The Seer's Choice: A Novella of the Golden City

by Cheney, J. Kathleen

  “I know. I can keep your anger at bay for a time, but not endlessly.” His eyes weren’t focusing properly, so she took his hand so he would know she was there. “I know my father was a monster,” she told him. “I know he killed your son, and many others. I will work my entire life to make up for his crimes. Please believe me.”

  The man’s hand squeezed hers feebly.

  “Gena!” a voice called from a distance.

  Relief flooded through her at the sound of that voice. He’s alive!

  Letting Duarte’s hand go, she pushed back up to her feet. She spotted Rafael at the gates of the cemetery and waved one arm. “Rafael,” she called, “I’m here.”

  He came running to her and dragged her into his arms. “Thank God,” he whispered against her ear.

  At the touch of his cheek against hers, she could sense the pain running through him. She stepped back. “What’s wrong?”

  He insisted that he was fine, but she persisted in trying to find the source of his pain, too alarmed to calm herself and sense it properly. It was his shoulder, she decided after a brief survey. “Take off your jacket.”

  He shrugged it off with a grimace, revealing a bloody shirtsleeve. “It went through the muscle,” he said. “It could have been a lot worse.”

  Rafael was grimacing down at Duarte. Inspector Gaspar had arrived and knelt at the man’s side now.

  “This isn’t his fault, Rafael,” she whispered, leaning close. “He’s dying. He has a tumor in his brain, and it’s . . . it’s throwing his body out of balance. He has too much drive. That’s what’s causing his anger and his inability to talk sometimes. When he brought me here, that ate up a lot of his energies. I think that’s why he can’t remember what he’s doing.”

  Rafael didn’t seem to be listening. He closed his eyes, so she set her hand on his shoulder to assess his injury. The bullet had torn through the outer part of the muscle, but had gone through with relative neatness. She concentrated on slowing the bleeding, and had the sudden insight that she could do more than that if she had the strength.

  Duarte was dying anyway. She could take the last of his strength—his life force—and use it to heal Rafael.

  Genoveva stepped back, appalled at where her mind had gone. How would that be any different than shooting the man? Was this how her own father had started down the path of using his gift to kill?

  She licked her suddenly dry lips. She could never do that, not even for Rafael. She must never do that. She had a grasp now of how difficult life must be for Mrs. Anjos, who knew exactly how much power she could take, but had sworn never to do so again.

  She closed her eyes and prayed for strength. When she opened them, Rafael was gazing at her with a tired smile on his face. “Are you better?”

  She nodded quickly. “We need to get you to a doctor.”

  Rafael came and set one palm on either side of her face. “It’s over. We’re fine. Do you understand?”

  And she did.

  Epilog

  * * *

  Saturday, 10 May 1903

  IT HAD BEEN Genoveva’s idea. Instead of going to the train station, Rafael directed the carriage back to his home on Bom Sucesso Street. A moment later they ascended the stairs to his apartment. After the stress of the last few days, it would be a relief not to travel, even the short train ride to Guimarães.

  Genoveva had insisted on staying at Duarte’s side for his last few days, repeatedly drawing away his excess energies so that he could be coherent to make his farewells to his family before he passed. The police had managed to keep his presence in a quiet hallway of the Military Hospital a secret, so that neither the Jesuits nor the Freemasons had come to pester the man, despite the flagrant display of his magical abilities on both the Ribeira and near the rotunda. Gaspar had even refrained from questioning him, no matter how curious the abrupt development of the man’s abilities had been. Duarte had therefore spent his last few days surrounded by his family and passed in his sleep into death, the best thing Rafael could have hoped for a man who’d spent his life—and lost a son—in service.

  Genoveva slept the clock around after that, waking on Friday morning in her boarding house room, feeling safe and satisfied that she’d done her best to help a family that her father had so terribly injured. She’d promptly come to the station that morning and asked if Rafael would be willing to marry her the very next day.

