The Shores of Spain

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  Marina folded up the letter. The rest of it could wait. “I will tell him we were discussing it,”

  The lady turned in her chair to face Marina more directly then. “I confess I did come in here with an ulterior motive. I wanted to see whether you could influence Joaquim.”

  Oh dear. “To what?” she asked cautiously.

  “With Duilio and Oriana gone, when I marry, this house will stand empty. I would prefer that Joaquim move into the house, but I cannot get him to agree.”

  “Will you and Joaquim’s father not move in here?” Marina had assumed that when Lady Ferreira married, she and Joaquim’s father would move into this house. The Tavares house was much smaller than the Ferreira one.

  “He wants to stay closer to his business,” Lady Ferreira said, “and since I’ve never been particularly attached to this place, I don’t feel any need to stay. This was Alexandre’s house. Never mine.”

  Alexandre Ferreira had been dead two years or so. Some members of society had been scandalized when Lady Ferreira suddenly dropped her mourning six months before. Still, it was considered appropriate for a woman to leave off her mourning if she intended to remarry. It hadn’t taken long before it became clear that Lady Ferreira planned to wed her first husband’s cousin—Joaquim’s father—who’d been a widower for decades.

  Marina surveyed the elegant sitting room, its sofa and chairs in ivory and beige, the fine carpet under that, the silver-framed photographs on the mantel. “But you’ve worked so hard to make it beautiful.”

  Lady Ferreira laughed shortly. “Things, dear. I purchased things. They are not my children.”

  Marina licked her lips, trying to see this as Joaquim would. He might have lived in this house for eight years, but he was only a cousin of the Ferreira family. “I suspect Joaquim would feel like an interloper, like he has no business living here. The house should belong to Mr. Ferreira, shouldn’t it? Not a cousin.”

  Lady Ferreira’s head tilted and she gazed inscrutably at Marina.

  Marina swallowed, feeling as though she’d failed some test. She didn’t know what the lady had expected her to say, but her answer hadn’t been the correct one.

  “Duilio will be away for a couple of years at a minimum. Joaquim could act as . . . a caretaker,” the lady suggested.

  That was not what she’d originally meant, Marina was certain. Lady Ferreira had been saying that Joaquim should move into the house permanently. “I can talk to him, I suppose,” she said after a moment. “It would save him the cost of his rent if he did.”

  She had only been to Joaquim’s flat once, in the company of Oriana and Duilio; Joaquim’s landlady would be scandalized if an unmarried woman went up there alone. It was a cozy place, nearly as shabby as her own, but full of Joaquim’s books and possessing a masculine feel she’d found quite charming. It was his place, and it would be difficult for Joaquim to give it up.

  He doesn’t like change.

  Masculine voices sounded in the hallway and, before Lady Ferreira could add more, Joaquim stood in the doorway, Marina’s father behind him.

  Tall and lean, and with dark hair going gray at the temples, her father had a distinguished air. He looked very much the Portuguese gentleman in his elegant evening attire. Most people would never guess he wasn’t human. “Marina, darling,” he began, coming to kiss her cheek in farewell when she rose. “I’m sorry we didn’t get much of a chance to chat. Shall we talk in the morning?”

  Since she worked for him in his office, it was a rhetorical question. “Yes, Father. Please tell your wife I hope she feels better in the morning.”

  Lady Pereira de Santos had left the Ferreira house not long after dinner, claiming a need for rest. That had been a common occurrence lately; the lady was pregnant. It would be a strange thing to have a half brother or sister, particularly one so much younger than herself, but Marina enjoyed the prospect of watching her so-serious father chase after a toddler.

  “I will do so,” her father promised, and then took his leave of Lady Ferreira before departing.

  Joaquim came to Marina’s side then, holding out one arm for her to take. She’d thought him terribly handsome from the moment she met him. He was tall and strong, with straight dark hair and brown eyes that hinted at his mother’s Spanish blood, a square jaw that betokened firmness of purpose, and a wide brow that spoke of wisdom. Well, she hadn’t known all those things about him from her first glance, but it hadn’t taken long to learn his true character.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked. “Your father and I talked longer than I realized.”

