Oriana could hardly walk through the streets naked, though. “Wait here,” he told her. “I’ll come back with something.”
He started to take off his shirt to offer it to her, but she shook her head. “I’ll stay in the water,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
He would have felt silly wearing only sodden trousers anyway. Duilio peered at the rocks, trying to decide how to get up onto the heights. A narrow wooden stair ascended the cliff’s face, likely property of some homeowner. Duilio headed toward the stair.
“Ferreira,” a voice called across the water. “Ferreira!”
Duilio stared out into the fog. He couldn’t make out a boat, but he heard oars cutting the water, the noisy splash of an inefficient rower. “Gaspar? On the sand.”
“Coming,” Gaspar called back.
Oriana half rose out of the water. “I’ll go find him.”
She didn’t wait for his response. She dove into the water and disappeared into the fog. Duilio leaned against the rocks, his ankle throbbing. The splashing grew closer, and then he saw a small boat sliding toward the sand. Gaspar sat inside, Pinheiro with him. Duilio waded out to them. “Do you have a blanket?”
Chuckling, Gaspar dug one out of the bow and handed it over. Duilio helped Oriana settle it about her and lifted her up into the boat. He pushed the boat away from the shore and then clambered over the side and settled on a middle plank facing her. She managed to work the blanket around so that not even an inch of her silvery feet showed. After fending off a spate of questions from both of the other men, Duilio finally got to ask a question of his own. “What happened to the two in the house? Was it Miss Carvalho and the footman?”
“Yes, both are alive,” Gaspar said.
Duilio saw Oriana’s shoulders slump in relief. She’d saved them.
“The boy was in rough shape,” Gaspar added as he rowed toward the city. “It looks like he fought them, trying to keep them from the girl. A couple of broken ribs, and his face was so swollen he could hardly breathe, which is why we had to leave you out there. We needed to get him to a doctor.”
Duilio didn’t blame them. They would never have been able to see him in the river in the dark anyway. “And the photographer? Did he get any pictures?”
Gaspar grunted. “Yes. It’s a matter now of developing them and convincing his editor to run them. Anjos is already meeting with the City Council, bypassing the Ministry of Culture altogether. We expect that, given the evidence, they’ll agree that the remainder of the houses must be cut loose.”
“Good,” Duilio said. “What did Maraval say?”
“Nothing so far,” Gaspar said. “Anjos and his team didn’t find the man. They did, however, find an extensive collection of magical artifacts in a secret basement, which bears out Silva’s claim. The Jesuits have volunteered to catalog the collection, but they haven’t found your missing pelt yet. Maraval wasn’t at the ministry either, which leaves . . .”
“The mysterious workshop?” Duilio asked.
“Yes. If he’s on the run, it’s likely he’ll go there. Miss Vladimirova is questioning the servants at his home. If any of them know the location, she’ll get it out of them—I promise.”
“I told the selkie to follow the yacht,” Oriana told Gaspar. “If he did, he’ll know where it is.”
Duilio was glad to hear that Erdano had gone after them. He hadn’t dared to ask.
“We’ll have to hope that one plan or another gives us an answer,” Gaspar said, “or Maraval will get away before we have a chance to get our hands on him.”
* * *
They planned to take no more than an hour to return to the house, change clothes—or, in her case, put some on—and head back out to find Erdano and his harem. Oriana only hoped that Erdano had been able to follow that yacht. Inspector Gaspar claimed that the regular police were watching all train routes out of the Golden City to prevent Maraval from escaping that way. But why bother with a train when he had a yacht at his disposal?
The police had a carriage waiting when the rowboat reached the Bicalho quay, so a couple of minutes later they were rattling across the cobbles, heading toward the Ferreira house in the morning fog. The road was rough, causing her shoulder to bump against his. Oriana clutched the blanket closer; it was chilly.
“I did offer you my shirt, Miss Paredes,” Duilio reminded her.
“And how would you explain your returning to the house half-naked?” she asked. “Would that be any easier?”
