The Seat of Magic

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  He didn’t step away. She still held one hand about his neck. The other lay on his back inside his coat. He couldn’t decipher her expression, but then she smiled.

  “I love you, Oriana,” he told her.

  Her eyes began to glisten. She licked her lower lip and almost spoke, but then it seemed as if her words were caught in her throat.

  Why does that not surprise me? She was far more reticent than he was. Duilio touched his forehead to hers. “That kiss was a perfect gift.”

  Her head tilted in the way that always made him think that if only she could, she would be blushing. He stayed there a moment, only holding her. But then he eased away, managing to catch one of her hands. “I have a gift for you, by the way. Is that allowed in this courtship procedure?”

  She apparently didn’t trust herself to speak, but nodded quickly. He drew her over to his desk where Joaquim’s other case waited. He drew a wooden box out of the case and opened it to display the contents for her. She cast him a baffled look.

  He picked up the revolver from within. It was smaller than he preferred and unattractive like its name, but it had decent accuracy and had been simple to alter. “It’s called a bulldog because it’s short and stubby. I picked it up in England.”

  “Along with your penchant for big breakfasts?” she asked slyly.

  “Yes,” he admitted. “I also brought back an alarm clock, a bundle of books, and a kilt.”

  Oriana rolled her eyes.

  “Very well, I didn’t buy a kilt,” he admitted. “You didn’t look at this, did you? Joaquim had one of the men at the shop take off the trigger guard, so it won’t hurt your webbing.” That had been the issue before—most guns required stretching the index finger away from the middle finger and thumb, far enough to be uncomfortable for a sereia. The smaller size of this weapon meant less of a stretch for her webbing and now there was no trigger guard to pinch it, either. He pointed out the screw they’d set in front of the trigger. “This can be tightened to keep the gun from firing accidentally.”

  She took the small revolver pistol gingerly. “Not loaded, is it?”

  “No,” he told her.

  She wrapped her hand around the ivory grip, pulled back the hammer, and set her finger on the trigger. Her manner suggested that she did, as she’d once claimed, have familiarity with firearms. She pulled the trigger, flinching when the hammer sprang forward with a click. But then she smiled widely. “This is a perfect gift.”

  * * *

  The dinner went smoothly, with no one resorting to harsh words at the table. Oriana managed to keep her calm. Her father seemed equally determined not to upset either Lady Ferreira or Marina with their normal squabbling.

  Joaquim wore a coat that Oriana recognized as one of Duilio’s. His white tie and light gray waistcoat flattered his darker complexion. As Duilio had gone to talk to Joaquim after leaving her in the library, he’d evidently gotten over his short-lived fit of jealousy. Oriana smiled to herself. She’d never had a man jealous over her before and, while Duilio had stepped between her and Erdano once or twice, that had been more along the lines of protection than jealousy. Duilio understood that Erdano merely annoyed her with his unsubtle attempts at seduction.

  It was plain from his behavior during dinner where Joaquim’s interests lay. He was seated next to Marina, across from Oriana and her father. He listened attentively to Marina’s every word, something that wasn’t lost on Lady Ferreira where she sat at the head of the table. While Oriana was eating her soup the lady cast a glance her way that seemed to ask her opinion. Oriana shrugged. She wasn’t going to interfere in that situation any further.

  Since Lady Ferreira insisted, Oriana didn’t wear mitts. Everyone here already knew her secret anyway. It was a relief to sit at the table and eat without having to hide her hands. She didn’t drop a single spoon or fumble with a knife.

  Lady Ferreira managed to carry most of the conversation with her father, sparing Oriana from talking to him too much. She asked him discreet questions about his business in the city, about Marina’s job there, and the current investment atmosphere, which demonstrated that she did read the trade daily from end to end. Oriana didn’t even mind when Lady Ferreira invited her father—and Lady Pereira de Santos—to the still-unplanned dinner party.

  After dinner Oriana retired to the sitting room with Lady Ferreira and Marina, who seemed awed by everything she saw in the house. Oriana tried to recall if she’d felt the same way when she’d first arrived in the Ferreira household, but she’d been tired and careworn then. And she’d never had Marina’s natural effusiveness.

  “Father says I’m not to go anywhere alone,” Marina was telling Lady Ferreira as Oriana settled on the couch next to her. “So he’ll escort me back to my flat and come back up to check on Lady P.”

  Oriana saw Lady Ferreira’s lips press together exactly as Duilio’s would have done on hearing that abbreviation of the lady’s name—holding a laugh inside. “I could get Filho to escort you back to your apartment,” the lady offered.

  Marina flushed. “Oh. I wouldn’t want him to go out of his way.”

  The lady asked after the address and then pronounced, “That won’t be a problem, since it’s in the same direction as his.”

  Oriana sighed inwardly, wishing she’d gone off to the library with the men.

  * * *

  Monteiro was going out of his way to be civil, so Duilio steered the conversation away from either of his daughters. He poured a brandy for each of the three of them, and gestured for Monteiro to take his choice of the sofa or a chair at the table. The man chose the table, and took a sip of his brandy as Joaquim moved over to the sofa and sat there—probably still thinking.