  A lock of Joaquim’s hair had fallen across his forehead, and Marina’s fingers itched to push it back into place. “No need to worry,” she assured him. “Lady Ferreira and I were chatting.”

  Reminded of his foster mother’s presence in the room, Joaquim kissed the lady’s cheeks before bidding her good night, and Marina followed suit. Then they made their way out of the house, pausing at the entryway so Marina could wrap her plain black shawl about her shoulders to keep at bay the chill of the early spring evening.

  “So, what were you discussing?” Joaquim asked once they were walking along the Street of Flowers. The traffic on the street slowed once the sun went down, so the walkways weren’t crowded, although the tram continued its circuit up toward the palace on its high hill.

  Marina glanced at Joaquim’s face as they passed under one of the streetlights, trying to decide where to start with the issue of the house. “Pearls.”

  She could use her call on him, her feeble version of sereia magic. Lady Ferreira knew that, and she wondered if that was what the lady expected—for Marina to convince Joaquim by influencing him magically. He would hate that I used my gift to sway him.

  And he might never trust her again.

  No, she decided. Joaquim would move into that house when he was ready. It would not be because Marina Arenias coerced him into it.

  “Do you like pearls?” he asked as they paused at a corner to let a carriage rattle past.

  So Marina walked on, one gloved hand on Joaquim’s dark sleeve, telling him all about her favorite pair of gold and pearl combs back on the islands, a pair her mother had once owned. She completely forgot to ask Joaquim about his conversation with her father.

  CHAPTER 2

  THURSDAY, 16 APRIL 1903; ILHASDAS SEREIAS

  The ferry belched out steam as it made its passage between the islands of Quitos and Amado. Judging by words stamped on the side of the hull, Duilio guessed it had come from England, brought here to the islands of the sereia through a series of arcane trades. Most of the newer machinery he’d seen on the islands was of English origin, where once it would have been predominantly Portuguese. Normally he would be the first one poking around and asking questions of the ship’s captain, but it wasn’t his place to do so. Not here.

  Here it was the man’s place to be quiet. To be seen but not to do.

  Oriana had warned him of that, as had her father, but Duilio hadn’t grasped how pervasive that attitude was until he’d been on the main island of Quitos for a couple of weeks. It was the most traditional of the islands of the sereia, and as a male he had almost no rights—a shocking change for a Portuguese gentleman of wealth and social standing.

  They’d spent the last three months there, in the sereia capital of Praia Norte, persuading the local government to accept Oriana as the Portuguese ambassador. The islands hadn’t hosted an ambassador from either Northern or Southern Portugal for almost two decades, and most trade between the two peoples had died out. The embassy’s primary charge here was to resurrect that trade, a problematic mission given the lingering lack of trust between the two peoples.

  Oriana currently stood with her back against the wall of the ferry’s cabin, the remainder of the ambassadorial entourage taking up the aft of the upper deck. She wore a pensive expression as she watched the island of
Quitos grow more and more distant, her full lips pressed together and her arms folded over her chest. Her burgundy-highlighted hair had been pinned into a coronet of braids, but the two combs emerging from that crown were actually slender knives, a concession to the danger in which she’d stood since their arrival here. The tension in her shoulders had eased once they reached open waters, but hadn’t fled completely.

  The four guards accompanying them kept anxious watch on the other travelers crowding the ferry’s upper deck, but the curious passengers seemed willing to keep their distance. Judging by their fine garb and glossy hair, Duilio guessed that most of the sereia he saw there traveled between the two largest islands for reasons of business. A few, like Oriana, wore a vest as well as the pareu, and one elderly woman had on a fine jacket with elaborate blue and yellow embroidery down the plackets. Even so, the majority of the passengers, all female save for a handful of children, only wore the pareu—little more than a length of fabric wrapped about their waists.

