She had never told him the meaning of that card, the one she’d drawn for him the day he’d asked her to help him find Oriana, but he didn’t need her explanation. The import of the card was all too clear in his mind now. He nodded, his throat tightening. “I know what it means.”
Felis threw the card on the table. “Then why would you let her go?”
She turned and walked out of the library, leaving the card behind.
Duilio slumped into his chair again.
A book might tell him a dozen different interpretations of that card’s meaning. Whatever Felis had seen in it didn’t matter. Like all fortunes, the only thing that mattered was what he saw in it now, what it meant to him: that Oriana Paredes was the great love of his life.
And he was about to watch her walk away.
Should Oriana simply ignore her orders to return home, she would be in violation of her people’s law. Much like a military man who fled his post. For some that would be acceptable. For her, he didn’t think it would be, and he was not going to attack her resolve. That would only belittle her.
He had to hope that she would return to the Golden City. He didn’t care if she was assigned to spy on his people. He didn’t care if there was a scandal tied to her name, if she was exposed as a sereia. He just had to hope she would come back.
He picked up the card and slid it into his jacket pocket. Then he did take a drink of his brandy, letting it burn down his throat. It didn’t chase away the malaise of victory and despair that clouded his thoughts.
“Mr. Ferreira?” Oriana stood at the door, her expression somber. “How do you feel?”
He’d gone back to being Mr. Ferreira, as if a polite distance would make this easier. Duilio swirled the glass before glancing at her. “I’ll be fine. Just bruised.”
“I suspect that Miss Carvalho has changed her mind about you,” she said then. When he gave her a curious look, she added, “I think you’re no longer her second choice.”
Ah, she must have seen that exchange in the hallway. “It doesn’t signify,” he said. “She would be my second choice.”
He waited for her to say something, anything, but she just stood there with her eyes on the floor. “Did you receive orders to go?”
“Yes.” She still didn’t meet his eyes. “I need to leave immediately if I’m to make my rendezvous.”
Immediately? He’d hoped she would be able to rest for a day or two. He’d hoped they would have time to talk, that he would have time to work out all the confused yearnings in his head. He set the glass on the table. She had her hands folded together tightly, knuckles white.
“Must you go?” he asked, even though he knew what she would say. She had never told him whether she was being blackmailed, but he suspected so.
“Yes.”
“Any time you need a safe haven, our house will be open to you. I meant that.”
She closed her eyes, as though she couldn’t bear to look at him.
Duilio stepped closer and set his hands on her arms. “Oriana . . .”
“I’m expected to be at my rendezvous by noon,” she said in a tight voice. “I need to leave now.”
She no more wants to go than I want her to leave.
He should be pleased by that knowledge, but instead it hurt, an ache in his chest that must be his heart breaking. There was so much more he wanted to say, but he wasn’t going to batter against her resolve. He finally settled on, “I’ll walk you down to the quay.”
EPILOG
Spray lashed up over the prow of the rowboat, the waves at the mouth of the river rougher than Oriana had expected. The sun’s first light streamed across the water, a red dawn. She cast a glance back to where Duilio sat at the oars, his face grim. His linen shirtsleeves fluttered in the wind; as chilly as the autumn morning was, he’d given her his frock coat anyway to keep her warm until she dove.
The boat breached a low wave and landed hard as they passed the stone breakwater that protected the river’s mouth from the open sea. “The storm is coming,” he called to her.
“I’ll be under,” she called back. “I’ll be safe.” She looked eastward, past Duilio at the city rising on its hills in the sunrise. The whitewashed walls of myriad houses gleamed in the morning light. But the time had come to leave it behind.
It wasn’t the city she would miss.
Duilio shipped the oars, and the boat began to drift outward on the tide. “This thing doesn’t fare well on the open sea, not if it’s rough.”
Meaning that this was as far as he could take her. Oriana rose cautiously. She looked out at the red-stained waters to the west, smelling the salt and the coming storm, still hesitating. She turned back to Duilio, trying to decide what to tell him.
She didn’t know what would happen to her once she got home. She couldn’t even be sure that her leaving would keep her father safe. The only thing that seemed clear to her was that she wanted to return to the Golden City, to come back for him.
Duilio had risen to stand next to her. The boat heaved as another wave came, and he steadied her with a hand under her elbow. He regarded her as if he suffered the same lack of words she did. He ran fingers through his dark hair and then said, “Please come back.”
Oriana reached up and set one bared hand against his cheek, feeling the feathery warmth of his breath on the webbing between her fingers. Duilio turned his head and pressed his lips to her palm, his eyes drifting closed. She pulled away, afraid she would lose her resolve.
“I will try,” she said, her voice breaking. It was the most she could promise. And then, because no more words came to her, she drew off his frock coat and passed it into his hands, shivering as the cold air clutched at her bare skin.
“Go,” he said softly.
Oriana dove, going deep beneath the waves. She didn’t look back.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J. Kathleen Cheney is a former mathematics teacher who has taught classes ranging from seventh grade to calculus, with a brief stint as a gifted and talented specialist. Her short fiction has been published in such venues as Fantasy Magazine and Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and her novella Iron Shoes was a Nebula Finalist in 2010.
The Golden City Page 37