The Seat of Magic

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  Her afternoon of dealing with Lady Ferreira’s plans hadn’t completely done her in, but she wouldn’t have any trouble getting to sleep that night. Even so, she should attempt dinner first. Felis put up her hair and produced a pair of teardrop-shaped opal earrings that must belong to Lady Ferreira. Oriana slid on the silk mitts she wore to disguise her webbed fingers and, with the cambric blouse’s high neck covering her gill slits and her wide feet neatly hidden by a pinching pair of shoes, saw what could be a human woman in the mirror, albeit an exhausted one.

  Was this what the rest of her life would be? Passing herself off as human? She didn’t much like the idea.

  * * *

  Dinner with Joaquim brought bad news and good. The officers working on finding the men who’d taken up Gita still hadn’t turned up any information. Evidently the behavior hadn’t been repeated anywhere—making it unlikely the men involved sold women for their living.

  When Duilio shared what the doctor had told him about the possibility of the first girl being one of the otter folk, Joaquim groaned. They would have to be careful that the information about the two dead girls being nonhumans didn’t slip out. Fortunately, the press hadn’t caught wind of either death, so the police had been lucky so far.

  The better news was that Brother Manoel had given in to Joaquim’s urging and agreed to release Gita’s body to Duilio. He could retrieve her shrouded body in the morning and take her back to Braga Bay. He would be happier if he’d been able to find her pelt . . . and her skin. That would give him closure of one concern. Sailing to Braga Bay and back would take a few hours, and then he could visit the palace, since he hadn’t yet informed the ambassador that Oriana was safe. Joaquim rolled his eyes when Duilio mentioned that, but Duilio’s gift continued to tell him the infante was important, so he intended to foster the new acquaintance. After all, the man had asked him to call him by his given name. Coming from royalty, that was a great privilege.

  When Duilio got home, he found his mother in the library, her feet tucked up under her on the couch and a clothbound book in her gloved hands. The lights in the room weren’t turned up high, but that didn’t present a problem for her eyes. “What are you reading, Mother?”

  “I think you must have left this out, Duilinho,” she said, showing it to him. “Surely there must be something more accurate. And in our language. How irritating.”

  Ah, now he recognized it. She held Monsieur Matelot’s certainly erroneous volume about Oriana’s people. His mother thought French an annoying language, primarily because it wasn’t her native one. “Yes, I have to wonder if he ever came near her people’s islands.”

  “Well, someone must trade with them. And perhaps the sereia in French-held territories are different,” she said with a shrug. “Miss Paredes should write a book. Or you. Either of you would do a far better job.”

  That wasn’t necessarily high praise. He pulled one of the chairs from against the wall and sat facing her. “Speaking of Miss Paredes—did she get out of bed today?”

  “Yes. We just finished with our dinner an hour ago, and she went back to her room. She’s tired, but much improved.” His mother set the offending book on the table next to the couch. “I fear she’s a bit lost, Duilinho.”

  “Lost?” His mother read people well, so that must be the case. “What do you mean?”

  She sighed. “When you first brought Miss Paredes here, she came as my companion, but that wasn’t her true function. She was seeking a killer and was a spy for her people.” When he nodded, she continued. “Now neither is true. Now she must try to figure out who she is, and what she must do to survive. That will take time, I think.”

  “I’ve told her she’s welcome to stay here as long as she wants.”

  “As what, Duilinho? As a servant? As your pet, perhaps?” His mother shook her head. “She is a proud, intelligent young woman. As much as I like her, I don’t believe she’s cut out to be a hired companion for the remainder of her life.”

  He had meant for Oriana to be a guest, but his mother was right. Oriana would want to be doing something. “So she needs time to decide what she wants.”

  “I agree.” His mother glanced up at him from under a lowered brow. “I don’t want her forced into . . . making any precipitous decisions.”