  Fortunately, the embassy guards were well trained not to stare at the display of bared skin. Their Portuguese uniforms seemed extravagant by comparison to the local mode of dress. The brass-buttoned blue jackets with braid across the chest and lighter blue trousers with a red stripe down each side looked starchy and unapproachable—as did their rifles and sabers. But since they represented the governments of the two Portugals here, the standards of the army must be upheld, even when the locals dressed far less formally.

  Duilio glanced down at his bare feet ruefully. His situation was different. He’d agreed to adopt native garb to show that the Portuguese took the customs of the sereia seriously. No one ever mistook him for a sereia male, of course. He lacked gill slits on his neck and webbing between his fingers, both traits that gave the sereia advantages in the water. And his feet were unmistakably human. The sereia had coloring on the lower halves of their bodies that mimicked the scales of a fish—a tuna, actually—so anyone looking downward would immediately know he wasn’t native to these islands.

  He’d adapted quickly to wearing the pareu, though, a stark change for someone accustomed to the habitual multilayered dress of a Portuguese gentleman. Despite the afternoon sunshine, a chill came off the water today, so he also wore a black linen vest, the open front embroidered in gold along the edges. It covered most of the Paredes tattoo that ran from over his heart to his left shoulder, but enough of that could be seen to guarantee that any sereia would know he was claimed. Bangles clattered about his ankles, he wore bands of rose gold around his upper arms, and his hair hadn’t been properly cut in half a year now. It hung on his neck in curls. If his old valet, Marcellin, were here, the man would have had an apoplectic fit. It pleased Oriana, though, so Duilio put up with the peculiar attire and overlong hair.

  Even so, there were times he honestly missed wearing trousers. He didn’t miss his valet frittering on about every wrinkle and speck of dust, but he missed trousers.

  Oriana came around to the side of the ferry to join him. She touched his arm, her gold bangles clattering, and gestured toward the shores of Amado. “My grandmother’s house is on that beach.”

  Duilio followed her finger. Amado was a volcanic island, reminding him greatly of Madeira, the only one of his people’s islands he’d visited. A ridge of mountains formed the island’s spine, covered in forest save for the jagged peaks. He could, however, see a narrow strip of sand where Oriana pointed, dotted with a handful of white-plastered houses. They didn’t look much different from houses on some of the beaches along the Portuguese coast.

  Amado, the so-called Portuguese island, also offered him a respite from the social strains of living on Quitos. Of all the six islands of the sereia, Amado was the most liberal. On Amado males were allowed to be educated, speak out of turn on occasion, and even own property. He hoped their time here wouldn’t be as stressful as the last three months had been, either for him or their four remaining male guards.

  Duilio shot a glance at Lieutenant Costa, who leaned against the ferry’s white-painted rail. He worried them the most. The young man removed his shako to run a hand through his short blond hair, but quickly replaced it, cheeks flushing, when he noted one of the ferry’s sailors looking his way with an appreciative smile. Costa was healthy and handsome and not terribly clever—the worst sort of guard for them to have brought to these islands. Here males were in short supply, and sereia females could use their call to seduce a human male they found interesting. Because of his selkie blood, Duilio had some immunity to that magic, but the young lieutenant didn’t. According to his captain, Costa hadn’t slept well for the last few weeks, besieged by dreams. Oriana feared that a sereia had gotten to him, although the young man denied it. Duilio only hoped they could get Costa back to human shores before he gave in to some unknown sereia’s seduction.

  In truth, on Quitos they’d endured a constant barrage of calling, and not just attempts at seduction. It wasn’t unusual for a sereia to call in the course of the day, much as any human woman might sing to herself back in Portugal. Happiness, sorrow, and vexation all tore at the men’s senses, although usually with a touch light enough for them to recognize that the impulses weren’t their own. Most sereia strove for politeness near the grounds of the various embassies, strung together along one street. Even so, there were always those who didn’t care, or those who wanted to cause chaos.

  But Amado was less populated, and that would minimize the calling to which the men were exposed. Duilio hoped the passengers of this ferry were representative of the population of the island. So far their fellow travelers had refrained from calling altogether, despite the novelty of having humans to practice on.

