“Inspector Tavares, would you accompany me down to the station?” Anjos asked. “I doubt Mata has anything on his person, but you might be able to smooth things over with the locals for me if he does.”
Joaquim nodded. “Come by later,” he mouthed at Duilio.
Duilio watched as Joaquim and Inspector Anjos headed out of the construction yard, leaving him standing alone on the blood-stained gravel. A light drizzle began to fall, a reminder that they were headed into the rainy months of the year.
He was still holding his pistol. Sighing, Duilio holstered it. Now that the initial flush of adrenaline fostered by the attempt on his life had faded, he was tired . . . and hungry. He needed to consider everything he’d learned today, and try to work in the little bits with what they already knew. Hopefully the tram ride back to the city would provide him with time to do just that.
* * *
Oriana walked down the alleyway toward the Street of Flowers, her nerves on edge. Someone might be hunting her, but her conversation with Mr. Ferreira late that morning had given her more to worry about. How had that woman learned she wasn’t human? The rain had stopped, but the street glistened with wet, a reminder to watch her footing—especially important given that the mantilla’s lace obscured her vision. And she wished she had a warmer jacket or a shawl. She rubbed her silk-covered hands briskly along her arms.
She had almost reached the end of the Street of Flowers when she realized she was being followed. A man trailed behind her at some distance. She stopped and laid one hand on a wrought-iron fence, pretending that her heel was caught in the hem of her skirt. Turned to one side as she fiddled with the fabric, she could see the man wore a dark suit, but he was several houses away. She could lift the veil and squint to see him better, but that would surely alert him. She continued on toward the Customs House, noting with relief that he hadn’t gotten any closer.
Once past the Customs House, she joined more pedestrians strolling along the tree-lined Alameda de Massarelos. She walked on slowly, being passed by workers on their way home for dinner, chattering loudly when she wanted silence to listen. She tried the same trick again, pretending she had caught her heel, and glanced behind her.
Thank the gods. Her pursuer had been joined by another man, and the two were walking companionably along the avenue. She dropped the fabric and walked on. It was probably just her imagination, along with an excessive dose of caution. While the mantilla hid her features from notice, it was distinctive. She wished she’d thought of that before leaving the house. But it covered her face, which might allow her to evade anyone looking for her.
I need to plan better. She strode more quickly along the avenue toward the spot where Heriberto moored his little fishing boat among a dozen others. Watching her footing, she made her way onto the ramp and down to the boat. The deck smelled of gutted fish, making it clear that Heriberto did occasionally pursue his stated occupation, if not tidily.
Careful of her skirts, Oriana climbed over the rail. She removed the mantilla, tucked it into her handbag, and banged with one fist on the low cabin wall, clenching her jaw to ignore the jarring vibrations that set off in her webbing. “Heriberto,” she called down toward the cabin, “I need to talk to you.”
Her words were greeted with a stream of invective that didn’t surprise her overmuch.
“Wait a moment,” Heriberto called back. A moment later he emerged from the small cabin, still tying the drawstring of his rough-spun trousers. He hadn’t bothered with shoes. He wasn’t even wearing a neckerchief to hide his gill slits. His hair was mussed, making Oriana suspect he hadn’t been alone in that cramped cabin.
His eyes narrowed in the afternoon light. “What are you doing here?” He looked frazzled, which had to be better for her.
“I hear you’re looking for me.”
“Your father told you, did he?” he asked.
His casual mention of her father surprised her. After two years of never speaking of him, it was bizarre to have Heriberto say that so baldly. “I haven’t had any contact with my father since I got here, as per our orders. Not a word.”
Heriberto crossed arms over his bare chest. “And I went directly to him, so how else would you have found out?”
She could claim that Carlos, the footman she’d seen with him, had told her, but she was going to have to go with the truth if she wanted to get her father off Heriberto’s hook. “I followed you Wednesday when you met him at the Golden Church. I was standing right under where you were talking. I believe what I heard was called extortion. If you’re looking for me, there’s no reason to bother him. He doesn’t know my whereabouts.” He didn’t deny the charge of extortion, she noted. “Who is Maria Melo, and why did you tell her that I’m not human?”
