Duilio had to admit the man was correct. He disliked Silva for their shared past history. Then again, until recently he’d believed Espinoza complicit in the deaths of dozens, which now seemed wrong. There was a benefit to keeping an open mind. “I’ll try to do likewise.”
The inspector drank the last of his Vinho Verde and rose. Evidently he’d said all he’d come to tell them. “Good.”
“Anjos claimed that if Maraval hurt the Lady,” Joaquim said, “you would kill him.”
Gaspar chuckled. “Anjos underestimates me. I wouldn’t do anything so obvious. Nor would it be that fast.”
After bidding both of them a good night, he let himself out. Joaquim took over the chair the inspector had abandoned, looking intent. “They are an odd bunch. Do you think they work for the infante?”
“That’s my best guess,” Duilio said with a shrug, “although if it’s true, then it’s borderline treason, putting the infante ahead of the prince.”
“But the infante is under house arrest up at the palace,” Joaquim pointed out. “How could he possibly be pulling their strings? Anjos came all the way from Brazil, and Gaspar from Cabo Verde.”
Duilio had been considering that. “I suspect there are ways of working around the infante’s house arrest. There must be someone who can get in to see him, someone who knows his views and is willing to act on his orders. The Lady seems able to slip about unnoticed. She might be able to get in to speak with him undetected. And I’d bet there are plenty of wealthy men in this city who’d be willing to bankroll their future prince’s whims.”
“Meaning that they expect Prince Fabricio to die,” Joaquim said. “Soon enough for their efforts to pay off.”
It was a cynical thing for Joaquim to say, but Duilio wasn’t surprised by his conclusion. “Yes.”
“And do we believe Anjos and his crew?” Joaquim asked, pouring another glass of wine for him. “That they’re who they say they are?”
Duilio picked up the glass, thinking he should make this one his last. “Do you see an alternative? The Lady clearly has more influence than we do. If nothing else, they might be able to get one of the houses pulled up, perhaps even get a newspaper to dare to write about it.”
“Not a very ambitious plan,” Joaquim said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“It’s more than we had a week ago,” Duilio pointed out.
Joaquim sighed and set his glass on the table. “And now we’re assigned to the Special Police. That’s a distinction I never wanted to have.”
“I know.” Duilio rubbed a weary hand over his face. “I don’t know that we’ve gotten anywhere for that price.”
“Well,” Joaquim said, “Mata died on the way to the police station, so Alessio’s killer is dead. The officers watching the tavern say Maria Melo hasn’t reappeared there, so the Open Hand either knows that we’re watching the place or they’ve figured out about the sabotage and gotten rid of her.”
“That’s probably the reason for two weeks between the houses appearing in the water,” Duilio said. “It takes her time to set up the next pair of victims and arrange for their ‘departure’ to their new employment.”
Joaquim nodded. “That occurred to me.”
Duilio shook his head. “I want to believe Silva’s behind this, but it just doesn’t fit.”
“I know,” Joaquim said. “It’s getting late. Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
• • •
Oriana turned over, pushing the heavy coverlet aside. The large bed, no matter how comfortable, couldn’t entice her to sleep. Her mind kept replaying Heriberto’s warning.
The Open Hand was, according to Mr. Ferreira’s source, trying to make the prince into the king of Portugal. Oriana wasn’t sure that made sense. Prince Dinis II of Southern Portugal certainly wouldn’t agree to such a plan. After all, the two Portugals had been separate for well over a century, closer to two. Reuniting them would disrupt the politics of both countries.
And Maria Melo was trying to stop whatever the Open Hand was doing. That almost made sense. One of the things that had kept Portugal from asserting any claim over the islands her people called home was that the two Portugals didn’t have the resources to manage warfare on a large scale individually. They’d relinquished most of their interests overseas, turned their colonies over to local governments, and kept only a small military presence in each one. A reunited Portugal might expand to exert influence on the international stage again. And while the Portuguese royalty didn’t know the location of the islands her people called home, the Portuguese Church did. They might be persuaded to give up that information should a king rise and pressure them.
But would that possibility be enough for her people’s government to opt for assassination? In Oriana’s mind, it didn’t quite fit. Her people had a long history of avoidance, not confrontation. Even their navy did so, using their magic to judiciously guide ships around the island chain without those ships realizing they’d been redirected. Why suddenly choose a violent option for Portugal?
Oriana shoved the coverlet down and got out of the bed. She wasn’t going to sleep. Not now. The moon had risen, allowing her to see the minimal traffic on the Street of Flowers. Two inebriated young men walked toward the river, but otherwise the street was empty. She let the curtain fall.
She didn’t know what time it was, but since she was awake, she might as well try to finish off that journal. It was exceptionally dry. She would rather be reading one of those overblown novels Isabel had favored. That tongue-in-cheek thought made her smile; some of those novels had been awful. But it was the first time she’d thought of Isabel without pain since that night.
Oriana went into the dressing room and took down the dressing gown she’d been using for the past few days. A rich burgundy velvet lined in a paisley-patterned satin, it had to have belonged to Alessio. The hem brushed the ground, but she didn’t own anything comparable and didn’t think Alessio Ferreira would mind. So she drew it on over her nightdress and settled on the leather settee near the bedroom door. She lit the lamp and picked up the journal. With about thirty pages to go, she might be able to finish it before it put her to sleep again.
