The Seat of Magic (14 page)

F
RIDAY
, 24 O
CTOBER
1902

T
he sun had barely risen when Brother Manoel greeted Duilio and his family's driver at a side entrance of the monastery. A cold wind carried fog in from the sea, wrapping the riverfront and its surrounds in chilly obscurity.

“Are you certain of this, Mr. Ferreira?” the monk asked. “We can care for her here.”

“I can get her back to her family, Brother,” Duilio said. “They will be grateful.”

The monk gestured for them to take the linen-wrapped form that waited on the stone table inside. The driver crossed himself before lifting the lower end of the body, so Duilio quickly did the same, and they carried the wrapped corpse out into the fog and cold.

The fishing boats hadn't returned to their moorings yet, and the fog made it unlikely anyone would be able to identify the stiff form they carried down the stone slip to the paddleboat. The driver helped Duilio get the body onto the boat's flat deck and cover it, and then headed back up to the city to take Duilio's note to Monteiro's office and a package down to the Tavares boat works—an English revolver that Duilio wanted altered.

Duilio checked the kerosene in the motor, primed it, and then started it. The motor's roar sounded horrendously loud in the silence, but the boat splashed away from the quay unnoticed. It was an easy trip so long as he didn't lose sight of the shore, so he settled on the housing over the motor and kept one hand on the tiller. Once he'd passed the breakwater to the open sea, he kept the boat near the fog-wrapped shore as he headed north toward Braga Bay. A steamer—likely a naval patrol—sounded its horn somewhere nearby. Duilio didn't let it worry him; even if the patrol did spot his boat in the fog, they couldn't come into shallow waters to question him over his peculiar cargo. And as he continued north up the coast, the sounds of other boats faded until he was left with the splash of the waves against the hull and the cries of the seabirds.

He spent the time fretting over Oriana. He had no way to relate to what she'd suffered. He'd been shot more than once, stabbed and beaten, but he had never been made
helpless
, and not by anyone he'd been taught to trust.

Joaquim was right; he hadn't known Oriana all that long. But she was a fighter. She was resolute and resourceful. She would recover. Duilio refused to believe otherwise.

It would help greatly, he suspected, if they could find out the
why
behind what had been done to her. They had held her for ten days, long enough for someone to send a message to the islands asking for either guidance or permission, and get word back.
Someone
had a secret worth killing her over. She didn't know the answer, but he hoped her father might—or the ambassador.

He had been puzzling over that problem for some time when he saw the break in the dark cliffs that lead into Braga Bay. He cut the engine and rowed in as before. The seals on the beach stayed put this time, but Erdano reached him in time to help draw the boat up onto the sand.

Erdano shook his head, spraying Duilio with water from his
wet hair, and then scowled down at the blanket-covered body, his nostrils twitching. “Is that her?”

“I can't be sure,” Duilio admitted.

Erdano's expression didn't change. “Well, let me look at her.”

When Erdano reached down to remove the blanket, Duilio grabbed his arm. “They skinned her.”

Erdano growled, his eyes narrowing. “Who?”

“Joaquim and I are trying to find out. Whoever killed this girl may be hunting for nonhumans.” Duilio set a hand on his brother's shoulder to make sure he had his attention. “If you don't want any of your harem in danger, you'll keep them all out of the city until we find out who did this.”

Erdano leaned over the side of the boat, dragged the blanket loose and gave the linen-wrapped body a perplexed look. Knowing Erdano's persistence, Duilio climbed back aboard the boat to help him untangle the shroud from the body. He drew the covering back from the dead girl's feet, but Erdano didn't seem put off by the gruesome display. “Why is she wrapped like this?”

Duilio didn't think the answers that immediately came to mind—those concerning tidiness and smell—would appease Erdano. “The priests were going to bury her. Can you tell if this is a selkie?”

Erdano sniffed his hand and nodded. He hadn't actually touched the body, but the smell of it would have permeated the linen and the blanket. He pointed to the split foot. “And her foot was crippled,” Erdano said, “like that. I remember it.”