  She meant into his bed. He felt a flush heating his face. A gentleman didn’t take advantage of women in his employ, but apparently his mother felt he needed reminding of that. Perhaps he did. “Of course not, Mother.”

  “Good,” she said. “Now, didn’t you promise to get that thing off her wrist? It’s annoying her terribly.”

  Duilio groaned. Why hadn’t he taken care of that? If nothing else, he could have instructed Luís to do it. “Is she still awake, do you think?”

  “Probably.” His mother made a gesture clearly intended to shoo him on his way, and then picked up the offensive book from the table with a scowl, as if determined to read the whole thing.

  Aware that he’d been dismissed, Duilio made his way upstairs to Alessio’s room. He knocked on the door, and when there was no answer, peeked inside. Oriana reclined on the leather chaise before the tea table, asleep. She had replaced her shoes with a pair of Alessio’s old felt slippers and her silk mitts lay on the table, but otherwise she was still dressed. She must have been waiting for him.

  He went to wake her but he stopped before his hand touched her shoulder. He had seen her sleeping endlessly in the last two days, when she’d been ill and exhausted. Her burned skin had faded from red to its normal ivory, and save for the bruising on her face and a split lip, she looked normal. Her hair trailed in a neat braid over one shoulder. It was as if she were a different woman from the one who’d lain ill for the last two days.

  He touched her shoulder, waking her. “You should have gone back to bed.”

  She lifted her wrist to display the shackle. “I want this off, Duilio. Please.”

  “I’ll take you to the kitchen.” He helped her to her feet. “I’ve got tools down there, and Mrs. Cardoza can make you some chocolate while I work on it.”

  The kitchen was warm, courtesy of the oversized stoves, and the scents of dinner still lingered: fish soup, bread, and garlic. Oriana settled at the servants’ table on the far side of the room while Duilio had a quick word with the cook. Mrs. Cardoza was more than willing to warm some milk for chocolate.

  He didn’t want to use bolt cutters that close to her hand, so he fetched the heavy pliers and iron spike he’d located in the tool kit on the sailboat that first night. He returned to the table to find Oriana staring dully at the oaken surface.

  He sat down on the bench next to her and considered how best to pry open the first link on the chain. Once he did that, he could slip the link out and open the cuff. He took off his tie and slid it between the iron of the cuff and her wrist to protect her skin. “Now be still.”

  Oriana seemed disinclined to move at all. “Your valet will be displeased, I suspect. Such an abuse of your tie.”

  “Marcellin will survive,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Very well,” she whispered.

  “Monteiro. Who is he?”

  Her head lifted. “You know him?”

  Duilio slid the spike through the loop for leverage and set to work with the pliers. “I met him two days ago. He came to inquire after you.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes met his, a line forming between her brows. “He’s my father.”

  So that much was true. “He wanted to see you. I couldn’t be sure he was telling me the truth, so I sent him away.” The loop gave enough that he could loosen the cuff. He slipped the loop through one side of the cuff, enough to let him open the thing and remove it. Fortunately, her wrist was merely chafed, not raw.

  “Thank you,” she said, rubbing that wrist with the other hand.

  He felt a swell of war
mth in his heart. Perhaps this was why he hadn’t asked Luís or the coachman to remove the manacle for her. He’d wanted to do it himself to earn her gratitude, a selfish notion. Duilio set the tools aside, shaking his head.

  “I’m surprised he told you,” Oriana said. “That we’re related, I mean.”

  Ah, back to Monteiro. “He seemed concerned for you.”

  Her eyes looked pained. “He chose his political beliefs over his children.”

  Her tone held a frostiness he’d never heard from her before. “What do you mean?”

  “He was exiled for sedition when I was sixteen. Marina was only twelve, and I had to take care of her. We became wards of the state and were forced to live on Quitos with our aunts. Why would he do that? He should have been taking care of us. And then he comes here and . . .” She sighed.