  By that point the ferry had passed the small secluded beach and now headed for the island’s main harbor, where rough stone breakwaters limited the waves. They slid the last distance into the first pier and rocked against the wooden pilings. An intrepid young sailor in a white pareu and vest—the same one who’d been admiring Costa—jumped over the water to the planks and wrapped the mooring line around a bollard. Then she jogged back toward the aft of the ferry to catch a second line, her bangles jangling.

  Oriana moved to the railing to peer along the wooden planks toward the beach. Duilio joined her, laying one hand on the back of her vest. “Do you see her?”

  Oriana lifted her chin toward the shore. “Yes, she’s there with that open carriage.” She added the hand sign for relief, and turned to her guards. “We’ll debark last.”

  By now the men knew not to look to Duilio to corroborate Oriana’s orders; he might be her deputy, but she was the ambassador. So they patiently watched until the last of the ferry’s passengers straggled off the gangplank and onto the pier. Then it was their turn, two guards going ahead and two behind. The guards’ presence was more than just posturing, for today they would enter the perilous phase of their tenure as ambassadors, taking on their secondary mission.

  Today they began the hunt to learn who’d murdered Oriana’s mother.

  CHAPTER 3

  Grandmother Monteiro waited for them at the head of the pier. It had been almost five years since Oriana had seen her, but she hadn’t changed much. She was a tall woman, her lean figure still straight and erect, and her dark eyes sharp. Like Oriana’s own, her nails were filed down to sharp points, curving over the ends of her fingers—as much a marker of wealth as the rose-gold bangles at her wrists and ankles. Her white hair was massed atop her head in neat braids. The blue jacket she wore over her yellow pareu matched the embroidery about the pareu’s hem. Oriana stopped an arm’s length away. The two guards in the lead moved off to one side of the pier, but Duilio stopped behind her and waited for them to acknowledge his presence.

  Oriana inclined her head. “Honored Grandmother.”

  Her grandmother’s lips curved in a smile. “My child. And who is this you bring to the house of Monteiro?”

  Oriana swept her hand to one side, and Duilio obedie
ntly stepped up next to her. “Honored Grandmother, this is my mate, Duilio, of the house of Ferreira.”

  And perfectly on cue, Duilio sank to his knees and bowed to the ground at her grandmother’s feet. After only a second, her grandmother reached down and touched the top of his head. “Welcome, child.”

  Oriana let loose a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. What a relief. She hadn’t expected her grandmother would reject him, not for a moment. Even so, her grandmother’s ready acceptance of him was reassuring. Oriana knew she’d made foolish mistakes in her past, but Duilio wasn’t one of them.

  And her grandmother’s warm welcome made a stark contrast to the complete lack of welcome she’d had from the Paredes family on Quitos. None of her three aunts and neither of her cousins had acknowledged Oriana’s arrival on the island in any way. Legally she was dead, and therefore they no longer had ties to her. Oriana was grateful that the Monteiro side of her family, as small as it was, was more understanding.

  Duilio pushed back up to his knees and smoothly came to his feet, a smile on his face. This was the first time Oriana had asked him to perform the full obeisance, and he’d done it without flinching. Her grandmother reached up and put a finger on his chin, tilting his head down so that she could peer up into his face. He complied, his lips pressed together and warm brown eyes dancing with laughter.

  She eyed him narrowly and then released him, a further sign of approval. “Come, children,” she said then, including the guards in that address. “I have a carriage waiting.”

  The carriage’s driver wore the blue-and-white-patterned pareu of the Monteiro servants, along with a blue vest that hid her dorsal stripe. Sailors and dockworkers strolled past the carriage and along the harbor’s main street. White plastered buildings with dark wooden trim clustered across that street, mostly cafés and shops. Farther down, the street ran past the harbormaster’s offices and along the main docks for trading ships. The hub of all foreign trade on the islands, the harbor of Porto Novo always bustled with activity.