried. “I’m Miss Paredes.”

The lady moved then, as if a new voice had been enough to rouse her. She turned halfway to gaze over her shoulder. “Ah, my son told me you would come.” She ge
st
ured for Oriana to approach and opened one hand to indicate the sofa. Oriana obediently sat, catching the scent of the lady’s perfume, floral with a hint of musk, as she did so. The lady murmured for the butler to bring a tea tray, and then said, “I’ve not had a companion for a long time. It will be nice to have someone to talk to.”

Oriana nodded. “Your son sugge
st
ed you might consider me for the po
st
.”

“Oh, of course,” the lady said vaguely. Her eyes drifted back toward the window.

“I’ve been companion to Lady Isabel Amaral for the pa
st
thirteen months.”

Lady Ferreira simply nodded, her eyes fixed on the windows.

“I do not, however, have a letter of recommendation from the Amaral family, as Lady Isabel left her home unexpe
ct
edly.” Oriana waited for a disbelieving response, but the lady simply nodded again. “I am also trained as a seam
st
ress,” Oriana added, “and worked previously at a dressmaker’s shop on Esperança Street, from which I can provide references pertaining to both my skill and my chara
ct
er.”

“That’s not necessary,” the lady said.

Oriana didn’t know quite what to make of that. She’d been let go without a reference after more than a year in the Amaral household. Mo
st
employers would see that as the mark of a troublesome employee. “Did your son vouch for my chara
ct
er, my lady?”

Lady Ferreira had returned to
st
aring out the window. She rubbed the fingertips of one hand with the other, a ge
st
ure that reminded Oriana of Nela’s arthritic hands. “He says you need to be here.”

Need to be here?
Oriana wondered again whether the man planned this as a prelude to sedu
ct
ion, but couldn’t bring herself to believe he would involve his mother in such a scheme, particularly not when his mother seemed to be . . . less than completely aware of her surroundings. It didn’t sound like Lady Ferreira a
ct
ually wanted a companion so much as she’d been told to accept one. No matter how it affe
ct
ed her situation, Oriana refused to be party to forcing the woman into company again
st
her will. “Are you certain, my lady? Do you truly want me to
st
ay?”

The woman sat unmoving for a moment, her expression di
st
ra
ct
ed. Then she looked at Oriana dire
ct
ly, the fir
st
time she’d done so. “It will be nice to have someone to talk to. Felis is so busy, and has no intere
st
in business. I . . .”

The lady’s gaze had drifted over to the abandoned newspaper. One gloved hand reached for it but paused midmotion. She seemed frozen.

“Felis, my lady?” Oriana prompted after a moment.

“My maid,” Lady Ferreira said, shaking herself. “I do not have visitors. We are
st
ill in half mourning. But I enjoy reading the newspapers.”

The half mourning explained the lady’s soberness, but
newspapers
? Isabel would never have chosen such a thing, preferring to read sensational novels, such as the works of Collins or Sheridan Le Fanu. Or, rather, Isabel liked to have them read to her. Oriana suspe
ct
ed that Isabel had fancied herself one of those gothic heroines. In retrospe
ct
, newspapers seemed a safer choice.

Oriana ge
st
ured toward the paper lying by the lady’s elbow—the trade daily. “Would you like me to read it to you?”

Lady Ferreira’s eyes had drifted to the window again. She rose in a cascade of brown silk and went to
st
are out at something beyond the glass. Oriana followed, but saw nothing out there save rooftops and the di
st
ant waters of the river.

The gray-haired butler had returned on cat feet, leaving a tea tray on the table. He touched Oriana’s elbow, bowed, and softly said, “Miss, I’ve been in
st
ru
ct
ed to show you your rooms.”

She was being herded away. Oriana murmured her excuses to the lady and followed the butler out to the hallway. Lady Ferreira never seemed to note their departure.

“Will Lady Ferreira need me later?” Oriana asked.

The butler inclined his head. “I believe you’re to
st
art in your position tomorrow, Miss Paredes. You’re to have the re
st
of the afternoon to settle in.”