“I don’t want Miss Paredes near your station, Joaquim.” There were no other diners seated near enough to overhear them, so Duilio told the truth. “She’s a sereia.”
That gave Joaquim pause. “Truly? How do you know?”
He was not going to tell Joaquim how much of an eyeful he’d gotten the afternoon before. It had probably been an unwise action, given the effect the mere sight of her nude had on him. He should probably start looking about for a mistress—although he wouldn’t mention that to his cousin. Joaquim had a prudish streak, likely a reaction to having been raised around Alessio and having Erdano as a regular guest at the house. Joaquim had even considered entering the priesthood, choosing the seminary over the university at Coimbra. He’d been relieved when Joaquim finally chose the police instead.
Duilio puffed out his cheeks, deciding how best not to offend him. “I’ve seen her webbed hands and her gills,” he admitted. “I’m absolutely certain she’s a sereia. I’ve honestly suspected it for some time.”
Joaquim gave him a flat stare. “And you didn’t think to mention that to me?”
Duilio tried for a casual shrug. “I didn’t want to bother you with excess information if it turned out to be . . . unimportant.”
“Wrong, you mean.” Joaquim eyed him with exasperation. “This is why you’re right all the time: because you omit all the times you’re wrong.”
That sounded damningly like what Miss Paredes had said about seers the night before. Duilio waved airily, a gesture he usually saved for his society persona. “Dear Joaquim, I’m simply infallible.”
Joaquim laughed, a rarity. “So, what else haven’t you told me yet, assuming I don’t need to be bothered?”
“Too many things to count.” Duilio didn’t intend to tell Joaquim any more about Miss Paredes. He wasn’t going to mention her striking coloration, her narrow waist, or her lovely breasts. “Unfortunately, I was right about Lady Isabel. She’s dead. Miss Paredes can breathe underwater, so she had time to untie herself and escape, but she watched Lady Isabel die.”
Joaquim rubbed a hand over his face and sighed, his expression changing to sympathy. “Poor girl. Why did she not go to the police? Wait . . . never mind. She’s a sereia; no police. Did she see who put them in the house?”
“No, she was drugged and only woke once inside,” Duilio told him. “Lady Isabel was intending to elope with Mr. Efisio, as the paper says, but she and her companion were grabbed by a different coach than the one they expected. They were disguised as housemaids.”
“Fatal mistake,” Joaquim said softly.
Duilio held up one finger in warning as the waiter approached with his coffee. One never knew where a stranger stood on the matter of nonhumans. Once the man had gone again, Duilio shook out his napkin, laid it in his lap and took a sip of his coffee. It was strong, as he preferred. “I discussed the case with Miss Paredes in detail this morning.”
Joaquim perked up at that. “Did she give you any new leads?”
Leaning closer, Duilio tried to tell Joaquim most of what Miss Paredes told him. The mention of the table’s inscription coming to life after Lady Isabel’s death caused Joaquim to glance about, as if the necromancer might come to the café to find them. Duilio withdrew the sketch from his pocket and slid it across the table.
When Joaquim read the writing in the outer circle, his brows drew together. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s in Latin,” Duilio offered sarcastically. Joaquim’s Latin was, without doubt, better than his own.
Joaquim gave Duilio a dry look, folded up the paper, and passed it back. “I mean that I don’t understand the choice of scripture. Why use that one?”
Aha! That was why he’d felt those words were familiar. “Sorry. Which one?”
Joaquim rolled his eyes. “Ego autem et domus mea serviemus Domino. The Book of Joshua, Chapter Twenty-four. ‘However I and my house will follow the Lord.’”
It appeared that Joaquim hadn’t forgotten any of his seminary training while on the police force. “Could this be the Jesuits, then?”
During the ugly days of the Inquisition, witches had hidden inside the Church to escape persecution and most had eventually gravitated toward the nascent Jesuit order. Joaquim had studied with the Benedictines, though, so he didn’t have many connections among the Jesuits. He shook his head. “I can’t imagine they would condone any part of this, Duilio. And the verse doesn’t fit, anyway. It has nothing to do with these crimes.”
