The Golden City

by Cheney, J. Kathleen

  He had apparently known she was a sereia for some time. That was a humbling revelation. She’d always been so careful, hiding her gills and hands. Isabel would never even have known if she hadn’t stormed back into the back rooms at the dressmaker's and caught Oriana with her hands bared. For two years, no one had noticed her. Even so, he’d known.

  At the same time, Mr. Ferreira had utterly fooled her. On the submersible, she’d believed his endless chatter. She’d thought him empty-headed and harmless. He was far more deceptive than she’d ever guessed, and clearly more successful at it than she was. She’d never heard a whisper of his involvement with the police. Society would be livid—and unforgiving—if that ever became public.

  She let out a sigh and contemplated the cool water in the tub. After a week without a proper bath, her gills could certainly use more time in the water. And she needed desperately to unravel everything she’d just learned and plot a new course of action.

  As she did her best thinking when wet, she went to find that promised box of sea salt.

  CHAPTER 11

  Duilio waited alone down in the kitchen. Mrs. Cardoza and her helpers had finished with the after-dinner cleaning. Gustavo Mendes, one of the footmen, was playing his twelve-string guitar down in the workroom and singing a mournful song whose notes drifted to the empty kitchen. The music brought back memories of Duilio’s university days, of drinking more Vinho Verde than was wise and listening to fado in the taverns of Coimbra far too late into the night.

  While Gustavo was a talented singer, Duilio had quickly discovered after his return that the young man’s true desire was to become a police inspector, like Joaquim. Gustavo had proven to be a help when Duilio had needed to observe someone, break into a house, or be in two places at once. He could have asked Gustavo to wait here, but . . .

  Duilio checked his watch again—it was just past ten—and almost missed Miss Paredes slipping down the servants’ stair. He rose when he saw her walking along the narrow hallway toward the back door of the house. She wore black again, a skirt and shirtwaist shabby enough to cause him to speculate as to whether it might be what she’d had on that night. “Miss Paredes?”

  Her head snapped about. “Mr. Ferreira. What are you doing down here, sir?”

  Judging by her tone, his presence wasn’t wanted. “I thought if you needed to go out, I might accompany you.”

  She came down the two steps into the kitchen, her jaw clenched. She looked trapped. “I was not to take up my duties until tomorrow, I thought.”

  He caught her implication immediately. “You are an employee of this household, Miss Paredes, not a prisoner. I’m not here to stop you, but as you are our most important lead in this case, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you on your own out there.”

  She’d listened with her lips pressed tightly together. “Mr. Ferreira, I have been in this city for two years and have never run into trouble.”

  Duilio felt his brows creeping upward.

  Miss Paredes shook her head. “That was a stupid thing to say. But truly, sir, I am only going over to Bainharia Street to see a friend. I won’t be gone more than an hour.”

  Bainharia Street wasn’t far, but its short length was dark and shadowy, as was that entire area. It would be an excellent location for an ambush. And he was curious to see where Miss Paredes was going at this hour, so he continued to press her. “Are you armed?”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth, a motion he found strangely appealing, as she adjusted the pin holding on her straw hat. “Do you think that’s necessary?” she asked in a tart voice. “There are plenty of streetlamps.”

  “And someone almost succeeded in killing you before, Miss Paredes.” He felt bad for pointing that out. It wasn’t as if he’d never walked into a trap himself. “All I’m asking is that you let me follow you. I’ll keep my distance, I promise.”

  She sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Oh, very well. You might as well accompany me, since it pertains to your investigation.”

  “Thank you. I am honored you’re willing to trust me that far,” he said. She cast him a doubtful glance, but didn’t protest his statement, so he gestured for her to precede him. When she walked up the steps, he could see that her skirt had been torn in a couple of places, then neatly repaired. Hadn’t she said something about her skirt tearing when she escaped the replica in the river? Did it bother her to wear those same garments again?

  She stopped at the back door and waited while he picked up his hat and an umbrella. Once outside, he locked the door and set off at her side. “You’d best give me your arm.”

