“They’re all my cards, boy, so leave it alone.”
That seemed unfair. One of these days he was going to find a book that listed the supposed meanings of each card. For all he knew, Felis was making it up as she went along.
She slid the jack of clubs out from where it had been hidden behind another card. She scowled and said, “There’s a man involved. A man with ill intent.”
Well, he had to agree that the man who’d put Miss Paredes in the river had ill intent. Perhaps the card represented the artist, Espinoza. “I knew that,” Duilio said. “Any ideas where I can look for her?”
“Back to the water, boy. She’s going back to the water.” She looked up then, clearly at the end of her reading. “That’s where you’ll find her.”
Duilio sat back, puzzling over that claim. It was so vague as to be useless. Felis began to retrieve her cards, apparently ready to leave. When she picked up the last card—the hidden one she’d said belonged to him—she chuckled to herself. Duilio leaned around and saw the king of hearts in her fingers. “What does that mean?”
Felis tucked it in among the others, slid the box back in her pocket, and gathered up her handkerchief full of barnacles. “Remember, boy, you don’t believe in the cards.”
He felt a flush creep up his cheeks. Her tone wasn’t remonstrative; more teasing than anything else. But he didn’t believe in fortune-telling. Not exactly. He wished he’d thought to dissemble instead of admitting that as a child. He helped her to her feet and opened the library door for her. “I believe in you, Miss Felis, which is more important.”
The old woman snorted and walked out without a backward glance.
Duilio paced around the library once, trying to settle his anxious mind. In the far corner, the normal collection of social invitations waited on his desk for his attention, but he didn’t sit. The prayer niche between two bookshelves offered no answer at the moment. He contemplated the liquor cabinet and decided that wasn’t the answer either; that had been Alessio’s favored response to problems, and it had never served him well.
Somewhere on the library shelves, Duilio recalled, there should be a volume in French that told of the strange and barbaric society of the sereia out on their islands, supposedly penned by a sailor who’d been there. His father had brought the book from Lyons or Marseilles, and Duilio had read it a dozen times as a boy. He halfheartedly scanned the shelves, aware that the answer wouldn’t be between its covers either. He couldn’t find the book, though. It was probably sitting next to the copy of the Camões epic that Joaquim claimed should be in this library; he still hadn’t found that.
Duilio finally flung himself onto the sofa and stayed there, fretting.
If he were to seriously consider the fortune Felis had laid out before him, then he had to believe Oriana Paredes would go back to the water. Not her home, not the islands, but to the river. Could she be swimming in the chill waters even at this moment, living in the rough, as selkies did? That didn’t seem right. Every time he’d set eyes on her she’d seemed to fit in perfectly, not chafing at the restrictions of human society. He could no more imagine Miss Paredes hiding among the moored boats along the quay than he could his own mother. No, Oriana Paredes was living in the city. She was going to the water. Returning, Felis had said.
Duilio sat up abruptly. He knew exactly where he would find Miss Paredes; his gift told him he was right. She was going to return to the scene of the crime.
CHAPTER 8
MONDAY, 29 SEPTEMBER 1902
The sides of the submersible groaned, an eerie sound to hear while trapped inside its metal body. Oriana pressed closer to the viewing window. She clutched her hands tighter about her handbag to still their shaking. She didn’t trust this creaking metal fish.
She could have simply swum here but couldn’t afford to risk being seen. And she hadn’t wanted to breathe in that death-laden water, so she’d sold her best pair of embroidered silk mitts to old Mrs. Nunhes at the boarding house to purchase a ticket aboard this rickety contraption. Now she’d begun to question that decision.
Set every few feet along the walls of the submersible’s viewing room, the white-painted casings of small round windows dripped water onto the decking, whether from leakage or condensation, Oriana didn’t know. Either possibility suggested poor workmanship. Even so, she was only one of nearly a dozen paying customers crammed into the small vessel. Finely dressed citizens of the Golden City pressed against those dripping windows, straining to catch a glimpse of The City Under the Sea.