“There are houses involved,” Duilio reminded him, which earned another dry look.
The waiter arrived then with two plates: Duilio’s hearty meal of liver and sausage with fried potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, and broa, along with Joaquim’s fish soup. Duilio couldn’t understand how Joaquim didn’t starve; Joaquim was the heavier of the two of them. Duilio simply seemed to require more food. Thinking of that, he picked up a fork.
“Miss Paredes is supposed to meet someone regarding the table’s inscription tomorrow night,” he said. “So perhaps it will make more sense afterward.”
Joaquim nodded but didn’t ask about Miss Paredes’ unknown contact.
Duilio was grateful that Joaquim, such a stickler in some areas, was willing to bend in the important matters. As a police inspector, he was walking a fine line. He hadn’t asked why Miss Paredes was in the city, disguised as a human, but surely he’d guessed there was a chance she was a spy. Even so, the less he knew of her, the less he would have to hide.
Duilio had another concern to lay before him. “I should warn you, the man who pulled her out of the water wasn’t a fisherman, as I’d originally assumed. It was Paolo Silva.”
That made Joaquim set down his fork. “Silva? Your uncle Silva?”
Duilio was tempted to ask which other Paolo Silva it might be, but there were probably a hundred other men in the city with a name that common. “Yes, him. He told her he’d foreseen that a woman would be in the river in need of rescue, which Miss Paredes obviously was.”
Joaquim shook his head. “No good can come of that.”
“True. I’m worried he’ll try to make a public show of the fact that he ‘rescued’ her,” Duilio admitted. “She can’t afford that sort of attention.”
“Neither can we,” Joaquim pointed out. “Can you keep her hidden from him? If she stays to the house . . .”
Duilio pushed away his plate. “I suspect that if we ask her to sit by and do nothing, Miss Paredes will disappear and go hunting Espinoza on her own.”
“I see,” Joaquim said. “A militant sort, is she?”
Duilio held in a laugh. He didn’t know enough of Miss Paredes to speculate on her relative militancy. Not yet. “She doesn’t strike me as being willing to wait around merely because she’s female, and she knows another house will end up in the river in a week or so.”
Joaquim crossed himself. “Yes. We’ll simply have to work faster.”
Duilio only wished they had more to work with. “Will you tell Captain Santiago that I’m working on a new lead? I’d avoid telling him about Miss Paredes, though. He’d probably want to drag her into the station, and I’m not going to allow that.”
Joaquim cast him a shrewd glance before turning back to his soup. “I’ll be discreet.”
• • •
Oriana sat in her bedroom, a blue silk dress in a mass on her lap. After consulting with Teresa about the state of Oriana’s garments, Felis had picked it from among Lady Ferreira’s out-of-date clothing and ordered Oriana to wear it. Since what remained of her wardrobe wasn’t suitable for a ball, Oriana acquiesced. The waist needed to be taken in and the skirt was too short, but she could add a flounce made from part of the underskirt, alterations that she could easily do herself, since Lady Ferreira was napping. The dress would be presentable but somber, suitable for a companion in a house recently out of mourning.
The wi
ndow seat on which Oriana perched looked out over the Street of Flowers, giving her an excellent view of the traffic passing the house. It also offered the best light in the room. Working on dark fabric with dark thread was hard on the eyes, but she hated doing nothing.
She leaned forward against the window to get a better view of two men striding along the street. The streets weren’t crowded at this hour, so she got a good look at them as they walked in the direction of the quay. One was a fisherman with gray hair and worn shoes—Heriberto. As he walked down the Street of Flowers, he talked quietly with the Amarals’ footman Carlos.
Oriana shoved the dress off her lap and stepped over the crumpled mass on the floor. Her mitts lay on the table next to the leather settee, so she grabbed those up and slid them on before leaving her room and dashing down the stairs. Cardenas gave her a startled glance when she passed him in the hall. “I’m going out for a few minutes,” she told him. “I’ll be right back.”