Heriberto shook his head. “You’re not entitled to that information.”
“Extortion isn’t in your orders,” she reminded him. “My aunts are high up enough in the ministry that if I should happen to mention your extra source of income, it would come back to haunt you. There are other ways of getting correspondence out of the city than by going through you. I can go around you.”
For her first attempt at blackmail, it seemed to work. “Do you think it’s that simple?” he asked. “There are those in the ministry who outrank me. When she demanded a list of my people in the city, I didn’t ask why.”
Oh no. Oriana stifled the desire to walk away. The saboteur knew she was a sereia not because Heriberto revealed that fact . . . but because she was a sereia herself, a member of their intelligence ministry.
She’d been put in that house to watch Isabel die by one of her own people.
Oriana lifted her chin. “Where can I find her?”
“Thanks to your appearance in the gossip columns of this morning’s Gazette, she knows exactly where to find you.” Heriberto grabbed her arm and hauled her closer. “Don’t think . . .”
Oriana bared her teeth and dragged her arm free from Heriberto’s grasp.
He smirked. “It’s all over the street whose house you’re living in now, girl. If she wants to talk with you, she will. Take my advice: keep your distance. She’s been undercover a long time, and we’re all expendable if we endanger her mission.”
Did her government have agents who’d been here longer than Heriberto? That was news to her. “What mission is that?”
“You think she would tell me? A male?” He laughed, a short bark. “I learned long ago there are times it’s better to stay still under the water. Act like everything’s normal, stay hidden, and perhaps the storm will pass without all of us getting killed.”
Oriana had a sinking feeling in her stomach. The woman who’d handed her and Isabel over to the Open Hand had a greater mission, one so important that Isabel Amaral’s death was acceptable. Putting Oriana Paredes in danger of exposure was also acceptable. Oriana couldn’t think of too many missions important enough to warrant that much leeway, but assassination might be one of them. Perhaps Silva had been right about an assassination after all, although not about the assassin. It was hard to believe her people’s government would condone such a thing. “Why were you looking for me, then?”
“She ordered me to,” Heriberto said. “She claims someone’s trying to kill you. If they succeed, it would spoil her plans, whatever those are. She said she wanted to warn you.”
Oh, that much is true. “So you threaten my father, just to warn me?”
Heriberto crossed his arms over his chest and glared. “Girl, I don’t like you. You think you’re better than me. You think you don’t have to do the things the rest of us stoop to because you’re superior to us, because you’ve got old family ties in the ministry.” He gestured at her mitt-covered fingers. “I notice you’re not at the doctor’s appointment I made for you to get your hands cut.”
Was that today? Oriana had a vague recollection of him ordering her to do that the last time they’d spoken, but she’d had other concerns since. “I forgot.”
“Of course.” Herib
erto set one fingertip under his eye, the sign for doubt. “The truth is that I don’t like my people getting killed. Even you. If your getting killed by these other people would ruin her plan, then the easiest way to ensure that doesn’t happen . . . is to kill you herself.”
Oriana felt a chill run down her spine. Why had she not figured that out? She folded her silk-covered hands together to hide their shaking.
She’d come here to tear into Heriberto’s fins, but instead he’d given her information he shouldn’t have. If Maria Melo was his superior, he shouldn’t have divulged the woman’s intentions, not even obliquely. Yet he’d done it to warn her. It was possible he’d been guarding her all along, although she doubted that was the case. Instead, she suspected he didn’t like this superior of his. “Thanks for the warning.”
He waved away her words. “I haven’t seen you. I haven’t spoken to you. Just get out of my sight.”
He didn’t wait for her to say any more, but climbed back down into the hold of his boat. Oriana turned and carefully walked back up to the quay. Her mind was spinning. She pulled the mantilla out of her bag and settled it over her hair again, taking a moment to put the comb in firmly.