“I will, of course, replace the garments you lost, Miss Paredes,” he said magnanimously.
“So you don’t have an answer either,” she surmised. If he’d been caught in this situation with a young Portuguese woman of any social stature whatsoever, he would be expected to marry her to protect her from scandal. No one would expect the same for a hired companion.
“We should simply say nothing,” he said mischievously, “and let the servants wonder.”
Well, they would probably come up with their own interpretation anyway. “I am far more comfortable in this situation,” she said, “than you would be. More accustomed to such garb.”
“You mean wearing a blanket?” He regarded her with raised brows. “What exactly do people wear on your islands?”
She smiled, gazing down at the one hand in her lap. She still had the dagger’s sheath strapped to her arm, but the blade had been forgotten in the river. “That book you read as a boy was right in that those who work near the water often do so unclothed. Otherwise one usually wears a pareu.” When he opened his mouth to ask, she explained. “A length of fabric wrapped about the waist. It would cover from the waist to the knees, or just below.”
“Ah,” he said. “Do you mean the men? Or the women?”
“Both,” she said with a shrug. “When it becomes cooler, one wears a loose vest over that, or even a jacket.”
He shifted in his seat to look at her. “The islands must be warmer than Portugal. No shirts?”
“They come into fashion now and then but aren’t essential.” She shot a swift glance at him, trying to gauge his reaction. “A human would be quite uncomfortable dressing so.”
His lips pursed. “Probably at first. I suspect I would enjoy it after a while. No need for a valet, certainly.”
She plucked at the blanket with her free hand. “Yes, the many layers your people wear are rather . . . redundant.”
“You must hate our clothing.”
“At first I did, a bit,” she admitted. “But I’ve grown accustomed to it.”
It was an ordinary conversation, a break from all the other things they didn’t want to discuss. As if we’d simply met at a café, she thought, wishing with a sudden pang that her life could be that simple. Would she have the nerve to court this man if she had the chance?
The carriage drew into the alleyway behind the houses on the Street of Flowers, getting them quite close to the back door. Cardenas was outside on the steps, sneaking a cigarette, as he did when upset. The butler stubbed it out on the wall and came to meet the cab. When Duilio opened the door and stepped down, Cardenas embraced him and burst into tears. He drew back quickly, though, apparently recalling his station. “We feared the worst, sir, when João told us the rowboat hadn’t returned.”
Oriana stayed in the carriage, giving the butler a private moment with his master. Duilio kept his hands on the man’s shoulders, reassuring him. “I’m well enough, old friend. I need to get Miss Paredes inside,” he said. “We’re only here to change clothes and get right back out on the water.”
Cardenas nodded and stepped back. Duilio returned to the carriage and insisted on helping her out, lifting her down with an ease that surprised her. She might expect that of the big selkie, but perhaps Duilio was stronger than he looked. He set her on the ground, and she clutched the blanket close. Cardenas went up ahead of them, clearing the servants out of the kitchen so Oriana could dash through in her inappropriate garb.
Duilio led her up the back stair to the sec
ond floor, and fortunately no one intercepted them. “I’ll wait for you in the library,” he said when they stood outside her bedroom door.
She showed him her wrist. “Do you have another spare dagger?”
“I’ll find something,” he promised, opened the door for her, and then headed down to his own room.
Oriana went inside. She was short on clothing. If she were staying she would have to ask for an advance on her first quarter’s pay, but she knew better. She closed the bedroom door, dropped the blanket across the settee, and paused.
There, on the small table next to the settee, lay a notecard addressed to Oriana Arenias Paredes.
Her breath went short. It had come from someone who knew both of her mother’s surnames, Paredes and Arenias. Most people paid little attention to the surname a female received from her father. Oriana picked up the note, impressed by the fine quality of the paper and the author’s neat hand. Surely this was from Maria Melo, who’d implied an acquaintance with her mother. Her orders. The ones that would tell her how to get out of the city, where she would be sent, and to whom she would report. Perhaps they would say she had to leave now. How long had this been sitting here?