“May I get you a hat, Miss Paredes?” he asked disapprovingly.
Bother. I am bareheaded. She glanced into the sitting room and spotted Lady Ferreira’s mantilla lying on one of the tables. She grabbed that and settled the comb into her hair, hoping that the lady wouldn’t mind. She tugged the veil forward to cover her face and headed out the door, ignoring Cardenas’ worried eyes.
She hurried down the steps and began walking as quickly as would be seemly. In a couple of minutes, she caught sight of the two men just as they turned down one of the side streets toward the Golden Church of São Francisco. Oriana hopped over a pile of mule dung as she crossed the street a few feet ahead of an approaching tram. She didn’t want to lose them.
Was Heriberto looking for her again? She hated the idea of being caught unawares, as she had when he’d found her before. She needed to know what he was after.
The two men stopped at the corner, forcing her to walk more slowly. There were a few more words said, and then Heriberto dropped a handful of coins into Carlos’ hand. That verified her suspicion that Carlos had spilled her hiding place at his kinswoman’s boarding house. Carlos slipped the coins into his pocket and strolled away toward the quay.
The money changing hands disabused her of any notion that his chat with Heriberto was a coincidence. Perhaps she should go to Heriberto and simply ask him what he was after now.
But once Carlos was out of sight, Heriberto walked around the corner onto Infante Henrique Street and up two levels of steps to reach the terrace in front of the church. Under the rose window, he glanced about and walked over to the stone railing that ran along the side. He leaned on the railing, apparently to wait. For whom?
On the street below, Oriana paused. Surely he would note a veiled woman walking back and forth. While the mantilla was commonly worn during Mass, it was too late in the day for that. She could go inside the church and pretend to pray, but then she wouldn’t learn what he was doing here. If only she’d thought to grab a sketchpad, she could pretend to be drawing the church’s stone facade or rose window.
She hesitated there at the base of the stairs, too long perhaps, because he leaned forward, as if he’d suddenly spotted her. She held her breath, prepared to run, but then realized he was gazing past her. Oriana glanced over her shoulder and felt her throat tighten.
Thank the gods she had the veil to hide her face.
The man striding toward her along São Francisco Street was dressed elegantly, a tall hat on his head and a polished cane in his hand. His frock coat and pinstriped trousers could pass for a gentleman’s garb, although he was actually a businessman. A handsome man in his late forties, he had only a touch of gray at his temples. He passed her with a tip of his hat and walked up the steps to meet Heriberto.
Oriana pressed her hand against her stomach and closed her eyes. Her father hadn’t recognized her, not with a veil hiding her face.
She made up her mind quickly, walking around the edge of the church grounds onto São Francisco Street. She leaned against the wall of the first house before casting a glance back.
It could be a coincidence. That was possible.
She laughed to herself and shook her head. She would have to be an idiot to believe this a coincidence. No, the only reason she could accept for her father to come so far from his home was to meet with the man.
So Heriberto was aware her father lived in the city. She had fervently hoped that he didn’t know, but Nela had commented last night about not divulging information to Heriberto, so apparently the prohibition against communicating with the exiles didn’t apply to him. It had been foolish to hope that her father, with his successful business and human lover, would have escaped Heriberto’s notice.
Then again, it meant that her father dealt with Heriberto on his own. Perhaps all her worries for his sake had been misplaced. She had feared that if Heriberto knew, he might turn her father in to the Special Police. It was the sort of underhanded thing Heriberto would threaten to get his way. But he hadn’t. Why not?
Realizing she’d been in one spot long enough to garner the attention of patrons of the small café, Oriana pushed herself away from the wall. She made up her mind quickly, going up the first flight of steps but not up to the next level to the church. She walked to an inward corner of the wall and paused there, almost directly under where Heriberto stood. She wrung her hands together, hoping she looked like a woman left waiting for a lover who never showed. She held her breath.
“. . . and I wouldn’t tell you if I did,” her father was saying. Snapping, actually. He was angry.