  “Your mother is a very gracious hostess,” Monteiro said.

  “She has only been out of mourning for a few weeks,” Duilio said, “but she enjoys having company.”

  “Apparently she does not mind varied company,” Monteiro said then. “Most fine households would not be so welcoming to my daughters. I am grateful.”

  “Mother does not care for uninteresting people,” Duilio said, “so by that measurement, you and your daughters are the best of guests.”

  Monteiro seemed to take that as a compliment, which was how he’d meant it. “Thank you, Mr. Ferreira.”

  Duilio went to the desk and retrieved the leather-bound book he’d intended to show Ambassador Alvaro. “I wanted to ask you about this, sir. My father claimed these books came from your islands. Oriana told me she can’t read them—that it would take a scholar.”

  Monteiro took the book and gazed down at the strange script on the spine. “I’m hardly a scholar,” he said, “but I can read this. Before I came to live here, I worked converting ancient texts to modern print. This is a history, telling of the reign of Queen Jacona.”

  “I actually have several books like this,” Duilio said. “I considered offering them to the ambassador. I can’t make use of them, so it seemed appropriate.”

  “How many do you have?” Monteiro asked.

  Duilio went to the case in which the others were locked. “Six volumes in all, but the bindings are different. They don’t appear to be a set.”

  Monteiro flipped through the pages of the one he still held. “I remember reading this as a child, although in Portuguese. Rather boring.”

  Duilio drew out the remaining books and set them atop the table for Monteiro’s perusal. None were in as pristine shape as the first—which made sense if it was a boring book—but only one could be considered tattered. “Do the islands import their paper?”

  “Timber is an abundant resource there, but cutting is limited and most of that is used for construction,” Monteiro said as he picked up another book and read the spine. “So yes, most paper is imported. Trading is mostly with Spain and England these days, since we’re cut off from Northern Portugal.”

 
That was to be expected. The sereia had long ties to the Portuguese people, dating back to the claiming of the islands for the Portuguese by Vasco da Gama in 1499. When the Spanish attempted to take the islands by force during the sixteenth century, King Sebastian I had sent ships to protect the sereia. Despite those ties, the ban prevented them from trading with Northern Portugal while superstition kept them out of Southern Portugal. The sereia believed that the 1755 earthquake that destroyed Lisboa—or more precisely the tidal wave that followed it—had been an unfavorable judgment by the gods of the sea. Even so, Duilio disliked hearing that his people had been replaced in favor by the Spanish.

  “This is another history and this, a novel.” Monteiro laid aside those two books. He picked up the tattered book and peered at the spine. Then he opened it, his dark brows drawing together.

  “I’ve often wondered if tourists were allowed to visit,” Duilio said then. “Was that done before the ban?”

  Monteiro didn’t respond. Instead, he began to flip through the book, stopping briefly on various pages. His lips made a stern line.

  “Sir? What is it?”

  Monteiro glanced up. “Burn this one.”

  Joaquim came over to look at the offending book.

  Duilio gazed down at the page, the dashes and lines indecipherable to him. “Why?”

  Monteiro shook his head. “All copies of this book were destroyed about fifty years ago.”

  Clearly not all. “Then this is one of few copies left?”

  “This is the journal of a monster,” Monteiro said, casting a glance up at the both of them as they stood over him. “His name was Dr. Castigliani. A Sicilian, I think. He did terrible things in his quest for knowledge. The copies—there were only about fifty printed—were destroyed to prevent anyone from taking ideas from his work. There’s some debate as to why they were printed in the first place. He was a human doctor, after all, and male.”

  Duilio sat again. History was filled with men who thought their goals made the means, however questionable, acceptable. Maraval had thought so. “What did he do?”

  Monteiro turned the spine toward him, showing its sereia script in faded gold leaf. “This book is called The Seat of Magic. The doctor was searching for the organs in the body that housed magic. This is the journal of his dissections.” He shut the book. “Or his vivisections. He kept his victims alive as long as possible to see the results of removing various organs.”

  Duilio’s gift warned him, a jangling of his nerves. Not that he was in danger, but that he was in the presence of something immensely important. “Of sereia?”

  Joaquim’s hand touched Duilio’s shoulder. Clearly he saw the relationship, too.

  “Yes,” Monteiro said, his jaw clenched. “That’s why he came to our islands. He’d already studied otter folk, selkies, fairies. Anything with any magic, he managed to find them and take them apart. Human witches, too, if I recall correctly. Ultimately, he was executed for his experiments on the island, but his notes survived.” He pushed the book farther away from him. “This is the transcription of those notes—in the language of our scholars, as a precaution, so the common sereia couldn’t read it. Even so, the book was deemed too dangerous and ordered destroyed.”

  Duilio stared down at the closed book for a moment, noting the tattered edges of the fabric cover. This volume had been read many times. “But not all copies were accounted for?”

  “Most, but not all.” Monteiro said. “I heard of a scholar caught studying one once. She was exiled because she’d read it.”

  Duilio pinched the bridge of his nose. Monteiro didn’t see the relationship, but that was because he didn’t have the information they did.

  “Was it ever translated into a human tongue?” Joaquim asked. “Or did his original notes survive?”