She’d come to this place, hoping that another viewing of the floating houses might reveal some clue she’d missed before. She wanted more to tell Nela’s Lady if she agreed to meet with her. They were getting close, so Oriana steeled herself to look at the sunken houses.
The man sharing her window, a gentleman she’d seen somewhere before, craned his neck to look toward the surface above them. She already knew what she’d see. She clenched her jaw, drew out her small notebook, and gazed out the window. Lanterns inside the submersible lit the scale replicas of the Street of Flowers. With the sun shining down on it, the river’s surface above them truly did look like a silvery street with its houses lined up neatly in file.
It was art that only those who swam could appreciate. Or those who observed from vehicles such as this, chugging and whirring through the calm waters of the river’s edge. It was a shameful waste of money, made all the more sickening by the macabre details that the other observers with her didn’t know. No one in this contraption understood what they were viewing, but she had tasted death in that water, many deaths.
The replica of the Amaral house was remarkably accurate, a fact she hadn’t noticed that night. There was even a wrought-iron railing on the second-floor balcony. On either side she saw the Pereira de Santos home and the Rocha mansion, just as she remembered. Oriana stared at the houses, unable to tear her eyes away. Who would do this? And if necromancy was involved, what were they trying to achieve?
From one corner of the house’s top—its floor—she could make out a sliver of pale light. That had to be the table glowing, visible where she’d pushed the boards loose enough to wriggle out. Had the wood swollen back to close the gap? Odd that no one seemed to have noticed the damage.
“Have you ever seen anything so magnificent?” her companion asked, awe in his voice. The light musky scent of ambergris cologne floated with him when he leaned nearer.
Oriana shuddered, thinking of that dark room where Isabel waited still. And then she couldn’t bear to look any longer.
She drew back from the window and, without answering him, returned to the gilt chairs bolted to the submersible’s observation deck. She shouldn’t have wasted her dwindling funds on this. She hadn’t taken a single note. She hadn’t learned anything new and, now that she’d seen it, she only wanted to escape this place. She wanted to cover her eyes to hide away from the memory of that night. Instead, she forced her hands to settle neatly on her lap, kept her back straight and her chin up.
They were coming about to return to the quay, the captain announced through his speaker. When he requested that all his guests return to their seats, the other viewers left their windows with obvious reluctance. Oriana drew up the hem of her skirts enough to keep them from the water that flowed across the observation deck as the submersible canted at an angle, glad she’d already taken a seat.
She felt the sting of tears at the back of her throat. She didn’t want to embarrass herself, not here, not among these people who had no understanding of what they’d seen.
The ambergris-scented gentleman settled next to her. He hadn’t sat next to her on the ride out to this spot, so it was a matter of choice. Oriana clutched her handbag and favored him with a weak smile.
“They say the artist will do the entire city eventually.” His deep voice was low enough that others wouldn’t overhear the discussion—surely intentional—bu
t his tone carried admiration, hinting that Oriana shouldn’t say anything to disparage the artist in question.
She didn’t want to talk to him. He was a gentleman, surely one of the decorative types who did nothing all day long. He would discover quickly that she was merely a glorified servant and be embarrassed to have spoken to her at all. “There would be no room for the fish,” she returned without much enthusiasm.
He smiled slightly, his lips pressed together, as if he found that amusing but was too well-bred to laugh. “Ah yes, the fish. I suppose we must consider the sereia as well, and not encroach too much upon their waters.”
Oriana resisted the urge to look at him, a flutter of panic swelling in her belly. Had he guessed her secret? Or was his mention of the sereia a coincidence? At least his comment didn’t seem to require an answer. She lifted one hand and tugged at the high neck of her cambric shirtwaist, making sure her gill slits were covered. She wished she’d brought a shawl.