“You will tell me if you hear from her,” Heriberto said flatly, as if he had the upper hand.
“Or what? What more do you want? More money?”
Money? Her father was paying Heriberto? For what?
“I know your secret, Adriano,” Heriberto answered. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out about her?”
Oriana took a quick breath and didn’t catch what her father said in response.
“You want to keep your girl safe,” Heriberto said then, derision in his voice, “you’ll do what I say. I know where she lives.” Again, Oriana couldn’t make out her father’s response. Heriberto’s voice reached her ears clearly, though. “If Oriana comes to you, you tell me. You find out where she is, I want to know directly.”
Why was Heriberto suddenly looking for her? On Sunday he’d willingly given her two weeks to report in, yet now he needed to find her? Why so soon? Her father was speaking above her head, but Oriana couldn’t make out anything. She pressed her hands together, pacing again. When she turned in the direction of the café, she noted a woman watching her from one of the tables. The woman didn’t bother to look away when caught staring.
Oriana turned back, her pulse pounding in her ears. She couldn’t panic. If she were to run, it would be a sure sign she wasn’t supposed to be there. She doubted she could outrun Heriberto anyway, not in these pinching shoes. So she let her pacing take her back toward the stairwell, losing any chance of overhearing the conversation. The woman was still watching her, but Oriana kept her head down, trying to look . . . troubled. Not difficult at the moment.
She turned as if she’d finally come to some decision and briskly headed back the way she’d come. Even as she walked away, she felt the unknown woman’s eyes on her back.
Her temples throbbed. She’d attracted someone’s attention, something she couldn’t afford to do. The woman must have been watching Heriberto first, and spotted Oriana eavesdropping on his conversation. Who is she?
Oriana glanced over her shoulder, but didn’t see anyone in pursuit. The woman was bold enough that she hadn’t even tried to hide her appearance. She had thick brows and very hard eyes in a pale oval face. Dark hair pinned up neatly. Well dressed, but in stern black with a high collar. Her square jaw hinted that she could be a sereia, although something indefinable had been . . . off about her. Oriana would definitely recognize the woman
should she see her again.
If the woman was watching Heriberto, the most likely explanation was that she was his superior, perhaps checking up on him. But Oriana had met most of those who currently spied here and in Sintra, to the south, and she was certain she’d never seen that woman before.
CHAPTER 14
Duilio had dropped by the house prior to dinner to return the sketch he’d borrowed from Miss Paredes, only to learn that she’d gone out. Cardenas didn’t approve, of course, but Duilio managed to convince the man that Miss Paredes had gone out to run an errand for him.
Unfortunately, a note from the young boatman, João, prevented him from staying for dinner. Erdano had left a message requesting Duilio’s company, but neglected to tell João the reason. Since Erdano seldom demanded his presence, Duilio thought it best to find out what his selkie half brother had on his mind.
Erdano currently sprawled on the bench at the tavern, watching one of the waitresses. In human form he made a very large man, taller than Duilio by a hand and half again as broad. They didn’t resemble each other much, save about the eyes. He didn’t look back to Duilio when he said, “Tigana says Aga saw a woman on the water, a woman with webbed hands, so she sent her to you.”
“Yes,” Duilio said, not bothering to mentally untangle that sentence. “Tell Aga I appreciate her acuity, please.”
Erdano cast a perplexed look at him then, heavy brows drawing together in an exaggerated fashion.
Poor choice of words. Erdano didn’t read or write. Erdano’s father hadn’t seen any use for such things, and had won out over their mother’s urgings. Sometimes Duilio forgot that. “I appreciate that Aga was paying such close attention,” he clarified. “The woman with the webbed hands will be very helpful to my investigation.”
“Oh.” Erdano took another swig of his beer and licked his lips. “She’s a sereia, right? Is she pretty?”
Conversations with Erdano always followed this course. His brother had numerous females in his harem, but was perpetually eager to add more. “Yes,” Duilio admitted reluctantly. “She’s attractive.”
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