She ran her fingers over the lettering and then turned the envelope over to break the blue wax seal marked with the letter M. She slid one finger under the flap.
What if I’m supposed to leave immediately? This could order her to leave this morning, an hour ago or an hour hence.
I am not letting Isabel’s killer get away.
Oriana set the note back down on the silver salver on the table and went to the dressing room to find something to wear.
She’d hated these garments at first, so tight and uncomfortable. Now she saw them as a symbol of all the things she would miss from this place. She’d even miss the silk mitts that pinched her webbing. She would miss . . . many things. Once dressed, Oriana gazed at the tired face in the mirror, determined not to let her emotions get the better of her. She inhaled deeply, taking in the masculine smell of her borrowed room. Then she plastered a serene look on her face and went down to the library to meet Mr. Ferreira.
CHAPTER 32
Duilio brought his last knife for Miss Paredes to use. His favorite revolver had been in the pocket of his frock coat last night, now lost forever in the water of the Douro. He would miss that gun, but he had an Enfield revolver that would do well enough until he could get a replacement sent over from England.
The carriage was waiting for them behind the house and bore them out to the quay, where Gaspar and Pinheiro were still waiting. Gaspar had a wooden box about the size of a football in his hands. He opened it up to reveal a golden device sitting atop what looked like a pincushion. A collection of gears with a coil of metal inside, the device ticked and trembled like the works of a watch. “I’d like you to take this along with you,” he said.
Duilio surveyed the clockwork device doubtfully. If it was valuable, he didn’t want to take it out on the water, not on the paddleboat. “What is it?”
“It’s called a blood compass. A clever little device that Anjos and I have found useful,” Gaspar said. “They come in a pair. The other follows this one. In essence, it mistakes this one for the northern pole. Sadly, it only works one way.”
Oriana came to look into the box with him, her brows drawn together. “You can track us up the coast?”
“Precisely,” Gaspar said. “Wherever you end up, we can follow.”
How incredibly clever. Duilio wondered if the box might be one of the magical “toys” that the Lady’s father had tinkered with. Unfortunately, magical items usually came with a price tag. “Do we have to wind it?” Duilio asked cautiously.
Gaspar grinned. “It won’t bite you, Ferreira. I’ve already wound it, so to speak. Or, rather, Pinheiro did.”
Pinheiro held up a bandaged hand. “I had to bleed on it. On both of them.”
Duilio cast a quizzical look at the African inspector.
“Magic doesn’t work on me,” Gaspar said, “so it had to be him. Just try not to lose the thing.”
Duilio grimaced. “If it gets wet?”
“It will still work,” Gaspar said, “unless all the blood is washed off.”
Duilio glanced at Oriana, who just shrugged. He closed the box and tucked it under one arm, nodded once to Pinheiro and Gaspar, and then led Oriana down the ramp to the paddleboat. At least this increased the chance that if they did find Maraval, they wouldn’t have to face the man alone.
Half an hour later, they’d pulled out past the breakwater and traveled north up the coast. The wind was lacking and the water glassy, the reason he’d chosen the paddleboat rather than the sailboat. Oriana had taken off her shoes to keep them from the water, exposing her silvery feet again. From what he could see, the black dorsal stripe came to a point on the inside of her heel. Duilio could make out a rippled edging between the black and silver skin, a narrow border of brilliant blue. She looked up from where she sat by the wheel compartment and caught him staring at her bare feet. She immediately tucked them back under her skirt.
He didn’t know if he should be blushing or not. She had been with him the entire morning—unclothed—and had somehow managed never to turn her back to him, as if she were hiding her dorsal stripe. Was there some risqué aspect to curiosity about a sereia’s dorsal stripe? Her behavior was beginning to make him think so.
And that made him burn with curiosity
“So, where will we find your brother?” she asked.
“I expect he’s gone back to Braga Bay,” Duilio answered. “Where his harem lives.”
“A harem? Truly?”