The gentleman was named Duilio, she recalled, a nephew or son of one of the merchant-adventurers who’d served the prince’s father in days past. She couldn’t recall where she’d met him, though. He inhabited the edges of society, if she remembered correctly, a lower sphere than the Amaral family. Isabel wouldn’t have favored him with her conversation. Sitting next to him in the confines of the metal ship, Oriana didn’t have any choice. The other viewers had all taken seats again, so trying to escape him would only make him curious.
He was an attractive man although not particularly striking. Nothing marked him as out of the ordinary. Taller than average, but only an inch or two taller than she was. His dark hair was short cropped, and he wore a frock coat and trousers in somber hues. He had limpid brown eyes, though, and an amiable manner that made Oriana hope he might be harmless. Where had they met before?
“Don’t you agree?” he asked then.
Evidently he did expect an answer. She kept her breathing calm and, hoping to evade further conversation, repeated a claim she’d read in the newspapers. “An entire city suspended from the bottom of the river would pose a navigation hazard.”
Duilio laughed, his head thrown back, displaying even teeth. “I had no idea you were a wit.”
A wit? Oriana shifted uncomfortably on the delicate chair. She couldn’t quite tell whether he meant that as a compliment or sarcasm. “I am generally considered quite dull, sir.”
He glanced down, fingering the fine scarf that hung about his neck, old gold against the dark gray of his frock coat. “I do wonder if people are mistaken about you.”
No, it didn’t sound like sarcasm. She appraised him while his hands were occupied. His coat looked custom made—nothing bought ready-made, like hers. His wool trousers appeared freshly pressed and his patent shoes shone, a sure sign that his valet earned his keep. Oriana felt more aware then of her worn black skirt and pinching shoes.
He glanced at her. “May I ask, are you not Miss Paredes, companion to Lady Isabel Amaral?”
She suppressed a groan. She would have preferred that Duilio Who Smelled of Ambergris didn’t remember her. She peered at him cautiously. “I was.”
He nodded, his eyes going serious. “I hear she’s gone abroad. Do you know when she’ll return?”
She fixed her eyes on the metal wall straight ahead of her. If she looked at him when she answered, she might give herself away. “I’m no longer employed in the Amaral household,” she said. It was an honest answer, one no one would refute. “I’m afraid I’m not privy to their plans.”
Despite her determination to appear composed, Oriana’s mind brought forth an image of Isabel’s face, hair streaming about her in the water, her expression frozen between terror and resignation . . . and the pain of that night swept over her again.
• • •
Miss Paredes had been behaving with such calm that Duilio had wondered if he was wrong about her. She had gazed up through the water at the replica of the Amaral house without a flicker of recognition reaching her features. She had fended off his intentionally insensitive comments with drivel that had been printed in the newspapers. She had made him doubt.
Until that moment, when he had asked her when Lady Isabel would return.
Something in her eyes gave away her pain. She had been in that house after all. He considered it impressive that she’d chosen to face the scene of what might have been her death. Some victims of crimes never could go back. That argued strength on her part, or stubbornness, or both. And if her grief was a pretense, she should be on the stage at the São João Theater.
He’d been trying to come up with a way to earn her trust, if that was possible. Now he was tempted to console her—perhaps lay one of his hands over hers—which would have been presumptuous of him. He glanced about to see if anyone had noticed her distress and intended to intervene, but the other patrons of the vehicle were happily chattering away.
“My mother is in half mourning,” he said. She didn’t respond, but he continued anyway. “Eventually she’ll go back into society and it would benefit her to have a companion. I wonder, as you’re no longer employed by the Amaral family, if you’re between positions?”
Her large eyes remained fixed on some terrible vision within.
He kept going. “If so, I think you should apply to my mother to be her companion.”
Miss Paredes shook her head briefly, as if rising from sleep.
“She has been searching for one for some time,” Duilio lied.
She blinked and glanced up, her eyes meeting his almost by accident.
No, surely not human. The wide dark eyes seemed too large for her fine-boned face, the irises almost black. Eyes made for seeing in the darkness of deep water. Duilio felt he could almost see into her soul. She’s afraid, he thought. Alone.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, sounding perplexed.
