The Seat of Magic (16 page)

Oriana sat back as the coach turned a corner, appalled. “He would never do such a thing.”

“I agree,” Duilio said. “The infante thought it was nonsense.”

The coach hit a rut and bounced, so Oriana hung on to the strap. “Poor Uncle. It can't be true. They're lying.”

“The infante seems to think they lie to the prince regularly. They tell him what he wants to hear.” He went on to describe his entire visit to the palace, which still didn't make sense of why he'd been sparring with the infante. “He did say he would try to sneak in to tell your uncle, by the way, although he couldn't promise anything. He's asked me to go back on Monday. I'll ask again then.”

Well, he'd tried. Oriana felt the carriage slow and come to a full stop. “Are we there already?”

Duilio glanced out the window. “Nearly, we're just stopping in traffic.” He rose halfway and pounded on the front of the coach with his fist, signaling the driver to stop. “We can walk from here.”

He opened the door carefully and jumped down without using the steps. When she went to follow, he caught her by the waist and lifted her down to the cobbles. Then he shut the door and sent the driver on his way. Oriana slipped past a stalled cart to the side of the road. They were in Bonfim, a newer parish, not as cramped as the older parts of the city. Duilio joined her, offering her his arm.

They didn't have to go far to reach her father's place of business. It was a clerk's office, with a sturdy wooden door, M
ONTEIRO AND
C
OMPANY
stenciled on the glass in gold lettering.

Oriana took a deep breath. “I have always known how to find him, but never did so.”

“And today?” Duilio asked.

She turned to him. “Now I have to ask myself if I was wrong not to.”

“I can talk to him alone if you wish.”

To find out if her father knew why she'd been left to die—Duilio would be a better choice to ask
that
, but she had too many
questions for her father. There was so much more she needed to know. “Your mother told me you were always the cautious one, the responsible one, the sensible one.”

He rolled his eyes. “Compared to Alessio, how could I not be?”

“Then help me be cautious now,” she said. “Or sensible, at the least. I'm not when it comes to my father, you see. You're likely to witness a display of inappropriate behavior in there.”

“You?” His raised brows indicated disbelief. He opened the door for her. “Never.”

Oriana sighed, brushed her mitt-covered hands down her skirt nervously, and stepped inside. She only hoped she didn't embarrass Duilio too much.

A
studious-looking young man met them at the door, neatly dressed and holding a sheaf of papers in one bare hand. He gazed at them over the rims of his spectacles. “May I help you?”

“I have an appointment with Mr. Monteiro,” Duilio said.

The young man—human, Duilio decided, by virtue of his unscarred hands—let them inside and led them toward the back of the building. In rooms to either side, a dozen clerks of varying ages tapped away on clattering typewriters, apparently transcribing old records. A side hallway led farther back to a door marked with Monteiro's name. The young clerk knocked on it briskly.

When the door opened, Monteiro stood there, his handsome face expressionless. He leaned close to the young man and spoke softly enough that Duilio could barely make out his words. “When she arrives, will you ask Miss Arenias to wait here until I call her, Narciso? Otherwise I don't want to be interrupted.”

The young man nodded, gestured for Duilio and Oriana to enter, and swept himself away. Duilio watched Monteiro, wondering how the man could remain so cool, here with his daughter finally in his presence. The office matched with Duilio's estimation of the man's taste, well appointed, with a fine mahogany desk and framed maps on the walls that suggested a fondness for cartography. Duilio gestured for Oriana to precede him inside.

Oriana's eyes swept the office, but when the door shut, she
turned on her father. “Why now?” she asked, voice choked. “Why do you care about me now?”

Monteiro shot Duilio an annoyed glance. “You don't need to be here, Ferreira.”

“He stays or I go,” Oriana said, clutching her handbag tighter.

Monteiro folded his arms over his chest but gave in. “I wanted to see that you were well. You are my daughter.”

“That hasn't
ever
mattered before,” Oriana snapped.

Duilio schooled his expression to neutrality. He'd guessed they were estranged, but he must have underestimated the extent of it . . . vastly so.

“It has
always
mattered,” her father said. “But they have been using you against me from the beginning, and I must protect—”

“What? Your fortune? How exactly have you suffered, Father? What have they done
to you
? Were you the one left to die on that island?”

Her voice had grown louder with each question. She opened up her handbag, drew something out, and chucked it at him. The object struck Monteiro's chest before he could bat it away and rebounded to the floor with a metallic clunk. It was the shackle that had bound Oriana to the post. Duilio had wondered why she'd asked to have it. It hadn't occurred to him she'd carry it about with her.

Monteiro cast a glance at the metal cuff and then looked Oriana in the eye, his mouth in a firm line. “When you made your choice to spy for them,” he said, “you cut yourself off from me. I regret what happened to you because it was likely aimed at me, but I'm not the one who imprisoned you there. I did not set you on that island.”

