She didn’t want to lose sight of him, but since his mother must be waiting for her, she went.
* * *
Duilio settled again among the petitioners and tried to be patient. It had been a few days since his last visit to the palace, and the crop of people waiting appeared to have changed—a sign that some progress had been made. He didn’t see the elderly gentleman, Mr. Bastos, there. He hoped his man of business had been able to sort out the old man’s problems.
He sat pondering what to tell the ambassador, should he actually succeed in seeing the man and was pleasantly surprised when the infante came walking down the wide runner in the hall before even a quarter hour had passed. The infante gestured for Duilio to join him this time and kept moving. Duilio jogged a couple of steps to catch up. The guards fell back, giving them room to speak privately.
“Did you find the girl?” the infante asked.
“Yes. I would like to tell the ambassador so, if possible.”
“Not a good idea.” The infante moved at a faster walk than normal. “There are guards outside his door now.”
Ambassador to Northern Portugal must be an uncomfortable posting. “What’s changed?”
The infante pointed toward a spiral stairwell. “The astrologers fed my brother some nonsense about Alvaro killing him.”
They crossed over the sea-god archway and walked toward the new part of the palace. The infante stopped in the tower to one side of the archway and gazed out the window, gesturing for Duilio to join him there. Out on the terrace below, Prince Fabricio stood staring up at the bust of the sea god that supported the archway. The sun had burned through the fog, and in that light, Duilio could clearly see the prince’s rapt expression as he gazed up at the fantastical sculpture. A lean-faced priest in a plain black cassock stood at a distance behind him, the prince’s entourage today instead of the astrologers, Duilio supposed.
“Fabricio wants to be the sea god,” the infante said softly. “He dreams of controlling the seas, bringing the two princedoms back into one kingdom, conquering Spain, perhaps.”
While Duilio didn’t see any likelihood of conquering Spain or the seas, there would be value to bringing the two princedoms back under one flag. Portugal had split during the eighteenth century, when two young princes had compromised rather than fight each other for control, leaving the Golden City controlling the north and Lisboa, the south. The reunification of the two princedoms had been part of Maraval’s plan, although he’d tried to achieve it through necromancy instead of diplomacy. “How does the prince intend to do that?”
The infante chuckled. “That’s the point of dreaming. One need not have a plan.”
“Ah.” It was the only thing Duilio could say that wouldn’t get him in trouble.
“Were I in his shoes,” the infante said, “I would spend less time dreaming and more doing.”
The priest’s eyes lifted toward the window where they stood and for an instant Duilio thought the man was looking at them.
The infante backed farther from the window. “You should get back. I don’t want Father Salazar to see you.”
Duilio obeyed, losing sight of prince and priest both. “Why not?”
The infante licked his lips, the first sign of reticence he’d displayed thus far. “He watches me. I don’t . . . like that.”
That didn’t make much sense, but Duilio didn’t argue. Sometimes people rubbed one the wrong way. It was usually wise to heed those reactions. “Is he the chaplain here?”
“Yes. The former chaplain died a few weeks ago. I miss Father Abreu.” With a sigh, the infante stepped away from the window and led Duilio toward another stairwell, into the newest part of the palace, and downward to a level that must be dug into the hillside. “So,” the infante said in an inquisitive voice, “do you box?”
Where had that come from? “Excuse me, Your Highness?”
“Raimundo,” the infante corrected. “Alessio said you were good at sport. You do box, don’t you?”
Duilio was far from expert, and admitted as much.
The infante laughed. “I could get Bastião to go up against me,” he said, pointing discreetly at the burly guard still following them at a distance, “but he’d flatten me with his first swing. Would you be willing to give it a try? The guards have a gymnasium on this level.”
So that bearlike guard was the real Bastião. Duilio wouldn’t want to fight the man either. He stood as tall as Erdano and his blue uniform coat strained across his barrel-shaped chest. Duilio drew out his watch and checked the time. If he didn’t stay too long, he should be able to get back to the house in time to clean up and take Oriana to her father’s office. “If you’d like, Raimundo.”
He only hoped he wouldn’t regret it.
* * *
Oriana sat on the leather chaise near her bedroom door, trying to draw calm from the silence. She was going to talk to her father and the closer the time came the more nervous she became. She was grateful Duilio intended to accompany her. He’d been late getting back to the house and disappeared immediately into his rooms, evidently needing a change of clothes.
She wanted to hate her father. There was ten years of anger built up in her that had never had an outlet. But he had come to ask after her. He’d revealed his identity to Duilio, risking his life. She couldn’t figure out her father’s motives, not without talking to him. And if she did that, how could she stay objective? She and her father had always bickered, but she’d always loved him. Was that enough to make up for his leaving her and Marina behind?
She got up and went into the bathroom to look at her reflection one more time. She wanted to present a strong face. Teresa had styled her hair in a high bun. Powder hid most of the bruising on her skin. The clothes she wore had come from Lady Ferreira’s dressing room, quickly made over by the seamstress to fit Oriana’s taller frame. The brown silk skirt had an added flounce now that blended with the original fabric well enough that most women wouldn’t notice if they hadn’t once worked in a dressmaker’s shop. She wore a close-fitting pinstriped vest over her high-collared cambric shirt. A borrowed black brooch at her throat and teardrop earrings in carved jet lent her a sophisticated look, and Felis had even found her a flat-brimmed black hat. She looked quite sharp.