That settles that.
It would have been awkward had he come all this way only to have Erdano proclaim this wasn't his missing girl.

Erdano lifted the partially unwrapped body off the boat's deck with Duilio's help and set it on the sand. By then Tigana had come to join them, her pelt nearby on the sand and her inky hair still streaming water. She folded her arms over her chest and stared down at the body, her expression unreadable. “Where is her skin?”

“I haven't found that yet,” Duilio said, taken aback by her matter-of-fact tone. He repeated the warning he'd made to Erdano about staying away from the city.

Tigana stared at the body a moment longer, then crouched next to it. She continued the work of unraveling the shroud, but spared one glance up at Erdano. “You will stay here as well.”

Erdano's lips twisted, vexation on his handsome face, but he didn't argue.

It was, Duilio decided, an interesting lesson in harem dynamics. Evidently Tigana was master here, not Erdano. He elected not to comment. Erdano was larger and could still thrash him soundly. “I'll leave her with you, then.”

“Yes, go away,” Tigana said, dismissing him.

Duilio pushed the boat back from the sand, and Erdano came to help him. “Thank you, little brother,” he said. “For finding her.”

“We will find the killer,” Duilio promised. “Give us time.”

*   *   *

O
riana sat down, relieved that the seamstress had given her a few moments' peace between periods of standing on a stool for measurements and fitting. She had endured the shoemaker's handling of her wide feet and waited through what seemed to be hours of Lady Ferreira conspiring with the seamstress about what colors and fabrics she should wear.

When working for Isabel, all of Oriana's clothing had been ready-made. Having worked for a dressmaker, she could alter them to fit well, but she'd never been able to afford the luxury of having something made specifically for her. She'd merely watched while Isabel was subjected to endless fittings. And when she'd worked for the dressmaker, she'd been hidden away in the back room while some other poor woman was subjected to this. She'd never known how uncomfortable it was to be the victim of the poking, pinning, and measuring. It was, she decided, a form of torture.

Lady Ferreira cast her a sympathetic glance. The lady didn't care for excessive attention, either. Oriana managed to smile back.

Lady Ferreira had applied a dusting of powder to her cheeks to disguise her bruises. It had been the lady's idea to wrap a length of gauze about Oriana's neck, citing a nasty-but-fictitious burn from a pair of curling tongs. That hid her gill slits and the bruises. Oriana sat in one of the sitting room's armchairs, dressed only in her chemise, drawers and underskirt, corset cover, stockings . . . and silk mitts that hid her webbing. To the seamstress and her young assistant, she must look human.

And there had been the argument over the corset. Sereia had air bladders on the outside of their lungs, making those organs smaller than a human's, so wearing a corset left her perpetually short of breath. Lady Ferreira explained that away by telling the seamstress that Oriana suffered from the lingering ravages of a childhood lung ailment. The nimble-fingered seamstress, a slender woman whose own tasteful garb hinted at her skill, had eyed Oriana with vexation, no doubt wanting her creations to be displayed to the greatest advantage. However, after measuring Oriana's small waist again, she'd given her permission, suggesting a lightly boned corset cover rather than the constricting garment itself.

A knock came at the door of the sitting room, and the door opened enough for Duilio to peer inside. The assistant squealed in surprise. The seamstress immediately placed herself between the male invader and Oriana, as stiff as Felis at her worst. “Sir, you cannot come in here.”

His head disappeared from the doorway.

“What is it, Duilinho?” his mother called, ignoring the seamstress.

“May I speak with Oriana for a few minutes?” he called back from outside, laughter in his voice.

Oriana got up, walked past the seamstress, and slipped into the
hallway, relieved to have any excuse to escape. She shut the sitting room door behind her and set her back against it.

“Not enjoying yourself?” Duilio asked.

His hair appeared slightly damp, as if he'd just bathed. She caught the scent of soap rather than the musky scent of his skin, reinforcing that conclusion. His black satin waistcoat and elegant pinstriped trousers seemed overly fine for day wear. “Are you going out?”