  She hesitated, but then wrapped her hand about the crook of his arm as they walked in silence down the alleyway behind the houses. He led her along the alley and onto the Street of Flowers, heading up toward the palace. “Can I assume you have some expertise with weapons?”

  “Yes. I lost my dagger in the river, though,” she said softly enough that he had to lean closer to hear. “The man who dove in after me wrestled it out of my hand.” She glanced down at her right palm, covered by her mitt. “I need to replace it.”

  The traffic on the Street of Flowers flowed all night, although there were far fewer carriages at this hour. Pedestrians kept their distance, moving along the line of fences in clumps. Duilio watched them, unwilling to risk her safety. “I’ve got a couple of spares. A gun?”

  “I know how to use a gun, but the trigger guard can be tricky, so a blade is more reliable.”

  He almost stopped walking, puzzled by that claim, and then realized that her webbing would make getting her finger through the trigger guard difficult. That prompted a dozen other questions in his mind, most pertaining to her people’s military—surely they had a navy—but this wasn’t the right time to be asking. Instead he went back to an earlier question. “This man who dove in after you. How did he catch you? Did he outswim you?”

  “I’d hit my head on the side of their boat,” she said, sounding embarrassed by that fact, “and I was exhausted by then. I just wasn’t fast enough.”

  Her face turned toward him, but he was watching a group of apparently drunken young men stumbling in their direction. He maneuvered Miss Paredes over until they walked next to the fence and made sure he kept between her and the young men. Fortunately, the revelers were too busy insulting each other to bother Miss Paredes. Their chatter faded as they continued down toward the river. “And the other man,” Duilio said. “Silva? Did he say anything?”

  She turned onto Souto, the narrow street that would cross Bainharia. It wasn’t much more than a cobbled alleyway, not wide enough for a carriage. A feeble glow came from a streetlamp affixed to the side of one of the buildings that closed in on either side. “He seemed to think he was rescuing me,” she said. “He claimed he’d had a vision about me being in the water and came to save me.”

  Duilio pursed his lips. He didn’t like Silva, but he didn’t want to bias her perception of the events of that night. He didn’t want to put ideas in her head.

  It had been an unpleasant shock when she’d told him his bastard uncle had been the one to draw her out of the river. At first Duilio had assumed the boat was rowed by a collaborator of hers. When he’d realized Miss Paredes was a victim, Aga’s mention of the two men in the boat had gone from understandable to baffl ing. How had the small boat gotten out there, past the patrols? Hearing that it was Silva in the boat made it less improbable. The man had access everywhere, and could probably talk his way past any police patrol. But Duilio found his entry into her story disconcerting. “Did you see any other boats on the water nearby?”

  “If you’re thinking of the boat that dropped the house into the water, it would have been long gone,” she said, shaking her head. “Silva and his man must have rowed out from the city.”

  The City Under the Sea was positioned out of the lanes of traffic, nearer the southern bank of the Douro River.
It inhabited an area dredged out in the past decade, ostensibly to create harbor space for naval vessels, but the navy had chosen to dock their vessels at the unfinished Port of Leixões, north of the Golden City, instead. That dredging had created a perfect situation for the artwork. It was just past a curve in the river, so the river’s outward current didn’t pull too hard on the houses, and protected from the incoming tidal currents by the southern breakwater that kept the sea at bay. It was about a mile from the quays of the Golden City over to that spot, giving it privacy. One had to be going there to end up there, so Silva’s appearance could not have been an accident. “Did you believe Silva? About his vision, I mean?”

  She walked on for a moment without answering, her heels clicking against the cobbles. “To be truthful,” she finally said, “I am not a believer in seers, Mr. Ferreira. I’ve always suspected they simply pretend to know what will transpire and only point out the times they happened to be correct. Anyone would be right half the time, don’t you think?”

  Well, I’ve been put in my place. Duilio smiled ruefully. “Logic tells us that is the case, Miss Paredes. So what do you think led him there, then?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But he said we’d meet again. That does concern me.”