She’d been concerned about the mysterious Open Hand coming after her, but not truly afraid. The prospect of being hunted by Maria Melo worried her far more.
CHAPTER 25
Duilio walked along the quay, mulling over the death of Donato Mata. His gift lay quiet now, not a hint of concern for his safe journey back to the house, although it would be foolish to rely overmuch on that.
When he reached the road that wound behind the Customs House, he noticed a woman walking briskly some distance ahead of him. Miss Paredes. It wasn’t her plain black dress that identified her, or even the mantilla that covered her head, an unusual choice for a Friday afternoon. He’d recognized her walk, the faint swing to her hips that he’d always considered enticing.
And then he spotted Gustavo lounging in one of the shop doorways, head down as Miss Paredes passed. Tomas must be somewhere nearby as well. He’d asked the two footmen to keep an eye on Miss Paredes. When he reached the spot where Gustavo waited, he nodded to the young footman and Gustavo headed back home. Duilio jogged to catch up with Miss Paredes’ quick steps.
“Miss,” he called when he got close enough.
She stopped and slowly turned, one hand clutching at the other wrist, preparing to draw her knife. She relaxed when she saw it was him. That damnable mantilla kept him from seeing her expression, but he was sure she was unnerved.
“What are you doing here?” she asked when he reached her.
“I could ask the same. Are you courting trouble?”
She frowned at him; this close, he could see that through the mantilla’s lace. He must have had a snap in his tone. Without answering, she turned and walked on toward the Street of Flowers.
Duilio caught up to her in a few strides; ladies’ shoes weren’t made for walking fast on cobbles. “I apologize. I’ve had a trying day and was concerned.”
“I thought a man was following me,” she said. “I didn’t realize it was you.”
She’d slowed, so he walked alongside her. She even laid her hand on his arm when he offered it. “It probably was Gustavo, actually. Or Tomas. I asked them to keep an eye on you if you left the house. They weren’t to interfere with you, only inform us if someone tried to grab you.” She didn’t protest that safeguard as he’d half expected she would, so he continued. “When I got off the tram near the Customs House, I saw you walking down the street. Sheer luck.”
The mantilla rippled over her face in the faint breeze. He would rather she remove it—he preferred to see her face—but it was better to keep her hidden out here on the street. Just because Mata was no longer a threat didn’t mean Miss Paredes was safe.
She walked on in silence for a moment. “I thought that if Maria Melo knew I’m a sereia, it had to have come from him. My master, I mean. So I went to talk to him.”
Duilio couldn’t fault her logic. “I see.”
“I wanted to know why he’d revealed my identity,” she said softly enough that he had to lean closer. “Why he’d compromised me.”
“Did you accomplish your objective, then?”
“Yes.” Her dark eyes fixed on his face. “I didn’t like what I heard. I have never stepped out of line before, Mr. Ferreira, never truly defied my orders until Isabel’s death. I have not been perfect, but I have tried. I am . . . on uncertain ground now, and don’t know how far I dare go.”
Duilio had defied orders enough times to grasp what she meant. “Doing what one is told,” he said, “is far simpler than not doing so.”
She gave him a sad smile, visible through the veil. “So I’m learning.”
There were, at this time of day, far more pedestrians than last night. Even so, he thought they could speak safely without anyone overhearing anything important. He steered Miss Paredes out of the way of a group of tired-looking girls in maids’ garb, walking down the street.
“There’s a small café near the church,” he said, pointing discreetly. “I’m famished.”
She gazed at him through the veil, and he could almost make out her perplexed expression. “But it’s only a couple of hours until dinner.”
“Famished,” he insisted. He’d endured a jarring day thus far. He and Joaquim had been loaned to the Special Police, a rather dubious honor. He’d been shot at, although, admittedly, he’d set the stage for that himself. He’d faced the man who’d killed Alessio but learned nothing. His day had left him with too many questions. What he wanted to do now was just sit and talk.