“I am,” he said, “but I hope to be back before luncheon. Or by two at the latest. I'm going to visit the palace, to see if I can get word to the ambassador that you're safe. If I can, is there anything you would want me to tell him, or ask him?”

She shook her head. Due to the house arrest, the ambassadorial position was largely a decorative one. “I doubt he'll have anything to tell.”

Duilio's lips pressed together, keeping something in. If he was uncomfortable after what had happened between them last night, he didn't show that. In fact, he seemed more likely to burst into laughter. “I received an answer from the Monteiro office,” he told her, “saying around three this afternoon was acceptable. Do you think you'll be done with these fittings by then?”

“I had better be,” she said, asperity creeping into her voice.

He did laugh then. “My mother's seamstress is probably having spasms right now.”

Oriana glanced down at her attire—definitely not appropriate for meeting with a gentleman. And while Duilio had seen her nude several times, making her current state of undress more than adequate, the seamstress couldn't know that. “Oh,” she sighed. “I forgot.”

“It's a very interesting ensemble,” he said, gesturing toward the gauze about her neck. “I think a black velvet ribbon would add more dramatic flair, though.”

She must look completely ridiculous. Her hair was braided back
out of the way, which would only accentuate the hollowness of her cheeks. White had never flattered her pale skin, either. She wrapped her mostly bare arms about her chest, unable to think of any clever response.

“I was only joking,” he said. “You did look like you were suffering in there.”

She lifted her eyes to meet his. “Why did you go last night?”

The change of subject didn't seem to surprise him, as if he'd been asking himself the same question. “I needed to leave before I said or did something I would regret later.”

Regret?
That wasn't what she'd expected him to say. “I see.”

“And I didn't want you to . . .” He shifted on his feet. “Remember that before you left, I said you could come back?” When she nodded, he went on. “You are a guest here, for as long as you need. There is nothing required in return, no price. You don't even need to act as my mother's companion, although it does make your presence here easier to explain.”

She wasn't certain what he was trying to accomplish with that speech, but felt vaguely appalled. Had he thought she'd let him kiss her as
payment
for saving her?

His shoulders slumped and he turned his eyes toward the ceiling. “Let me try this again. My mother reminded me that since your situation is uncertain, you have probably not yet decided what you want to do with the rest of your life.” The words came out very precisely, as if he were assembling a legal defense. “Therefore it would be unkind to pressure you into any sort of relationship you might not find acceptable or desirable after a proper period of consideration. So until you have had time to weigh your options, I should probably . . .”

She mutely stared at him while he appeared to consider how to finish that.

“. . . back off,” he finally said.

It hadn't been a rejection. He'd been trying to be considerate, which she should have recognized immediately. Oriana wiped at the corner of one eye with her hand. “I enjoy being your mother's companion. The new clothes are unnecessary, though. It's a terrible expense.”

He smiled. The moment of awkwardness had clearly passed, like a cloud lifting. “You honestly don't realize how wealthy we are, do you? Although we don't flaunt it, we could buy the Carvalho family three times over, perhaps four. Believe me, Oriana, this is nothing. Mother is enjoying herself. I suggest you simply allow her to do so.”

How could she say no to that request? “If I must.”

“You'll survive it.” A gentle touch on her bruised cheek made her lift her eyes again. He drew his hand away and surveyed his fingertips—now smudged with powder. “Ah, I thought you were healing exceptionally quickly.”

“Your mother . . .”

“I have your coat ready, sir.” Duilio's stuffy French valet had come walking up from the back of the house, looking down at a black frock coat spread carefully over his outstretched arms. He stopped, mouth open, when he spotted Oriana in the hallway, half-undressed. Duilio gestured for the man to avert his eyes.

He turned back to Oriana. “I do need to go,” he said. “But I'll be back in plenty of time. You will be ready by three, won't you?”

The way he phrased that suggested he intended to join her. “Are you coming with me?”