Oriana didn't seem appeased. “When I made my choice? You left us, and I had to make my way alone. What else was I to do?”

“Once you were an adult,” he said, “you could have gone to your grandmother on Amado. You could have come here to me. You chose to follow your aunts' path instead.”

Oriana's jaw worked in fury. Duilio nearly stepped in then and
there, but before he could, she asked, “Do you even know what happened to Marina?”

The question seemed to baffle Monteiro. “Of course I know.”

“Then how can you question my decision?” she asked. “I couldn't save her, but at least I had some hope of avenging her.”

Monteiro let out a gusty sigh and closed his eyes. “Ferreira, this would be easier for us all if you waited outside.”

“No.” Duilio stood his ground. He wasn't going to leave Oriana alone to face what clearly wasn't turning into a happy reunion.

“Well,” Monteiro said, “it looks like you're going to have to endure this.” He walked to the door and gestured for someone to join them.

A young woman stepped inside. She was dressed like a working woman, her dark skirts and vest finer than a factory worker's, her brown hair caught up in a sensible bun. Her delicate features and petite stature were dissimilar, but her dark eyes were so like Oriana's that Duilio knew they had to be related.

The young woman turned to Oriana, who looked as if she'd seen a ghost, and reached out kid-gloved hands and to grasp Oriana's. “Ori? Father said you'd been rescued, but I wanted to see for myself.”

Oriana's eyes began to water, and she seemed to be at a loss for words.

Oh, damnation.
Duilio pressed his lips together. The young woman must be Oriana's sister, Marina, the one who'd been taken aboard a human ship and murdered. Or that was what Oriana had been
told
. That was the reason Oriana had become a spy—her sister's murder. He couldn't imagine what she must be feeling, but betrayal must figure in with the relief.

“I was told you were dead,” Oriana whispered.

Her sister seemed taken aback by that claim, but Duilio noted that Monteiro wasn't.

“I told you I was coming here to find Father,” the other girl said.

Oriana gazed down at Marina's gloved hands, still clasped in her own. “You cut yourself,” she said, her voice breaking.

The webbing,
Duilio surmised. The girl couldn't wear gloves otherwise.

“It was necessary.” Marina drew her hands away and rubbed them together, as Duilio had seen Monteiro do, like her hands ached. “It's not so bad.”

Oriana's eyes closed, and Duilio guessed she was fighting tears. He turned to the younger girl. “Miss Arenias, I presume? Duilio Ferreira.”

Her gloved hand slid into his, and she clasped her other hand over his in an ardent grip. “I know who you are. Father told me you rescued my sister. I will always be grateful.”

“It was my pleasure,” Duilio managed, which sounded idiotic.

Seen together, the two women bore some resemblance to each other, but Marina's brown hair lacked the burgundy highlights that made Oriana's so unusual. Somehow she looked more completely . . .
human
.

Seeming to have collected herself, Oriana stepped forward to touch her sister's elbow. “Where are you living?”

“In a boardinghouse,” Marina said, “at 309 Virtudes Street.”

Duilio drew a slim notebook and pencil from the inside pocket of his frock coat and wrote that down for Oriana. Marina seemed terribly innocent, unaffected by the trials Oriana had borne. How old was she? Had Oriana told him?

“May I come visit you?” Oriana asked.

The younger sister glanced at her father, as if asking for approval. Only when he nodded did she give Oriana permission to visit.

Oriana hadn't missed that exchange. “Why didn't you tell me? Why not write me a note?” Oriana asked her father. “Why let me think she was dead all this time?”

Monteiro picked the cuff off the wooden floor and laid it on his desk. “Heriberto. You chose to work for him, but she didn't.”

Oriana's eyes blazed. “Did you believe I would turn her over to him?”

“You were certainly obedient enough until a few weeks ago.”

“You thought I would expose my own sister?” Oriana pressed her hands to her face. The younger girl wrapped an arm around her waist to reassure her.

“We chose to make our lives here, Oriana,” her father said stiffly, “outside any of the government's political games, outside the plots and petty arguments. We want to be left alone. That's all. If Heriberto got wind of her true identity, he could force her into serving him as well. If she'd ever met with you, he would have put two and two together. As it is, he thought she was only another clerk in this office.”

Oriana's eyes lifted. “And you? Because I know he was blackmailing you.”

“You were the one thing he had to hold against me. So yes, I gave him information when he pressed me.”

“I heard him tell you he knew about your girl,” she said. “He meant Marina, didn't he?”

Her father's jaw clenched. “Yes. He found out somehow.”

Oriana took her sister's hand in her own. “Has he threatened her?”

“No. He's gone,” Monteiro said. “He disappeared about the same time you did. His boat's gone, and the woman he'd been seeing is too. The rumor is that he's fled to Brazil.”

