The Golden City (15 page)

She nodded briskly, her po
st
ure
st
ill rigid. “Is that all?”

She seemed eager to escape him, so he moved to the end of the sofa. “Yes, I think so.”

“Should I go get that sketch for you?”

“I would appreciate that,” he said.

Miss Paredes rose, forcing him to rise also. She fell only an inch or two short of his height, tall for a woman but not shockingly so. He
st
epped to one side to allow her to pass. Her black skirt brushed his thigh as she did so. The conta
ct
, even unintentional,
st
artled him.

He found himself looking into her eyes. They gli
st
ened. In general, he didn’t rea
ct
to women’s tears—they were too often a sham. But everything within him believed Miss Paredes in that moment. He wanted to talk to her, to comfort her somehow. He felt the urge to draw her into his arms, no matter how inappropriate that might be between ma
st
er and servant. He shook his head to dispel that idea.

“I’ll . . . I’ll be back dire
ct
ly,” Miss Paredes
st
ammered.

Duilio watched her go, wondering if sereia had any powers of attra
ct
ion other than their
call
, the song that drew men to them. That sudden urge to comfort her, so very out of place for him, surprised him.

Felis read on, her voice sibilant. The maid hadn’t looked in their dire
ct
ion, Duilio observed, and so probably hadn’t noticed anything amiss. His mother hadn’t either, no doubt.

He knew very little about Miss Paredes, but he could remedy that. He would love to spend a few hours talking with her—about something other than death. It was an enticing thought. But it would take longer than hours, he suspe
ct
ed, to learn all he wanted to know. It might take years.

And he didn’t think they had that much time. She was a spy. She had her own agenda and was here in his house only until they found Espinoza. Sooner or later, she would be gone. So by the time she returned from her bedroom at the top of the
st
airs, he’d managed to quell his curiosity. Her eyes were red, making him suspe
ct
she’d allowed herself to cry once out of his sight, but she seemed composed now.

He took the folded piece of paper she handed him with a grave nod. When he opened it, he saw the rings she’d described, with three words in Latin. “
Me
,
however
, and . . .
house
.”

Something teased at the corner of his mind. He
should
know those words. There was something familiar about them.

“Is that what they mean?” Miss Paredes asked. “Is it Latin?”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s how the words translate, although I have no idea what they mean. I have to wonder what the other half said.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I couldn’t see anything on that side.”

He was impressed she’d recalled all the small details she had. Not all witnesses were as useful. “We’ll figure it out, Miss Paredes. Now, I’ll be gone mo
st
of the day, but I’ll keep you apprised. I’m sure my mother will have preparations to make for the ball tomorrow night, so I’ll leave you ladies to your work.”

Miss Paredes, silk-covered hands neatly folded in front of her, didn’t look at him this time. “Yes, of course, sir,” she said without emotion. “We’ll take care of everything.”

A very professional answer, as if she, too, had reminded herself of proper demeanor while up
st
airs. The mask was necessary if she was to survive in the Golden City. How difficult it mu
st
be never to let anyone see who she truly was. She was a sereia fir
st
and a spy second, yet neither of those labels told him who she was.

A
fter Mr. Ferreira left, Oriana sat down on the sofa, letting Felis continue to read. She should be doing that herself, but her nerves were rattled.

She hadn’t reckoned it would be so hard to discuss Isabel’s death again. It had been easier the fir
st
time. She’d been able to tell Mr. Ferreira the
fa
ct
s
of what had happened then, without letting herself feel anything, perhaps because she’d been on the defensive after he’d uncovered her identity. This time, though, he had looked at her as if he felt compassion for her. That had almo
st
been her undoing. She had managed to hold back the tears until she reached the safety of her bedroom, saving herself that embarrassment.

Oriana wiped at her eyes surreptitiously with the tip of one finger, took a deep breath, and went to take over the reading. Felis looked old enough to be Lady Ferreira’s mother, but clearly had all her wits about her. Her hawklike eyes raked over Oriana, her attire, her too-narrow shoes, and then turned solicitously back to her mi
st
ress. “Lady, are you truly planning on going out Thursday night? I am pleased. It’s about time.”

The lady nodded. “Yes. Will you pick something for me to wear? Something that would be appropriate. I’ll come see what you’ve picked out later.”

Oriana hid her surprise. Isabel would never have let her maid pick out her garb, which hinted that either Lady Ferreira tru
st
ed Felis implicitly or that she didn’t care what she wore. The maid left swiftly, and Oriana spent an hour reading about the business of building boats. It calmed her nerves and, if nothing else, she would learn about boats while she was here.

Despite the fa
ct
that she’d spent the pa
st
year dealing with Isabel’s fits and
st
arts, entertaining Lady Ferreira did turn out to be more difficult than Oriana expe
ct
ed, ju
st
as Mr. Ferreira had promised. She spent the remainder of the morning trying to engage the lady in conversation. At fir
st
she read the newspaper aloud, but as soon as she’d completed a few sentences, the lady’s attention would wander back to the windows. Fortunately, Oriana was well schooled in patience. Isabel had been prone to dramatic fits of melancholy. Oriana had gotten plenty of pra
ct
ice cajoling her out of those. After a time, she hit on the idea of asking if Lady Ferreira wished to go out onto the second-floor balcony that looked out toward the river.