She picked up the letter opener and began searching through the last pages, gently separating the ones stuck together when Mr. Ferreira was doused. The outsides of the journal were the most affected, and the last ten pages had to be carefully eased apart. She was surprised to note that a few were blank, as if Espinoza had been forced to abandon the journal before he finished it out. Given what Mr. Ferreira had said about the artist fighting with someone in his flat, that seemed possible.
She slid the letter opener between the last two pages and slowly jiggled it to pry the pages apart, and stopped. She grabbed up the journal in both hands and forced it open, the paper crackling ominously but not tearing. On one leaf there was a diagram of three circles, the outer comprised of Roman letters, the middle containing what must be a series of runes, and the inner circle holding a group of lines that meant nothing to her at all.
It was the table. Espinoza had seen the table, and it was the last thing he’d recorded in his journal. Was this what had spooked the artist, sending him fleeing to Matosinhos to escape his patron? Oriana licked her lips. The runes resembled the ones she’d seen that night, even if she didn’t remember them properly. And the rest of the words in Latin were there: Ego autem et domus mea serviemus regi.
Her heart pounded against the wall of her chest. Here was the missing half that her own death had been meant to illuminate. She closed her eyes. What can this do that makes it worth killing so many innocents?
Oriana pushed herself off the settee and, journal in hand, walked out into the hallway. There was only one lamp glowing there, but it was enough. She strode past Lady Ferreira’s room and stopped at the next door. Was this Mr. Ferreira’s bedroom? It didn’t matter; she would just try them all. She rap
ped on the door with the edge of the journal, sparing her webbing the worst of the vibration from knocking.
She heard movement within almost immediately. She stepped back, suddenly recalling that his selkie brother, Erdano, sometimes stayed at the house. For all she knew it might be him in that room. Oriana was relieved when, a moment later, the door opened slightly to reveal a disheveled-looking Duilio Ferreira. His hair was mussed, displaying a curl that he usually managed to keep tamed. Over a nightshirt he wore a dressing gown similar to the one she had on but without the paisley satin. He blinked at her, seemingly at a loss for words.
What was she thinking, coming to a man’s bedroom in the dark of the night?
“I need to show you something,” she blurted out before he mistook her intention. She held out the journal, opened to the diagram.
He took it, eyes fixed on the page. “They’ve altered the verse.”
“What?” She leaned closer to peer down at it over his arm.
He seemed to shake himself. He stepped out into the hallway, closed the door to his bedroom, and went and turned up the one light in the hall. “Come here.”
Oriana joined him under the hissing light fixture.
“That last word in the Latin verse,” he said, pointing. “See? It should be Domino, but they’ve exchanged that for regi.”
“King?” she guessed.
“Exactly,” he said. “That’s probably what gave Espinoza the idea that they wanted to make Prince Fabricio into a king. I guess the writing in the next ring is magic runes, but what in Hades’ name is this business in the center?”
Oriana flicked her braid back over her shoulder. “I hoped you might know.”
The center symbol was a grouping of perpendicular lines forming two Ts, one large, one small, with the tops parallel to each other. Between those were two parallel lines, one short, one long. And under one arm of one T there was a dash—or rather a minus sign, she suspected, since the other T had a plus sign under one arm. She pointed at that. “Could it be . . . mathematical?”
He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it just a bit. “I don’t know. But I know someone who would. Do you mind if I take this? I’ll show it to him first thing in the morning.”
As if the journal is mine. “Not at all, sir.”
An uncomfortable silence fell. It was one thing for her to sneak out to report to Heriberto at night if needed. It was another thing to wake Duilio Ferreira in the middle of what must have been a sound sleep. He was a gentleman, and gentlemen lived by very specific codes of conduct. She’d had to study those rules before coming to Portugal. Meeting in the middle of the night with a woman not his wife—in his nightclothes—broke several of them. That was why he’d closed his bedroom door; he didn’t want to invite impropriety.
She glanced down and noted that his feet were bare. They were nice feet. His dressing gown covered him to midcalf, and given that she’d seen him shirtless a few days before, she’d now seen almost as much of him as would be bared should he wear a pareu—little more than a length of fabric wrapped about the waist—as most of the males on her islands did. She could almost picture him wearing one.
She felt her cheeks growing warm. What a strange thought! She wasn’t certain why that image had popped into her head.
“I couldn’t find my slippers,” he said in an apologetic voice, perhaps believing she was offended. “My valet has hidden them from me.”
Oriana almost laughed then, at the image of Duilio Ferreira henpecked by his own valet. Of course, the elderly Frenchman was very snooty. She drew up the hem of her borrowed dressing gown to show her own silver feet. “I cannot reproach you, sir. By the way, are they black felt slippers, rather worn ones, with gold embroidery on the uppers?”
That got Mr. Ferreira’s attention. “Yes.”