  Duilio waited for her to finish, but after a moment decided she wasn’t going to. “He said he would like to see you. And if he hadn’t sent Lady Pereira de Santos to prompt me, I wouldn’t have reached you in time.”

  She didn’t respond. Mrs. Cardoza brought the cup of chocolate for Oriana, and she wrapped her bare hands about the mug as if craving its warmth. “Lady Pereira de Santos?” she asked. “There was gossip among the servants—that he is her lover.”

  That last part came out as a whisper. Oriana didn’t know her father and Lady Pereira de Santos were married. Should he be the one to tell her? Or would it be better coming from Monteiro? “She came here first,” he began, and told her of the lady’s visit.

  Oriana listened, her expression pensive. “I see.”

  That told him nothing. “I can arrange a meeting with your father,” he prompted, “whenever you feel you can handle it.”

  Much as he expected, she lifted her chin and said, “I can handle him anytime.” Then her shoulders slumped. “I suppose I should talk to him. He’s all the family I have left here.”

  He couldn’t argue that. “You called the ambassador uncle. Are they brothers?”

  She took a sip of the chocolate, her eyes downcast. “No. The ambassador is my mother’s brother. A different line.”

  “Line?”

  Her brows drew together. “Like a clan? A group of related families. My mother’s line is Paredes, by Arenias. My father is Monteiro.”

  Duilio didn’t bother asking why she didn’t use her father’s name. “Your father seemed to think what was done to you was meant as a warning to him not to talk, but the ambassador thought it was a warning for himself.”

  She cradled the mug of chocolate in her hands. “I have no idea.”

  “Perhaps if we talk to your father, we can figure it out. Would you like me to arrange a meeting, then?” She regarded the remaining chocolate in her mug with bleak eyes, and finally nodded. “I’ll do so, then,” he said, “for tomorrow afternoon if possible.”

  She nodded again and, as he watched, her eyes drifted closed and her head drooped. She shook herself. “There’s rum in this chocolate,” she managed. “A lot.”

  Duilio cast a glance at Mrs. Cardoza, winked at the cook, and then turned back to Oriana. “Perhaps I should take you back upstairs.”

  Oriana’s head slowly descended to his shoulder. Duilio pushed the mug away and carefully picked her up in his arms. She tucked her head under his chin as he walked from the kitchen toward the stairs, the scent of her hair filling his nose, a hint of lily of the valley.

  When he reached her bedroom, he debated for a moment, and set her on the bench at the end of the bed. He caught his breath—Oriana wasn’t a featherweight—then drew back the coverlet and sheet. He removed her slippers and laid her, fully clothed, on the bed and then tucked the bedding back around her.

  She reached one hand toward him. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered.

  Gentlemanly behavior demanded that he go, but she sounded lost, just as his mother had said. Duilio suspected he was going to spend the rest of his life unable to resist her whims. He stripped off his frock coat and shoes and pushed the coverlet back so he could lie down next to her on the wide bed. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll stay.”

  She shifted closer, her head coming to rest on his arm. Duilio wrapped his other arm about her and held her close. They hadn’t discussed her staying at the house, what she would do now, or anything else important, but he wasn’t going to disturb her with that. When she began to cry, he said nothing. He simply held her until the tears faded and she slipped into an exhausted sleep.

  CHAPTER 13

  Oriana woke slowly, warm and comfortable. Duilio lay next to her, his thick lashes lowered over his seal-brown eyes. Her head rested on his extended arm, and his other hand lay on her hip. Despite her full skirt, one of his legs had tangled with hers. That explained why she was warm even though she’d pushed the coverlet away. She gazed at Duilio’s sleeping face. His dark hair swept across his wide brow and his chin was shadowed with stubble.

  Something in her chest tightened. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling an ache that was almost pain. She knew what it was. More foolish than she could ever have predicted, her traitor heart had fallen in love with him.