  It worried him too. Silva was the showy sort who would create a great fanfare when he revealed that he’d saved a young woman from drowning. Miss Paredes did not need her likeness in the newspaper. He only hoped that it took Silva some time to locate her.

  They’d reached Bainharia Street and she gestured toward the dark windows of a druggist’s shop in one of the first buildings. “This one. We’ll have to go upstairs.”

  Beyond the wrought-iron guarding a narrow balcony, a light still burned in the second-floor window. Someone was waiting for Miss Paredes. She opened the door and slipped inside. A plain lantern hung from the ceiling, casting the yellow walls in a sickly light. Duilio followed, climbing the narrow stair behind her. She knocked on the door of the apartment above the store.

  An elderly woman opened the door and peered out. “Ah, good. You’ve come. I’ve had word.” She caught sight of Duilio waiting a couple of steps down the stair. “Who is this?”

  “My new employer—” Miss Paredes began.

  The woman opened the door a bit wider and held up a wrinkled hand. “Don’t tell me, child. Heriberto came by this afternoon, trying to find out where you went, so I’d better not know any more. Give me a moment.” She closed the door, leaving them in the hallway.

  Miss Paredes glanced at him, an apologetic expression drawing her brows together. Duilio shook his head. “I don’t need to know.”

  The worry fled her features then. “Thank you.”

  He didn’t need her to tell him. Heriberto was, without doubt, the name of Miss Paredes’ superior. That the man had visited the elderly inhabitant of this building hinted that the woman must also be a sereia, despite the evidence that Duilio hadn’t seen webbing between her fingers. That raised questions he would love to explore, but they could wait until Miss Parades trusted him more.

  The door opened again, and the elderly woman passed out a square envelope. “She left this for you.”

  Miss Paredes took it. “Thank you. I truly appreciate your help.”

  The elderly woman waggled one finger at her, a finger that had an ugly scar running up each side. “Be careful out there, child.”

  “I will,” Miss Paredes promised her.

  The woman nodded and closed her door, an end to the interview.

  Duilio heard the key turning in the lock. “Is that it, then?”

  Miss Paredes chewed her lower lip for a second, cast a glance at his face, and then opened the envelope and withdrew a fine, deckle-edged card. She read the words, her dark eyes flicking across the page. “I’m supposed to meet her at the Carvalho ball Thursday night.” Her eyes lifted to his face. “Do you know a way I could sneak in?”

  Duilio didn’t ask whom Miss Paredes was expected to meet. Not yet. But if she’d asked his help, then this meeting was important to her. “Sneak in? No, Miss Paredes. You and I will walk in the front door. I’m invited.”

  “I can’t accompany you,” Miss Paredes protested, her spine straightening. “I’m not . . .”

  When she trailed off, he realized that she’d misunderstood his intention. He could escort a young lady to that ball uninvited—he knew the Carvalho family well enough to get away with it—but that would attract more attention than he wanted at the moment. And it might prove awkward, since Mr. Carvalho had approached Duilio earlier in the year, hoping to arrange a marriage with his eldest daughter. But Duilio had a different plan in mind. “My mother is invited as well,” he clarified. “As her companion, your attendance would be unexceptional.”

  “Ah. I see,” she said, her face lowering as if she might be blushing, although Duilio didn’t see any flush staining her cheeks. “Is she well enough to go?”

  “Despite her distraction, my mother is made of steel, Miss Paredes,” he said. “She can do anything once she makes up her mind. Shall we discuss it with her in the morning?”

  Miss Paredes slipped the card back into its envelope. “Yes. Thank you, sir.”

  Duilio offered her his arm. “Then let’s go home.”

  CHAPTER 12

  WEDNESDAY, 1 OCTOBER 1902

  By the time Duilio made it downstairs in the morning, he’d already thought of a dozen things he needed to get done and about a hundred more questions he wanted to ask Miss Paredes. He found his mother and Miss Paredes in the dining room, already eating breakfast. His mother looked more alert than she had in some time, able to concentrate enough to greet him this morning. He went and kissed her cheek before sitting down. Having a companion might suit her after all.