“It’s the way they live,” he said, feeling a flush creep up from his neck. “The way they’ve lived for centuries. Males are rare, so there are sometimes as many as fifty females in a harem.”
“Fifty?” she asked, sounding appalled. “With one male?”
“Well, to be honest, I don’t think Erdano has nearly that many in his harem. But he does have a number of human lovers as well. It’s natural for selkies to compete.”
“I see,” she said, then shook her head. “No, actually, I don’t. Why would a female share her male with another? Or fifty others?”
“I’ve never understood it,” he admitted. “Selkie charm?”
“What exactly is selkie charm?” she asked.
“Selkies don’t talk about it,” Duilio said. “It’s not a talent or a skill; it’s just the way they are. Their powers of seduction are quite real, but I don’t know to what they can be attributed.”
She looked at him from under a lowered brow. “Do you . . . Have you . . . ?”
He clamped his lips together, holding in the urge to laugh at her hesitance. She was apparently shy when it came to matters of sex, which suggested a modesty sailors believed sereia didn’t possess. If he recalled correctly, the English even used the symbol of the sereia to indicate houses of prostitution. It pleased him that Oriana Paredes didn’t fit that stereotype. “No,” he answered. “I don’t have it, whatever it is. Alessio did, though. No one could resist him.”
She smoothed her skirt. “Is it something to do with the way you smell, perhaps?”
He felt warmth creeping up his cheeks. “Well, we do smell.”
She looked up then, her lips falling open. “I didn’t mean that badly. It’s just that I thought at first you were wearing cologne—ambergris cologne. It took me time to realize you weren’t. Your mother, as well.”
Duilio supposed he should be relieved she hadn’t meant that as an insult. “I do bathe regularly, which limits the smell, but you should hear my valet grumble about it.”
“I am not complaining,” she said.
Duilio chuckled. “So, may I ask, is your ability to call something that your people simply do or a skill?”
Oriana didn’t answer immediately. They’d passed the port of Leixões and were nearing Braga Bay, so Duilio watched the cliffs more carefully. He didn’t want to miss the narrow opening.
But he stole a glance at her face and decided she was still unsure whether to answer his query. “You don’t need to answer,” he said. “I’m simply one of those inquisitive people who wants to know everything.”
“I’ve noticed,” she said in a dry tone. “We’re all born with a voice, but we must learn to use it. It’s a combination of natural talent and skill. Some females can call ships from afar. Others can’t get the attention of a man two feet away.”
He was tempted to ask into which category she fell, but decided it would be rude. She’d said she could coax a human into answering questions, so she must have some talent. But she probably wasn’t supposed to have said as much as she already had. “Why do you suppose it affects humans?” he asked instead. “I’ve always wondered why selkie charm seems to be aimed at humans rather than other selkies. Does the call affect males of your own kind?”
“Not as much,” she said. “It is specifically pitched for humans. Our lore says it’s because you’re the main danger to us. We’re relatively harmless. Before your Vasco da Gama, we simply distracted sailors into sailing past our islands.”
Even when he couldn’t see the webbing, he liked watching her hands. They were long and slender. Capable hands. “Being half-selkie,” he said, “I must have some immunity.”
“I know we’re not supposed to affect them,” she said. “Or the otterfolk, for that matter.”
“Good to know,” he murmured.
* * *
Oriana wished there had been more time, but they’d reached their destination. Braga Bay was surrounded by cliffs, the narrow strip of sands melding into rock. It was more of a cove than a bay, but the name had stuck, Duilio told her. Despite the storm clouds rising out at sea, the water was calm and crystal clear. Inaccessible to larger boats, it made an ideal spot for seals to bask in the sun.
Duilio drew the boat up onto the shore before helping her to the beach. She waited, enjoying the feel of the sand under her bare feet while he grabbed a chart from the boat. Then he directed her toward the center of the narrow beach, where at least two dozen seals waited. They grunted in surprise at the humans’ approach. Then the largest rose on its flippers and began to strip off its pelt.
The Golden City Page 33