That sugge
st
ion roused the lady from her daydreams. She settled an old-fashioned lace mantilla over her neatly twi
st
ed brown hair and accompanied Oriana up to the gallery that led out onto the balcony. She pushed open the door and
st
epped out into the light. She laid elegant hands on the wrought-iron railing, her eyes seeking the narrow band of water visible from that particular spot on the Street of Flowers.

Oriana took a deep breath of the air,
st
ill humid from the previous evening’s rain. The sounds of traffic on the Street of Flowers and birds squabbling along the river’s edge touched her ears, but neither was as sedu
ct
ive as the di
st
ant rush of the water, barely dete
ct
able this far into the city. Perhaps it was only her desire that made her hear it. The water called her, always at the back of her mind and heart, the reason few of her people ever
st
rayed far from the ocean.

The lady’s eyes re
st
ed on the view of the river, gray under overca
st
skies. “My sons worry if I come out here alone,” she said after a time.

Oriana ca
st
a glance at Lady Ferreira’s lovely face. The woman had only
one
son now. Surely that was what the maid Teresa had told her. Alessio Ferreira had died well over a year ago. Some scandal had attached to the gentleman’s death, but Teresa hadn’t supplied any details. She’d shown Oriana a photograph of the man, though, kept on the mantel in the front sitting room in a well-worn silver frame. Alessio had
st
rongly resembled his mother—
st
rikingly attra
ct
ive, more
beautiful
than handsome. Oriana decided he mu
st
remain alive in his mother’s mind, prompting her to speak of her sons. “Are they concerned you’ll take ill?”

“No.” Lady Ferreira hugged her arms about herself. “I miss the sea.”

Well, she certainly under
st
ood that. It made her think Lady Ferreira a kindred spirit. She touched the lady’s elbow. “Can you not go down to the water?”

“Here in this house, Duilinho can keep me safe,” the lady said in a firm voice, almo
st
a mantra. She ran her hands along the railing as if it were her cage.

“From whom?”

Lady Ferreira shuddered delicately. “That ba
st
ard Paolo. He would see my son dead.”

Dead?
Mr. Ferreira hadn’t mentioned that anyone wanted him dead. And who was Paolo? Oriana leaned forward, trying to read Lady Ferreira’s expression. “And what of your other son? Does this Paolo seek to kill him also?”

Lady Ferreira looked up sharply and laid a slender hand on Oriana’s arm, her seal-brown eyes fearful. “Paolo mu
st
n’t know about Erdano. That’s why I can’t go back to Braga Bay. He might follow me to Erdano, and then Erdano would die, too.”

Erdano?
Who was that? Oriana was certain Teresa hadn’t mentioned any Erdano. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

Lady Ferreira wiped one eye with the edge of her mantilla. “I only have my sons left now. I will do what I mu
st
to prote
ct
them, even if it means never going near the water again.”

That didn’t clarify much. Clearly Erdano wasn’t another name for the dead Alessio, though. He mu
st
be yet another son, sired by a different man, perhaps a former husband. Even so, Oriana couldn’t imagine why the lady would go to Braga Bay to see him. There was no settlement at that secluded bay north of the city. It was tiny, more a cove than a bay . . . and only the seal people lived on that narrow
st
rip of sandy beach beneath the cliffs.

Oriana gazed down at Lady Ferreira’s worried face; her delicate, pointed features; and large dark eyes and something
st
range occurred to her. Unlike Oriana’s own people, the seals took human form—a completely human form—when they shed their pelts.
Could it be?

Mr. Ferreira had promised her that she would be safe in this household. Perhaps he’d felt safe offering that promise because his mother was as much at risk as she was. That would definitely need discussion when she could catch him next.

•   •   •

D
uilio found Joaquim at the café neare
st
the police
st
ation in Massarelos parish. It was Joaquim’s usual
st
op for lunch when he had time—the Café Brilhante. The tables had elegant white cloths and shining cutlery but didn’t cater to an upper-class clientele. Duilio liked the place. He wended his way through the crowded café to the table near the back, where Joaquim sat. It was, rather predi
ct
ably, in a corner with a good view of the entryway, but Duilio managed to sit down before a di
st
ra
ct
ed Joaquim could rise to greet him. “What are you working on?”

Joaquim
st
raightened a handful of papers and slid them back into a folder. “Another case. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Duilio translated that as meaning a case Joaquim didn’t want his aid on—not yet. Joaquim often inve
st
igated cases other inspe
ct
ors had given up on, usually on his own time. He was too
st
ubborn to quit. “I see. Have you ordered?”

After learning that Joaquim had, Duilio waved over one of the waiters. It was noisy in the place, but everyone seemed inclined to mind their own business. At lea
st
he needn’t yell at Joaquim, as he mu
st
in some cafés. “Miss Paredes took the position as Mother’s companion.”