  For her part, Miss Paredes looked far more rested than she had the day before. She wore a white shirtwaist with a vest in royal blue that flattered her pale complexion. Her black skirt wasn’t the one she’d worn to make her late-night visit, but a finer woolen that looked well made, if not in the most current fashion. Recalling her statement that she’d hit her head against the boat that night, he noted the faint bruising on her temple. She looked serene despite the difficulties of the past several days. That might be a facade. He didn’t know her well enough yet to be sure.

  Miss Paredes held one of the newspapers in her mitt-obscured hands, stubbornly keeping her eyes on the printed words. Duilio wondered if she was the sort of woman who read the gossip pages, but decided that if she did so, it was only as a part of her job. She seemed too serious. The paper she currently held was his mother’s trade daily. He would love to know whether Miss Paredes enjoyed reading that. Personally, he found it a dead bore.

  While waiting for the footman to bring his customary breakfast, Duilio sipped at his coffee. “Are you settling in well, Miss Paredes?” he asked.

  His mother actually appeared interested in her answer, a good sign.

  Miss Paredes folded the paper and laid it down. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  Duilio turned to his mother then. No time like the present. “Mother, do you recall that the Carvalhos are having a ball tomorrow night?”

  She appeared to consider his query for long enough that he feared he’d lost her attention, but finally said, “Isn’t their youngest daughter turning seventeen?”

  “Yes.” None of the three Carvalho girls had managed to find a husband yet, despite their father’s best efforts. Duilio only hoped his mother’s attendance at the ball—her first outing in years—wouldn’t be misinterpreted as interest in Carvalho’s eldest daughter on Duilio’s part. “Miss Paredes and I need to speak to someone there. A police matter. Would you be willing to go, Mother, as a favor to me?”

  His mother sighed. “Am I out of mourning now?”

  His mother hadn’t attended a social function of any sort for three years, but mourning wasn’t the rea
son behind it. “You’re in half mourning, Mother. It shouldn’t cause too much comment as long as you don’t dance,” he said, “or run off into the gardens with some young swain.”

  His mother didn’t respond to his joke, but the preposterous comment drew a dry glance from Miss Paredes. He rather enjoyed seeing that expression on her solemn face.

  “If it will help,” his mother said, “I’ll manage, Duilinho.”

  Despite being made to feel about eight years old in front of Miss Paredes, Duilio couldn’t help smiling at his mother’s long-suffering tone. She had never enjoyed the fripperies and gossip of the social set. “So, Miss Paredes,” he asked, “you and my mother have two days to prepare for a ball. Is that feasible?”

  Miss Paredes cast a glance at his mother, but nodded shortly. The paper apparently captured her attention after that, for she said nothing else to him. She began reading one of the articles to his mother instead, something about steam trawlers, a type of fishing boat banned from the area. A portion of the family’s money—his mother’s money—was invested in the boatbuilding industry. Apparently Miss Paredes already knew of his mother’s interests there.

  Duilio would give anything to have his father and brother back. Among other things, then he wouldn’t have to oversee the family’s investments. While his grandfather had amassed a decent fortune buying up fabric mills in the north of the country and building a shipping fleet to get those goods to markets, Duilio didn’t know a great deal about either; he’d always believed Alessio would inherit. His father had shifted his funds to investment in those industries rather than active participation, removing some of the stench of trade from their hands. Fortunately his man of business kept him apprised of the pertinent news, saving Duilio from reading the trade papers every morning.

  After breakfast, Duilio asked Felis to join them in the front sitting room to read to his mother. He hoped that eschewing privacy would stem any gossip about himself and Miss Paredes in the household, so he directed Felis and his mother to two ivory-brocade armchairs set by the window. A few minutes later he was ensconced on the pale leather sofa before the hearth. On the low table before him he laid out the timeline, a sheet of foolscap on which Joaquim had drawn a long dateline across the top, with each pertinent event written perpendicular to that in his tidy hand.