  It wasn’t infatuation. She knew better than that. She trusted Duilio. He didn’t see her as inferior or an enemy, even though he’d known her for a spy. But before they’d had a common goal—finding Isabel’s killer. Now she no longer knew what her goals were.

  When she’d been imprisoned on that ship, not knowing what was going to happen to her, she’d told herself that whatever happened, she wanted to come back to the Golden City. She’d wanted to court Duilio Ferreira, even if it didn’t make sense at all. She’d promised herself she would try, but that was before she’d been left to die.

  Who am I now? Surviving execution expunged any crimes from a criminal’s record; it was believed the gods sent rescue only to the innocent. But she had no idea if she could ever go home.

  Following orders, she’d climbed aboard a ship that was supposed to take her back home to the inlands. Instead they’d chained her and thrown her in the hold, only leading her out in time to face her execution, with no trial or charges ever read out. She’d been placed on an island to die by someone in the intelligence ministry, her own employers. She’d been used up and thrown away, like so much refuse. And what was she without her home, her avocation? Everything she’d struggled to make of herself had been shattered.

  And yet Duilio was still here, like a fixed point in her world, an anchor. Oriana set her hand lightly against his waistcoat, feeling his heart beating slow and strong through her webbing.

  His eyes fluttered open at her touch. For a second he seemed disoriented, and then his eyes locked with hers, as if he sought to read her soul through them. The hand on her hip flexed, settling more firmly there. He leaned closer, and his lips brushed hers. His lashes drifted closed, as if he didn’t want to think about it, only feel as she did—the featherlight touch of his lips on hers, the warmth of his breath against her chilled skin.

  He drew away, only far enough that his eyes could focus on her face, trying to gauge her reaction.

  Oriana licked her lips. She had never been kissed before. Can he tell that? Had she made a terrible fool of herself? Surely he must feel the tie between them. In this light she doubted he could read her expression, so she raised her hand from his heart, slid it behind his neck, and pulled him back to her.

  He kissed her again, more firmly this time. Oriana pressed closer. His hand slid to the small of her back, drawing her against him as his lips moved from hers to the line of her jaw. When his lips brushed against her gill slits, she gasped and arched against him.

  He drew back immediately. “Did I hurt you?”

  Oriana shivered. “No. They’re just very sensitive.”

  Duilio reached up and ran gentle fingers along one side of her neck, his clear eyes shaded by those thick lashes. Oriana pressed her face into his
shoulder, trying to control her response to that touch. His thigh lay between her legs, though, and she’d pressed her legs tightly around it, giving away exactly what sort of reaction he’d drawn from her.

  He leaned over her and lifted her braid away from her neck. “You’re badly bruised here. Who did this?”

  “One of the guards,” she whispered.

  He settled back on the sheets, farther away. His hand touched her face gently, though, easing the sense of rejection she’d felt at that retreat. “You had nightmares,” he said. “What happened?”

  “It’s not important.” She wanted to hide now. The physical weakness was bad enough. She didn’t want to cry yet again and convince him of her emotional fragility as well.

  Duilio ran fingers across her brow, sweeping her hair back. “Did they beat you?”

  “No,” she whispered. “Not really. I was held prisoner on that ship—the one that was supposed to take me home—for ten days. The guards were afraid to hurt me much because they knew there hadn’t been a trial.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would they be afraid?”

  She sighed. “If a person is innocent, the gods will find a way to release them. They feared that if they hurt me, I would come back and destroy them. That saved me from worse treatment, I know. It could have been worse.”

  “Then what is this bruise on your neck? And your cheek?”

  “I didn’t fight them until they put the chains on me. One of the guards grabbed me by the neck and pushed me into the wall. And then apologized.” A bitter laugh welled up from her throat. “When I heard that, I knew I was going to die.”

  His hand touched her hair. “Did you not think someone would save you?”

  That had been the worst part, the knowledge that her fate was out of her own hands. She had never felt so helpless in her life. “It’s hard to believe when you’re offered the knife.”