“Oriana?”
Duilio’s voice came from the hallway, so she took a last look to reassure herself and went to join him. He stood outside her bedroom door. He’d bathed again and changed clothes, yet another black frock coat, but with a simple brown waistcoat now. He held a handkerchief to his lips. When he took it away, she saw that his lip had been split. She went to his side to get a better look and saw swelling along one of his cheekbones as well. “Did the guards at the palace do that?”
He sighed. “No, the infante thrashed me.”
The prince’s brother? She touched his swelling cheek gently. “Why?”
“Why don’t I tell you in the coach?” he asked, looking more exasperated than pained. “You look very well, I should add, even if you have decided to ignore my recommendation of black velvet.”
Oriana laid her hand on his offered arm, feeling for a moment that she fit somewhere in this world. “A black velvet ribbon would only be appropriate with evening attire,” she said airily.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied, a laugh in his tone.
They walked down the stairs and he waited while she pinned her hat into place and donned the silk mitts she wore to hide her webbing. Cardenas opened the door for them, and Duilio held out his arm for her to take. The fog had burned off, leaving a crisp chill in the air—something to be appreciated in rainy October.
It was only when they headed down toward the street that they saw a slender woman garbed in a pale green walking gown pushing open the wrought iron gate to enter the small garden in front of the house. A maid in stark black followed at a distance, parasol clutched in her ha
nds. The woman’s head lifted when she caught sight of them coming down the steps, revealing a lovely face under her hat’s brim.
Oriana felt cold spread through her stomach. Genoveva Carvalho. What is she doing here? The last time she’d laid eyes on Miss Carvalho, the young woman had been pressing a kiss to Duilio’s cheek, ostensibly in gratitude for his saving her youngest sister.
Miss Carvalho’s face lit with delight at the sight of Duilio, but that expression faded when she saw Oriana’s hand on his sleeve. Oriana clutched his arm more tightly, unable to help the reaction. She had no claim on him. That doesn’t mean I’m going to back down.
Miss Carvalho approached anyway, apparently undaunted by Oriana’s presence. Meeting them at the bottom of the steps, she twitched her lace-edged skirt about to keep it from the grasp of the boxwoods. “Mr. Ferreira, I’m pleased to see you,” she said in her soft voice. “And Miss Paredes as well. Lady Ferreira told me you’d gone to visit family. I hope you found them well.”
Oriana found herself clenching her jaw. Miss Carvalho was only asking a polite question. But that question implied familiarity with Lady Ferreira, perhaps a sly hint that Duilio’s mother approved of her as his future wife. “Yes, thank you,” she said after hesitating a split second too long. “Is your sister fully recovered from her ordeal?”
Miss Carvalho opened her mouth, her eyes wandering about as if she could find the answer written on the leaves in the garden. “She’s well,” she finally said.
“That’s good,” Oriana mumbled. She glanced at Duilio, hoping he could use his silver tongue to extract her from this awkward situation.
“I’m afraid we must miss your visit again, Miss Carvalho,” Duilio said quickly. “Miss Paredes and I have an appointment, and we are cutting it close as it is.” With truly fortuitous timing, the carriage pulled around from Ferraz Street at that moment. Duilio tipped his hat to Miss Carvalho and her silent maid and led Oriana past them and out the gate to the cobbled street, where the carriage met them. He opened the door and made a show of helping Oriana up into her seat. Then he climbed up and settled next to her without a backward glance at the elegantly gowned young woman on the steps of his house. Once he got the door closed, he rapped on the wall for the driver to move out.
Oriana cast a quick glance at the forlorn figure. “Does she come to visit often?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Duilio said with exasperation in his voice. “I’ve been avoiding Miss Carvalho, so I suspect she’s been trying to get my mother to like her instead.”
She felt an unwelcome surge of sympathy for the girl. Genoveva Carvalho was, without doubt, a good match for him—lovely, well mannered, and from a wealthy family of the older aristocracy that lived farther up the Street of Flowers. But Duilio had been put off because she’d been infatuated with his brother Alessio first. Her interest in him had arisen too late to make a favorable impression. If that hadn’t been the case, perhaps they might have married.
Oriana reached up and grasped one of the hand straps. Like everything in the Ferreira household, the coach was of the highest quality, well sprung and clean inside, but somber. Searching about for a new topic, she returned to her earlier question. “What did happen? With the infante, I mean?”
“He is ostensibly in need of a sparring partner,” he said, “and asked if I would humor him.”
“Do you box?” she asked hesitantly.
His eyebrows rose. “I’m a gentleman, Oriana. Of course I box.”
She cast him a doubtful glance from under a lowered brow.
“I box. I fence. I shoot,” he added, “with differing degrees of proficiency. I sail and I rowed at university, but I’m no good with horses. I smell wrong to them.”