The waiter arrived, and Duilio ordered coffee and a large lunch while Joaquim sat shaking his head. Once the waiter had gone, Joaquim frowned. “You
hired
her? Why didn’t you ju
st
bring her to meet me down at the
st
ation?”

“I don’t want Miss Paredes near your
st
ation, Joaquim.” There were no other diners seated near enough to overhear them, so Duilio told the truth. “She’s a sereia.”

That gave Joaquim pause. “Truly? How do you know?”

He was not going to tell Joaquim how much of an eyeful he’d gotten the afternoon before. It had probably been an unwise a
ct
ion, given the effe
ct
the mere sight of her nude had on him. He should probably
st
art looking about for a mi
st
ress—although he wouldn’t mention that to his cousin. Joaquim had a prudish
st
reak, likely a rea
ct
ion to having been raised around Alessio and having Erdano as a regular gue
st
at the house. Joaquim had even considered entering the prie
st
hood, choosing the seminary over the university at Coimbra. He’d been relieved when Joaquim finally chose the police in
st
ead.

Duilio puffed out his cheeks, deciding how be
st
not to offend him. “I’ve seen her webbed hands and her gills,” he admitted. “I’m absolutely certain she’s a sereia. I’ve hone
st
ly suspe
ct
ed it for some time.”

Joaquim gave him a flat
st
are. “And you didn’t think to mention that to me?”

Duilio tried for a casual shrug. “I didn’t want to bother you with excess information if it turned out to be . . . unimportant.”

“Wrong, you mean.” Joaquim eyed him with exasperation. “This is why you’re right all the time: because you omit all the times you’re wrong.”

That sounded damningly like what Miss Paredes had said about seers the night before. Duilio waved airily, a ge
st
ure he usually saved for his society persona. “Dear Joaquim, I’m simply infallible.”

Joaquim laughed, a rarity. “So, what else haven’t you told me yet, assuming I don’t need to be bothered?”

“Too many things to count.” Duilio didn’t intend to tell Joaquim any more about Miss Paredes. He wasn’t going to mention her
st
riking coloration, her narrow wai
st
, or her lovely brea
st
s. “Unfortunately, I was right about Lady Isabel. She’s dead. Miss Paredes can breathe underwater, so she had time to untie herself and escape, but she watched Lady Isabel die.”

Joaquim rubbed a hand over his face and sighed, his expression changing to sympathy. “Poor girl. Why did she not go to the police? Wait . . . never mind. She’s a sereia; no police. Did she see who put them in the house?”

“No, she was drugged and only woke once inside,” Duilio told him. “Lady Isabel was intending to elope with Mr. Efisio, as the paper says, but she and her companion were grabbed by a different coach than the one they expe
ct
ed. They were disguised as housemaids.”

“Fatal mi
st
ake,” Joaquim said softly.

Duilio held up one finger in warning as the waiter approached with his coffee. One never knew where a
st
ranger
st
ood on the matter of nonhumans. Once the man had gone again, Duilio shook out his napkin, laid it in his lap and took a sip of his coffee. It was
st
rong, as he preferred. “I discussed the case with Miss Paredes in detail this morning.”

Joaquim perked up at that. “Did she give you any new leads?”

Leaning closer, Duilio tried to tell Joaquim mo
st
of what Miss Paredes told him. The mention of the table’s inscription coming to life after Lady Isabel’s death caused Joaquim to glance about, as if the necromancer might come to the café to find them. Duilio withdrew the sketch from his pocket and slid it across the table.

When Joaquim read the writing in the outer circle, his brows drew together. “I don’t under
st
and.”

“It’s in Latin,” Duilio offered sarca
st
ically. Joaquim’s Latin was, without doubt, better than his own.

Joaquim gave Duilio a dry look, folded up the paper, and passed it back. “I mean that I don’t under
st
and the choice of scripture. Why use that one?”

Aha!
That was why he’d felt those words were familiar. “Sorry. Which one?”

Joaquim rolled his eyes. “
Ego autem et domus mea serviemus Domino
. The Book of Joshua, Chapter Twenty-four. ‘However I and my house will follow the Lord.’”

It appeared that Joaquim hadn’t forgotten any of his seminary training while on the police force. “Could this be the Jesuits, then?”

During the ugly days of the Inquisition, witches had hidden
inside
the Church to escape persecution and mo
st
had eventually gravitated toward the nascent Jesuit order. Joaquim had
st
udied with the Benedi
ct
ines, though, so he didn’t have many conne
ct
ions among the Jesuits. He shook his head. “I can’t imagine they would condone any part of this, Duilio. And the verse doesn’t fit, anyway. It has nothing to do with these crimes.”

“There are houses involved,” Duilio reminded him, which earned another dry look.

The waiter arrived then with two plates: Duilio’s hearty meal of liver and sausage with fried potatoes,
st
uffed mushrooms, and
broa
, along with Joaquim’s fish soup. Duilio couldn’t under
st
and how Joaquim didn’t
st
arve; Joaquim was the heavier of the two of them. Duilio simply seemed to require more food. Thinking of that, he picked up a fork.