“He’s not my Vilaró,” Joaquim said. “He has refrained from killing anyone, but he’s done his part to make the Canaries’ lives miserable.”
Duilio just shrugged, likely finding it more amusing than Joaquim did. Joaquim felt responsible for the man’s—or fairy’s—actions since he’d chosen to release the Vilaró.
“The conspirators over on the islands are going to have it far worse, I suspect,” Oriana said.
“I thought things had settled down,” Marina said, a line of worry appearing between her delicate brows. “Is it safe for you to go back?”
“There will be trials. There’s ample evidence now to convict those involved. Aunt Jovita guaranteed our safety there.”
Not only would Jovita have the message from their mother’s journal, but most of the sereia from the prison were returning on the Tesouro and planned to testify in the trials. They’d received promises of amnesty from the government and there was even talk of reparations, both for them and their children, but also for the families of those sereia who’d died in the prison or aboard Spanish ships. Jovita Paredes was holding true to her word; the newspapers on Quitos had already printed parts of the story, sparking outrage among a populace that placed the importance of bloodlines above politics. In time the anger would die down, but it would likely be years before a Spanish mission was allowed back on sereia soil, a boon for Portuguese traders daring enough to sail there.
Marina had given her statement to Evangelista as well, and handed over a copy of the information in their mother’s journal. She’d decided to keep the original—along with the book that held Leandra’s notes—in Portugal, and Oriana didn’t argue that decision. Marina had fought to keep the journal out of the hands of an agent of the ministry, a woman who’d claimed she was working for their aunt Jovita, but actually worked for the previous minister of Intelligence, Raposo. Either way, Oriana now had the information about a safe-deposit box in Porto Novo that she hadn’t known existed before, and that would likely prove to be the journal’s true treasure.
That was one reason Oriana wanted to return to Amado. She wanted to see all the information their mother had collected, and make sure that Jovita got what she needed to prosecute whoever had killed their mother, every person involved with the selling of sereia women to the Canaries, and anyone who’d helped the Canary spies on the islands.
She would miss the Golden City, and this house. She’d come here almost eight months before, alone and afraid. The Ferreiras had taken her in, kept her safe, and when she had nearly died, Duilio and Joaquim had come after her to save her. She hoped that she and Duilio would be able to visit here often in the future. She wanted her children to know this side of her family, to play in these halls with their cousins.
A high-pitched voice in the hallway warned them a second before the sitting room was invaded by two-year-old Serafina, her dark curling hair wild and her webbed hands smudged with chocolate. Giggling, she ran to Joaquim and wrapped her stubby arms around one of his legs—fortunately the uninjured left one.
Joaquim sighed and set one hand atop the girl’s head. Duilio suppressed a laugh at his brother’s long-suffering expression, since he was likely to be in a similar position in a couple of years and life had a way of repaying misbehavior. The child belonged to Safira Palmeira and Marcos Davila, the only two prisoners who’d decided to remain in Portugal. They were currently moving their meager belongings into Joaquim’s old apartment, too small for a family with a boy Alejandro’s size, but adequate for their needs while they decided whether to move to Amado to live with Inês’ family on the beach or stay in Portugal. While Duilio easily kept up the pretense of subservience, and Costa apparently didn’t mind letting Inês take the lead, apparently the prospect of living among the sereia daunted the young Spaniard, Marcos. Oriana couldn’t blame him.
Predictably, Alejandro peered around the doorframe a second later, unable to see the girl from his location. “Is she in here?”
The boy still carried around a hint of melancholy, provoked when his mother disappeared in the company of the Vilaró only a day after arriving in Portugal. It had been hard on Alejandro, but he was a resilient child, and had a family who would take care of him now. Oriana just hoped that the woman who’d suffered so much for her children was happy somewhere.
“Yes,” Duilio said to the boy. “She’s clamped on to your brother’s leg like an octopus.”
Alejandro rolled his eyes dramatically. “She’s a pest.”
But he came into the sitting room anyway and began detaching the girl from Joaquim’s leg. The girl relinquished her hold on Joaquim only to wrap her arms around Alejandro instead, earning another aggrieved look. Marina laughed, picked up the girl, and sat on the beige sofa again. She patted the seat between herself and Oriana, and Alejandro joined them.
“We were helping Mrs. Cardoza stir,” the boy explained, grabbing one of the toddler’s chocolate-smeared hands, “and she ran off.”
Marina tugged a handkerchief out of her sleeve, and the boy used that to scrub the little girl’s hands. In addition to football, Duilio’s new brother was fascinated by every aspect of life in an active household, including the cook’s work. Joaquim also said Alejandro showed great aptitude for reading. He’d been teaching the boy since he was currently held captive in the house by his injured limbs. Joaquim was confident that Alejandro could attend a school later that year, once he’d caught up to other boys his age.
Alejandro tried to catch Serafina’s other hand before she wiped chocolate onto Marina’s white shirtwaist.
The butler rapped gently on the doorframe. “Mr. Duilio, the driver’s waiting out front.”
So Oriana and Duilio rose, waiting as Joaquim pushed himself to his feet with his borrowed cane. While Marina extricated herself from the children, Oriana went and embraced Joaquim and then leaned down to kiss Alejandro’s cheeks.
Duilio hugged his brother, sharing a wish that they would be able to visit again soon. Then he turned to the boy. “You will make sure Joaquim doesn’t reinjure himself, won’t you?”
“He won’t,” Alejandro promised blithely.
Duilio’s own gift had told him that, although it would be a long road for Joaquim with an injured tendon. He’d told Oriana that Joaquim might be left with a limp. Fortunately. Gustavo Mendes, who’d taken over Joaquim’s job in the meantime, was more than willing to bring files to the house to discuss with him while it healed.
Duilio turned back to Joaquim, who was straightening an object on the side table with his free hand, a silver frame that contained a single worn playing card that looked as though it had come from Miss Felis’ old deck. “You’ll write,” Duilio said, “to let me know how you’re all doing?”
“I will,” Joaquim promised, glancing up at him. His eyes slid to Marina as he said that, and she smiled back at him. “But there’s no need to worry,” he added. “We’re going to be fine.”
Duilio smiled, and signed to Oriana that his gift told him that was true.
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.
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