“They’re atop the high cabinet in the servants’ workroom,” she told him. “I wondered what those were doing there. I’ll see if I can retrieve them for you tomorrow.”
He took one of her hands in his own and lifted it to kiss her bare fingers. “I would be forever indebted to you.”
It was done in a joking tone, so she knew better than to read anything into that gesture. He let go of her hand with acceptable readiness and stepped back, the journal tucked under one arm. “Thank you, Miss Paredes.”
She headed toward her own room but turned back. Duilio Ferreira stood at his own door, apparently watching to be certain she made it there safely. Oriana took a deep breath. “The woman called Maria Melo? She’s a sereia. A spy, but much higher in rank than I . . . or my master, evidently.”
His lips pressed together as if he recognized the seriousness of what she’d just done. She’d exposed a member of her own government. She’d committed treason, although no one would ever learn of it. Duilio Ferreira would never betray her confidence. And she felt worlds better for having alerted someone else, someone other than Heriberto. It was as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders.
“Do you think she’s the woman you saw at the church?” he asked after a moment.
Oriana shrugged. “I don’t know, but I can’t imagine why anyone else would be watching me. My master pointed out that she can’t afford to let the Open Hand recapture me. That would endanger her mission.”
Mr. Ferreira licked his lips. “Do you understand, then, why I had Gustavo follow you?”
Yes, he’d worked out that possibility—that she was in peril from both the Open Hand and the saboteur—when it hadn’t even occurred to her. She was clearly in far deeper waters than she knew how to handle. She nodded. “I hadn’t thought it through.”
“So I’m forgiven for my interference?”
As if he needed her forgiveness. “Of course, sir.” With a nod, she made her way to her bedroom and opened the door.
“Miss Paredes?” he called after her. “Is that even your name?”
Oriana paused on the threshold of her bedroom, bemused. Isabel had never thought to ask that question. After less than a week Duilio Ferreira seemed more of a friend than Isabel had ever been. “Yes, it is.”
He smiled. “Good night, then, Miss Paredes.”
“Good night, sir.” She went inside her room and closed the door.
He’d said once he would like to visit her people’s islands. Out of curiosity, that was all he’d meant. As a tourist. But it would be interesting to see how he adapted to her people’s ways. Of any human man she’d met so far, he was the one most likely to be able to pull it off.
CHAPTER 27
SATURDAY, 4 OCTOBER 1902
Duilio left the house before breakfast with the journal tucked under his arm. He caught a tram heading toward the parish of Massarelos and got off in time to head down Campo Alegre Street toward the Tavares boatyard. When Joaquim’s father had left the sea to pursue boatbuilding, Joaquim hadn’t chosen to enter the nascent family business, but his younger brother, Cristiano, had. Now twenty and just returned that summer from the university in Coimbra, Cristiano possessed a genius for engineering and mathematics that Duilio could only admire.
Through the large open doors on the side, he entered the shop where the smaller boats were constructed and was immediately surrounded by the aroma of fresh-sawn wood and resins mixed with a hint of cigarette smoke. Several workmen were currently assembling the ribs of a smallish boat, no more than thirty feet long. It was, to Duilio’s untrained eye, another of Cristiano’s fascinating experimental designs. Duilio spotted Joaquim’s younger brother standing above the pit where a boat was being assembled and called out his name. “Cristiano!”
The young man grinned widely and came around the pit to embrace Duilio. He resembled Joaquim very little, having a more angular face, like their father’s. “Cousin, it’s been too long. How is your mother?”
“She’s well,” Duilio assured him, “although not changed from the last time you saw her.”
&
nbsp; “I’m sorry to hear that.” Frowning, Cristiano waved at the workmen to continue their tasks and then drew Duilio to one side toward the office. “I haven’t seen Joaquim in weeks. Tell him he needs to come for dinner.”
“I’ll nag him,” Duilio promised. “Although I must admit now that I’ve come here for reasons other than social, to drag you into our investigation.”
Cristiano opened the office door and gestured for Duilio to go in. A brown-haired English girl wearing dainty spectacles and an expensive tweed suit sat at one of the half-dozen wide drafting desks, a pencil behind one ear, scowling down at the page in front of her. Miss Atkinson was a scion of one of the British wine-trading families over on the Gaia shore, Duilio recalled, who’d come to work for the Tavares firm after leaving the university at Coimbra. She’d been the very first woman to study mathematics there. Although a couple of years older than Cristiano, her petite size made her seem younger.
Cristiano shut the office door. “Is this about the underwater houses?”
“Good guess,” Duilio said, glad he didn’t have to explain.
“Joaquim mentioned the investigation last time I saw him. Many of the same principles as submersible crafts or submarines,” the young man said, “and I’ve been studying those. So, how can I help?”
One of the nice things about Cristiano: he didn’t waste time. Duilio opened the journal, searching for the page that held the diagram in question. “My question is actually mathematical.”
“Miss Atkinson’s grasp is better than mine.” Cristiano gestured for the English girl to join them.
As Duilio hunted for the right page, Miss Atkinson rose and nearly tripped when her skirt was apparently caught under the leg of the stool. She jerked it free with one hand and came to join them, murmuring imprecations under her breath.
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