  Her resilience amazed him, but he was quick to agree. Since both the Ferreira family and the Tavares—his cousin Joaquim’s—family were in town, Lady Ferreira had arranged a private wedding Mass with Father Januario for that Saturday morning. The plan had been to celebrate Lady Ferreira’s marriage to Joaquim’s father . She simply arranged with the priest for Rafael and Genoveva to have their wedding first.

  Consequently, on Saturday afternoon when Rafael set their bags on the freshly-replaced floor before his apartment door, he paused with one hand on the new door latch and turned to his wife. “Are you sure about this? Once you go in there, you might not escape for a few days.”

  Genoveva peered up at him slyly. “Can I assume you have some way to keep us from starving?”

  “I’ll sure we can work something out,” he promised, turning the latch.

  Once inside, Genoveva immediately reminded him of his promise. “You owe me a dance.”

  After the ceremony, they’d eaten a simple meal at the Ferreira house with the Ferreira and Tavares families, along with Lady Carvalho. Given the short notice—and that it had initially been intended to be a private wedding—there hadn’t been any grand festivities. They hadn’t had the opportunity to dance.

  So Rafael shut the door and went straight over to set a disc—Die Romantiker Waltz—on the phonograph and cranked the handle. When he set the needle down and turned about, Genoveva waited across the floor from him. While the first strains of the waltz played, she removed the last pins from her hair and let it fall about her shoulders, a thick, wildly curling mass.

  Rafael’s fingers itched to touch it. She did have beautiful hair. Beautiful everything else, as well, but her hair was perfect. He came to her, holding out his hands. “May I have this dance, Gena?”

  She laid one hand in his and set the other on his shoulder. “Forever.”

  THE END

  THANK YOU for reading The Seer’s Choice. I hope you enjoyed it.

  The Seer’s Choice is a Novella of the Golden City, the events of which occur concurrently with the final novel in the series. The books in this series are The Golden City, The Seat of Magic, and The Shores of Spain.

  REVIEWS help match up other readers with their dream books. If you liked this book, help some other reader find it by leaving a review.

  If you’d like to keep abreast of my publishing news, you can sign up for my newsletter at http://www.jkathleencheney.com. You’ll also find excerpts for my other books, short fiction, and more news there. I can also be found on Twitter at @jkcheney and on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/CheneyJKathleen.

  The Golden City is the first novel in the Golden City series, and if you’d like to read an excerpt, please turn the page.

  Excerpt

  The Golden City

  For two years, Oriana Paredes has been a spy among the social elite of the Golden City, reporting back to her people, the sereia, sea folk banned from the city’s shores. . . .

  When her employer and only confidante decides to elope, Oriana agrees to accompany her to Paris. But before they can depart, the two women are abducted and left to drown. Trapped beneath the waves, Oriana survives because of her heritage, but she is forced to watch her only friend die.

  Vowing vengeance, Oriana crosses paths with Duilio Ferreira—a police consultant who has been investigating the disappearance of a string of servants from the city’s wealthiest homes. Duilio also has a secret: He is a seer and his gifts have led him to Oriana.

  Bound by their secrets, not trusting each other completely yet having no choice but to work together, Oriana and
Duilio must expose a twisted plot of magic so dark that it could cause the very fabric of history to come undone. . . .

  Chapter 1

  * * *

  Thursday, 25 September 1902

  LADY ISABEL AMARAL plucked another pair of drawers from the chiffonier and tossed them in her companion’s direction. Oriana caught the silk garment and folded it neatly while her mistress disappeared into the dressing room.

  Oriana laid the drawers in a pile with the others, surveyed the collection spread across the bed, and shook her head. Even after two years living among humans she was still bemused by the number of layers a proper Portuguese lady must wear. Chemises and underskirts, drawers and stockings and corsets: they all lay neatly prepared to pack away, none of them meant to be seen. It was a far cry from the comfortable—and less voluminous—garb Oriana had grown up wearing out on the islands that belonged to her people. She rarely noticed her heavy clothes any longer, but seeing all the lace-bedecked items displayed on the bed before her, Oriana found the quantity of fabric in which Isabel swathed herself daily rather daunting.

  What was missing? Even with all that lay in front of her, Oriana was sure Isabel had left something out. She puffed out her cheeks, mentally cataloging the garments on the bed.