That made Duilio's brows draw together. His footman Gustavo had told him the man's boat was gone from its mooring, but it was news that he'd left the city altogether. Duilio found that odd. “You said to me, sir, that you were told not to talk. If not by him, then whom?”

“This is not your concern, Ferreira,” Monteiro snapped.

“It
is
his concern,” Oriana said quickly. “When I was out on that island, he was the one who came to rescue me, not you.”

Monteiro pointed at Duilio and his hands moved fluidly as he snapped, “The only reason Ferreira went rather than me was that he got to your uncle. If I'd known, I would have gone.”

Duilio puzzled over that gesture. He had a feeling he might know what it meant.

“Oh, no, Father,” Oriana said, making the same gesture back at him, emphatically. “You don't want to be bothered. You have your fine business here and your lover, and you'd rather ignore what happens to us back on the islands.”

“Leave Alma out of this,” he said, his voice going quiet.

Oriana pulled away from her sister's grasp. “It was so much easier when you didn't have any children to worry about, wasn't it? When you left us alone there?”

“Do you think I would have left you two behind if I'd had a choice?”

Duilio pressed his lips together. Now they were talking about his exile. If they were going to rehash events of a decade ago, this wouldn't help anyone.

“I wasn't given a choice,” Monteiro went on. “You were handed over to your aunts' custody without a word to me.”

“Coffee would be nice right now,” Duilio interrupted.

And for a moment silence ruled. Marina gazed at him as if she'd forgotten he had the ability to speak. Oriana laid one silk-covered hand over her eyes. Her father settled for glaring at Duilio.

“There's a small café around the corner,” Duilio added. “We could sit down and have a pleasant drink.”

“Stay out of this,” Monteiro said. “I didn't want you here in the first place and . . .”

Oriana didn't wait for him to finish his statement. She turned and strode out of the office.

“Too much at once,” Duilio said softly. He nodded to Marina and fished out a card. “It was a pleasure meeting you. You're welcome
to visit our home anytime. My mother is very fond of your sister, and I'm certain she would love to meet you as well. Your father can provide you with the address.”

Monteiro settled on the edge of his desk, his arms folded over his chest. “You have no right to interfere.”

Duilio hesitated at the office door, but turned back. “My brother and father fought incessantly, so much so that when the opportunity came for me to go abroad, I jumped at the chance.”

Monteiro shot a glance at his younger daughter, who stood in the corner, eyes glistening.

“No matter how bad it got,” Duilio said to her, “it never meant they didn't love each other.” He nodded once to Monteiro, and let himself out.

*   *   *

O
riana waited on the cobbles outside the office, barely able to keep the tears from her eyes. She had let all the anger of the last ten years boil over. Until the last few weeks she'd always been able to keep her temper under control. Until then, when her world had come crashing down about her. And now she could see how much of what she'd known, or thought she'd known, was all wrong. She wanted to scream at someone, to make someone pay for all the lies and secrets, only she didn't know where to start.

Duilio emerged from the office door and came to where she waited. “Do you want to catch a cab back to the house or would you rather try the coffee?”

He wore an innocent look, as if he didn't know he'd ruined what had been shaping up to be a screaming match. She didn't know why it went that way with her father, but it always had. It was childish, and she knew better. “I need something stronger than coffee.”

Duilio held out his arm and, once she'd taken it, led her along the street toward a hotel entry where several cabs waited. The afternoon hadn't warmed up, so the chill air helped cool her temper.
He selected a cab, paid the driver, and settled next to her on the tired leather bench.

“They need to change this out,” he said, peering down at the soiled straw under his fine shoes. “I think one of last night's patrons left part of his dinner behind.”

She felt slightly nauseated, although it was due more to the fight than the scent. She managed a nod as the cab lurched into motion. Fortunately it wouldn't be a long ride.

Keeping his hands low enough that it wouldn't be visible to someone outside, Duilio imitated the gesture she'd turned back on her father. “What does this mean?”

“Oh,” she said softly, “that.”

“It seemed to annoy him.”

Making such a gesture should have been unthinkable for a Portuguese gentlewoman. After a moment of silence, she admitted, “I told him to do to himself what he'd suggested you were doing to me.”

He laughed softly. “You truly do have trouble controlling yourself around your father.”

“I warned you,” she reminded him contritely.

He smiled as if her display of bad temper was insignificant. “I thought you were exaggerating.”

She gazed out the window as the cab came around onto the Street of Flowers, heading past the larger mansions down in the direction of the river. She couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound petulant, and she'd already subjected Duilio to enough of
that
for one day. Fortunately the cab soon jerked to a stop, and Duilio helped her down in front of the Ferreira home. Cardenas appeared at the door, as if he'd been watching for their return.