  Monteiro turned mistrustful eyes on Joaquim. “Why do you ask?”

  Joaquim’s eyes slid over to meet his, so Duilio explained. “The girls who’ve been murdered, sir. We didn’t tell you how the other two died, but in each case what was done could be seen as removal of what was magic about them, as if someone removed that seat of magic from their bodies.”

  * * *

  The servants had pulled off the dinner with ease, despite having the morning off. Joaquim dutifully agreed to escort Marina back to her flat, her father had left, and no blood had been spilled.

  Oriana wished she’d spoken with her father privately, but he’d brought her a sealed letter that must hold answers to the questions she’d written out. The idea of reading it made her nervous. She wasn’t sure she was ready to hear his side.

  She found Duilio in the library, pensively staring at a glass of brandy she suspected he would never drink. “What did the three of you talk about?”

  He pointed to a book lying next to the giant clamshells on the table. “That thing.”

  The faded lettering on the spine was in her people’s ancient language. “What is it?”

  As he told her of her father’s description, a sick feeling grew in her stomach. She’d never heard of the book, but that wasn’t surprising. She’d never made much effort to become a scholar. “Someone is . . . experimenting?”

  “We don’t know that,” he said. “It’s an alternative we’d never considered before.”

  Thinking of someone experimenting on her sister, Oriana shuddered.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No,” she said. “These people sicken me. Like Maraval, they play with people’s lives because they think their grand plans are more important than anything else.”

  He remained quiet for a moment, then apparently recalled something he’d forgotten. He picked through the pockets of his jacket and produced an envelope. “Your father gave me this yesterday, but I forgot it in the flurry over Felipa Reyna’s death. It’s the note that warned him not to talk. He received it the day before Lady Pereira de Santos came to see me.”

  She took the envelope from his hand and turned it over to peer at the broken seal. It seemed familiar. “This looks like the last note I had from Maria Melo. I wonder . . . I left it in my room. Do you think Teresa would have thrown it out?”

  Duilio rose and held out one hand to help her up. “Let’s find out.”

  He sent one of the footmen to locate the maid while they headed up to her bedroom. Duilio waited outside, and a moment later the fresh-faced maid came dashing along the hallway.

  Teresa looked surprised by Duilio’s presence, but when he stood aside, she went on in to speak with Oriana. “Yes, I remember, miss,” she said once Oriana explained what she was looking for. “There were two letters. I put them in the little vanity table. I know right where they are.” The maid disappeared into the dressing room and emerged a second later with two small envelopes in her hand. “Here they are, miss.”

  Oriana took the envelopes. The first was still unopened. She’d received it when they were hunting Isabel’s killer and hadn’t wanted to give up the hunt if her orders told her to leave the city, so she’d never opened it. The second had arrived after they’d caught Maraval. That envelope’s seal was broken. Oriana shuffled them about in her hands and went out into the hall to show Duilio. She held out the two opened ones. “Same handwriting, and it’s the same seal. See the M?”

  He slid the unopened one from her grasp. “This one’s different.”

  It bore an M like the other two, but in a different script. The wax was also different. “I guess she used Heriberto’s supplies.”

  “Not the same handwriting, either,” Duilio pointed out.

  Oriana glanced down at the handwriting on the sealed envelope. It bore both of her maternal surnames, but Mrs. Melo had intimated that she’d known Oriana’s mother. Even so, the longer she looked at it, the more familiar the hand was. Oriana crossed to the table where she’d laid her father’s missive earlier that night and turned the envelope over to look at the seal.
It matched.

  The first missive—the one she’d ignored—had come from her father. M for Monteiro, not Melo. Oriana licked her lips. “It’s from my father. He tried to contact me.”

  “What does that mean?” Duilio asked softly.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I . . . I need to read these.”

  Duilio handed her the other envelope. “I’ll say good night, then.”

  Teresa, who’d stood quietly to one side, bobbed politely when he wished her a good night as well. Then he was gone, leaving Oriana alone with the maid.

  “Thank you for saving these, Teresa,” Oriana said. “Um . . . why don’t I change for the night and you can go on to bed.”

  Half an hour later Oriana sat on the leather settee near the bedroom door, the unopened envelopes lying on her lap. The note from Mrs. Melo wasn’t surprising. The warning addressed to her father was only one sentence long, saying that if he talked, he would share his daughter’s fate. Maria Melo didn’t waste words, Oriana recalled.

  She then opened the first note from her father, the one she’d ignored.

  I’m not supposed to contact you, it said, but H intimated that you’re in danger. If you need, I can hide you, M.

  Her father had offered her a safe haven. He’d done it despite knowing that Heriberto might turn him over to the Special Police if he found out.

  Oriana pressed a hand to her stomach, regretting now the angry words she’d said to her father on Friday. She’d accused him of not caring what happened to her. Now she held proof in her hands that she’d been wrong. Sighing, she laid the note on the table at her elbow and broke the seal on his new missive, wherein he’d answered the questions she’d written out for him.

  Her father’s hand was excellent, something she’d forgotten in the last decade. She smoothed her fingers across the page, flattening it. And then she started to read.