  She wished Isabel hadn’t waited so late to inform her of the plan to elope. If she’d known in advance, she would have packed Isabel’s best clothes neatly. She could even have sent a couple of trunks ahead via train to the hotel in Paris. Being rushed at the last moment was her own fault, though. She’d made her disapproval of the match known early on, and Isabel probably wanted to avoid an argument. But it was also Isabel’s style to wait until the last moment. That made everything more of an adventure.

  Unfortunately, adventures didn’t always turn out well . . . particularly if one didn’t have the proper undergarments.

  Aha! Oriana suddenly placed the oversight. “You haven’t any corset covers.”

  Isabel peered around the edge of the dressing room door and waved one hand vaguely. “Pick some for me. I need only a couple. Marianus will buy me new ones after we’re married.”

  Isabel disappeared back into her dressing room, leaving Oriana shaking her head. She had to wonder if Marianus Efisio knew he would be spending the next few weeks shopping. While Isabel’s family possessed aristocratic bloodlines tracing all the way back to the Battle of Aljubarrota, they had very little money. Everything supplied by the various milliners and dressmakers who’d rigged Isabel out in style had been bought on credit. Isabel’s mother was counting on her beauteous daughter’s marriage to a wealthy husband. Luckily, Mr. Efisio did meet that requirement.

  Unluckily, he was already promised to another woman: Isabel’s cousin Pia.

  It was an arrangement made when he was just a boy and Pia an infant. Even so, it wasn’t fair to simply ignore the arrangement. At any rate, Oriana didn’t think so.

  Isabel had waved away Oriana’s concerns, claiming that Mr. Efisio wasn’t suited to Pia’s placid disposition. The elopement would cause a scandal, and Isabel’s rarely present father would be livid. Nevertheless, Isabel’s popularity in polite society would help her survive the disgrace. In time, Mr. Efisio would be forgiven for breaking his betrothal, particularly if Pia were to marry well. He had money, which always seemed to temper society’s disapproval.

  Isabel was like a tidal wave, though. She always did as she wished, and the gods would merely laugh at anyone who stood in her way.

  Clucking her tongue, Oriana sorted through the contents of the rickety chiffonier’s top drawer and selected the two best corset covers. She’d just laid them neatly on the bed when Isabel emerged from the dressing room, her arms overflowing with skirts and shirtwaists. She dropped them atop the garments Oriana had already folded, and a narrow line appeared between her perfectly arched black brows. “Am I missing anything else?”

  “A nightdress,” Oriana answered. She eyed the wreckage of her neatly folded stacks. Isabel probably hadn’t even looked before dumping the clothes she’d carried. Oh, well. There was nothing to do but start over. Oriana nodded briskly and lifted the top skirt off the pile.

  A knock came at the door, and she jumped. She instinctively hid her bare hands in the fabric of the skirt. She was usually so careful, but she’d taken off the mitts that normally hid her fingers so she could help Isabel pack. Then she realized she was wrinkling the skirt terribly and forced herself to let it go. She took a calming breath, hoping her voice would sound normal. “Who is it?”

  “Adela, Miss Paredes,” one of the maids responded from the hallway. “I have what my lady asked for.”

  Oriana cast Isabel a questioning look. What was Isabel plotting?

  Isabel hurried to the bedroom door herself. Oriana stayed by the bed and shoved her hands behind her back. Other than Isabel, no one in the Amaral household knew her secret. Oriana wanted to keep it that way.

  Her webbed fingers would give her away, and being caught in the city would mean arrest and expulsion, if not worse. They were her great flaw as a spy. She’d finally made the decision to have the webbing cut away, as her superiors insisted, and had planned to take her half day off this weekend to have it done. But Isabel’s sudden decision to elope had fouled those plans. Oriana hadn’t decided if she was vexed . . . or relieved.

  Isabel opened the door only wide enough for the maid to pass her something and closed it quickly. She turned back to Oriana, a mischievous grin lighting her face, and held up a pair of maid’s aprons and two crumpled white caps. “See what I have?”