Being honest with himself, he wanted to talk to her. He could stop and eat by himself. He was supposed to go over to Joaquim’s apartment later this evening and discuss the day’s developments with him. But right now he wanted to talk to Oriana Paredes.
So he led her up São Francisco Street to the café near the Church of São Francisco. He picked a table with a view of the church’s rose window, but far enough from any other patrons to allow them to talk freely. Miss Paredes finally lifted the damned veil when they were settled there, and he ordered a meal large enough to startle her, judging by her expression. She ordered creamed coffee.
“Did you not eat lunch while you were at the house?” she asked.
“Yes, but I seem to need more food,” he offered.
Her dark eyes regarded him appraisingly. “Is that inherited from your mother?”
“Yes,” he said, glad he didn’t have to explain further. “Alessio inherited it as well.”
“Ah. Your mother has a picture of you next to her bed,” Miss Paredes said then. “With both your brothers and your cousins. She said you were twelve then. I had only one sister, so I can’t imagine what it would be like to grow up in such a large family.”
He knew exactly the photograph she meant. His mother had it taken when his father was away so that he couldn’t argue with her inclusion of Erdano, Joaquim, and Cristiano. Over coffee Duilio told Miss Paredes the story of the taking of that photograph, including his mother’s epic struggle to keep a fifteen-year-old Erdano still long enough for the exposure to take. That led to a few stories about Alessio’s less-risqué adventures, and then about Joaquim and Cristiano, neither of whom was risqué at all. Miss Paredes imparted vexingly little about her own family. The topic seemed to pain her. She said only that she’d lost her sister and mother, and apparently her father had been exiled to parts unknown, so he let the topic drop.
Once the waiter brought the food, he managed to coax Miss Paredes into taking his croissant. She picked it apart with her fingertips while he finished his soup and fish. As she still wasn’t ready to talk about her discussion with her master, he told her instead about his trip to Matosinhos and his conversation with Father Barros.
“Maraval?” Her brow knit at his mention of the Minister of Culture. “He gave me his card. He asked me to come by his office if I had any idea where Isabel was. He’s a f
riend of her father’s and has been looking for her. To quell rumors about her, I mean. He said he’s been keeping her name out of the papers.”
Duilio tried to recall if he’d seen any recent mention of Isabel’s elopement in the newspapers. “He must be. I haven’t read a word about her since the first notice.”
Miss Paredes nodded pensively. When she didn’t speak, he went on to tell her about his misadventure at the construction yard, meeting Inspector Anjos, and the death of Donato Mata.
She seemed to be worried for him then. Her slender brows drew together, her large eyes shadowed. “Your day was busier than mine.”
Duilio laughed. He couldn’t help it. He rubbed one hand over his face and laughed again. “My apologies, Miss Paredes. You either have a gift for understatement or sarcasm. I’m not certain which.”
Her expression remained bland. “I have many talents, sir.”
Which just set him off laughing again. Duilio wiped his eyes with a finger, hoping he hadn’t attracted unwanted attention with his amusement. “Forgive me,” he managed. “I’m not mocking you.”
Her face was all seriousness, her lips pursed disapprovingly. “You wouldn’t dare, sir.”
This was why he’d wanted to talk to her, he realized. He’d known there was a hot temper buried under all that self-control. Now he’d discovered a sense of humor as well. How had she held her tongue all those months among Isabel’s society friends? Duilio strove for an equally serious expression. “Yes, it was a busy day.”
And then she smiled, her dark eyes turning toward the white tablecloth. Her hands curled around her cup of coffee, only the tips of her long fingers peeking out of the silk mitts with which she hid them.
Duilio suddenly decided she was lovelier by far than Isabel Amaral or Aga . . . or Genoveva Carvalho. Her full lips were surprisingly enticing, even when he knew there were sharp teeth behind them. Although she normally wore her hair down in the English style, she’d looked quite striking on the night of the ball with her hair pulled up to show off her delicate features and large, dark eyes. He would like to see her wearing something less stern.
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