Oriana suppressed a smile. “I see. Forgive me for doubting. How did you fare?”
“With the infante?” Duilio’s brow furrowed. “He’s very fast. A couple of times I could have sworn he wasn’t there a second before.”
“I see.” That explained the bruising and split lip. “I thought you went to see my uncle.”
“That’s the bad news, I’m afraid. He’s been put under even stricter guard than before.”
“Why?”
Duilio exhaled heavily. “Apparently the royal astrologers predicted that the ambassador is going to kill the prince.”
Oriana sat back as the coach turned a corner, appalled. “He would never do such a thing.”
“I agree,” Duilio said. “The infante thought it was nonsense.”
The coach hit a rut and bounced, so Oriana hung on to the strap. “Poor Uncle. It can’t be true. They’re lying.”
“The infante seems to think they lie to the prince regularly. They tell him what he wants to hear.” He went on to describe his entire visit to the palace, which still didn’t make sense of why he’d been sparring with the infante. “He did say he would try to sneak in to tell your uncle, by the way, although he couldn’t promise anything. He’s asked me to go back on Monday. I’ll ask again then.”
Well, he’d tried. Oriana felt the carriage slow and come to a full stop. “Are we there already?”
Duilio glanced out the window. “Nearly, we’re just stopping in traffic.” He rose halfway and pounded on the front of the coach with his fist, signaling the driver to stop. “We can walk from here.”
He opened the door carefully and jumped down without using the steps. When she went to follow, he caught her by the waist and lifted her down to the cobbles. Then he shut the door and sent the driver on his way. Oriana slipped past a stalled cart to the side of the road. They were in Bonfim, a newer parish, not as cramped as the older parts of the city. Duilio joined her, offering her his arm.
They didn’t have to go far to reach her father’s place of business. It was a clerk’s office, with a sturdy wooden door, MONTEIRO AND COMPANY stenciled on the glass in gold lettering.
Oriana took a deep breath. “I have always known how to find him, but never did so.”
“And today?” Duilio asked.
She turned to him. “Now I have to ask myself if I was wrong not to.”
“I can talk to him alone if you wish.”
To find out if her father knew why she’d been left to die—Duilio would be a better choice to ask that, but she had too many questions for her father. There was so much more she needed to know. “Your mother told me you were always the cautious one, the responsible one, the sensible one.”
He rolled his eyes. “Compared to Alessio, how could I not be?”
“Then help me be cautious now,” she said. “Or sensible, at the least. I’m not when it comes to my father, you see. You’re likely to witness a display of inappropriate behavior in there.”
“You?” His raised brows indicated disbelief. He opened the door for her. “Never.”
Oriana sighed, brushed her mitt-covered hands down her skirt nervously, and stepped inside. She only hoped she didn’t embarrass Duilio too much.
CHAPTER 15
A studious-looking young man met them at the door, neatly dressed and holding a sheaf of papers in one bare hand. He gazed at them over the rims of his spectacles. “May I help you?”
“I have an appointment with Mr. Monteiro,” Duilio said.
The young man—human, Duilio decided, by virtue of his unscarred hands—let them inside and led them toward the back of the building. In rooms to either side, a dozen clerks of varying ages tapped away on clattering typewriters, apparently transcribing old records. A side hallway led farther back to a door marked with Monteiro’s name. The young clerk knocked on it briskly.
When the door opened, Monteiro stood there, his handsome face expressionless. He leaned close to the young man and spoke softly enough that Duilio could barely make out his words. “When she arrives, will you ask Miss Arenias to wait here until I call her, Narciso? Otherwise I don’t want to be interrupted.”
T
he young man nodded, gestured for Duilio and Oriana to enter, and swept himself away. Duilio watched Monteiro, wondering how the man could remain so cool, here with his daughter finally in his presence. The office matched with Duilio’s estimation of the man’s taste, well appointed, with a fine mahogany desk and framed maps on the walls that suggested a fondness for cartography. Duilio gestured for Oriana to precede him inside.
Oriana’s eyes swept the office, but when the door shut, she turned on her father. “Why now?” she asked, voice choked. “Why do you care about me now?”
Monteiro shot Duilio an annoyed glance. “You don’t need to be here, Ferreira.”
“He stays or I go,” Oriana said, clutching her handbag tighter.
Monteiro folded his arms over his chest but gave in. “I wanted to see that you were well. You are my daughter.”
“That hasn’t ever mattered before,” Oriana snapped.
Duilio schooled his expression to neutrality. He’d guessed they were estranged, but he must have underestimated the extent of it . . . vastly so.
“It has always mattered,” her father said. “But they have been using you against me from the beginning, and I must protect—”
“What? Your fortune? How exactly have you suffered, Father? What have they done to you? Were you the one left to die on that island?”
Her voice had grown louder with each question. She opened up her handbag, drew something out, and chucked it at him. The object struck Monteiro’s chest before he could bat it away and rebounded to the floor with a metallic clunk. It was the shackle that had bound Oriana to the post. Duilio had wondered why she’d asked to have it. It hadn’t occurred to him she’d carry it about with her.
The Seat of Magic Page 14