Duilio drew a calling card from the inside pocket of his frock coat. “Come by tomorrow afternoon for tea. My mother will be expecting you.”
“And what should I tell her?” Miss Paredes asked hesitantly, allowing him to lay the card on her palm. The black silk mitts she wore bared only the tips of her long fingers.
He dangled the bait in front of her. “That you would like to be her new companion, of course. She’s sure to like you.”
Miss Paredes carefully tucked the card into her purse. “Thank you, sir.”
Ah, now he had gone from annoying gentleman to potential employer. As he didn’t want her to flee, he set about making inane conversation, one of the skills he’d found terribly useful in his work. A large number of the Golden City’s social elite believed him only half a step away from idiocy. They would say almost anything in front of him, never realizing he was listening. Rather like a lady’s companion. “So, Miss Paredes, have you read yet of Prince Fabricio’s new coat? It was in the Gazette this very morning. A gift from the ambassador in Goa, they say. India, you know. Very exotic.”
She didn’t protest the new topic of conversation. She patiently let him tell her all about the new coat as if she were accustomed to gentlemen blathering on about trivial things. He’d read the bizarre news item that morning and recalled most of the details. Those he didn’t, he simply fabricated. She continued to nod at polite intervals, the tension in her shoulders slowly easing.
He was relieved, though, when the submersible came up next to the quay, and not only because he wanted to breathe fresh, nonpressurized air again. It had been difficult to maintain his facade of absurdity when there were so many questions he wanted desperately to ask this woman. This wasn’t the right time or place, though, and Miss Paredes clearly wasn’t the confiding sort. If he pressed her, she would likely run in the opposite direction. No, he needed some leverage to get her to talk to him, and he had an idea what might work.
For the moment he settled for helping her up the wide plank leading from the door of the submersible to the qu
ay. “Remember, Miss Paredes, my mother will be expecting you.”
She nodded, whatever she felt about that offer hiding behind those dark, now-opaque eyes. Then she was gone.
CHAPTER 9
Isabel Amaral’s eyes were wide in the pale oval of her face. One lock of hair had come loose and streamed across her cheek, up to her lap. The air was slipping away, leaving them with the water that would kill Isabel. Her eyes pleaded for help . . . and then her lips opened and a flood of bubbles streamed from her mouth, the last of her breath.
Her body jerked convulsively against the ropes that bound her there. Oriana tried to reach her, tried to do something, anything, but she failed.
Isabel went still. Her head began to sway loosely with the motion of the water, that single strand of hair floating past her open mouth and snagging against her lips. And an eldritch glow began to fill their watery prison, the table with its spells and death.
Oriana turned her eyes toward it, but it blurred, none of the letters or words containing any meaning. And if she didn’t figure it out, she would have to watch Isabel die over and over again.
• • •
TUESDAY, 30 SEPTEMBER 1902
Oriana sat up abruptly in her narrow bed, her gills agonizingly dry. She pressed her hands hard against the sides of her neck, putting pressure on her gills to force the pain to subside. Tears slid down her cheeks, a reaction to the terror that had pursued her beyond her dream.
After a moment, she wiped her tears away and covered her face with her hands. Instead of figuring out some new method of hunting Espinoza, she’d spent the whole evening curled on the bed in her rented room, crying. Not just for Isabel, but for everything she’d lost, all the pain and regrets of her life catching up to her at once.
She needed to pull herself together. She took several deep breaths, praying for strength.
And she did feel better then, as if her night’s misery had floated away on her breath. The sun had already risen. Her windows faced west, so it was still dim in the room, but she forced herself to get up and lay out the cleanest of her remaining garments, a black suit that flattered her pale complexion. She’d sewn blue ribbons around the hems of the skirt and the jacket’s bodice to smarten it up. The seat of the skirt was shiny with wear, but no one would note that unless they were seeking to find fault. She hoped it would be good enough; she had an interview this afternoon.
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