  Oriana stood there with her mouth open. Why would Isabel ask for those?

  Isabel rolled her eyes. “A disguise,” she explained. “See? If we wear black, we can put these on over our skirts and we’ll look like housemaids.”

  Well, the only thing more scandalous than engaging in an elopement had to be exposure while doing so. The disguise would make the two of them less noticeable at the train station; most people in Isabel’s circles didn’t notice servants. Surely none would comment on a couple of housemaids dragging luggage about for their mistresses, even this late in the evening.

  “I understand,” Oriana said, trying for an enlightened expression. The black serge skirt she currently wore would pass for a housemaid’s, but her white cambric shirt and the blue vest wouldn’t. “I’ll need to change my shirt, but it should do.”

  Isabel tossed the aprons atop the chiffonier and grinned. “See? It will all work out.”

  “I’m certain you’ve planned for everything,” Oriana allowed, inclining her head in Isabel’s direction.

  A dimple appeared in Isabel’s alabaster cheek. “When it comes to marriage, one must.”

  Oriana laughed softly. Isabel always had a clever retort on her silver tongue, a talent she envied.

  She regarded the pile of garments atop the bed and tried to think of the best way to tackle the task ahead of her. An open trunk waited on the old cane-backed settee at the foot of the bed, although she would have to fold and tuck judiciously to get all these garments into it. She would likely have to add a portmanteau as well. Mr. Efisio had gone ahead to Paris, but he had ordered his coach to pick them up no more than a block away. She could carry their luggage to the coach in two trips if needed.

  Isabel watched, tapping one slender finger against her cheek. “Now, what have I forgotten?”

  “Nightdress?” Oriana reminded her.

  “Oh, I mustn’t forget that.” Isabel dashed back to the dressing room.

  Oriana folded the blue skirt from the top of the pile and set it in the trunk, located the shirtwaist Isabel wore with it and tucked that in next, and then headed into the dressing room to hunt down the matching jacket. She found Isabel standing before the full-length mirror in the cluttered dressing room, holding up a nightdress. It was her most daring, a white satin that bared much of her bosom like an evening gown.

  Isabel glanced over one shoulder at Oriana, her face glowing with excitement. “Do you think he
will approve? It’s not too shocking, is it?”

  Isabel was blessed with an ivory complexion and thick black hair. She had delicate features, delicate hands, delicate feet. Her hazel eyes had been the subject of many a wretched suitor’s poem, and her rosy, bow-shaped lips had earned their own paeans. She was everything that Oriana wasn’t—beautiful by any standard. A good thing too, as Isabel’s sharp tongue and cutting wit might have earned her enemies were she less lovely. But she’d gathered a court of suitors and held them fast while waiting for a man of both adequate means and malleability to come along. Mr. Efisio had never had a chance once Isabel made up her mind to have him.

  Oriana’s eyes met Isabel’s in the mirror. “I’m certain he’ll like it, shocking or not.”

  “Good.” Isabel smiled contentedly at her reflection, but turned back to Oriana, her face going serious. “I know you don’t approve. I’m grateful you’re coming with me anyway.”

  Oriana opened her mouth to apologize for her earlier arguments with Isabel over Mr. Efisio’s fate, but paused. She still didn’t approve. She nodded instead.

  “I do love him,” Isabel said then, the first time she’d told Oriana so. “Have you never been in love?”

  Oriana gazed down at her folded hands, her throat inexplicably tight. She was only a few years older than Isabel, but her situation in life had never been amenable to courtship. How many times had her aunts pointed that out? Unlike among human society, among her people a female often remained alone; there simply weren’t enough males. Those females not meant for a mate were destined to serve their people instead, as Oriana did.

  That thread of Destiny that bound her soul to some other’s? Oriana didn’t think it existed. She had resigned herself to that years ago . . . or she’d thought she had. Seeing Isabel so excited about her upcoming nuptials made Oriana wish she’d been one of the others—those for whom Destiny had chosen a mate. “No,” she admitted when she found her voice. “I’ve never been in love, so I suppose I can’t understand.”