A valid point. Oriana settled in a chair across from the Lady, her handbag in her lap. With a quick scowl, Mr. Ferreira sat in the chair next to hers.
“It took him three tries to kill your brother,” the Lady said, smoothing her wine-colored skirts. “We confiscated letters from Mata to a counterpart in Southern Portugal, detailing his difficulties with Alessio Ferreira. I suspect his seer’s blood allowed Alessio to escape the first two attempts unharmed, just as yours allowed you to escape last night.”
Oriana licked her lips and dared to look over at Mr. Ferreira. He shrugged apologetically, and without words she knew the Lady was right. Duilio Ferreira was a seer. Like his uncle Paolo Silva and his brother Alessio.
Oh, dear. She’d been rather insulting about seers, hadn’t she? Now she wished she could take her words back. Had she offended him? Her eyes fell to the handbag in her lap.
“Why kill Alessio?” Mr. Ferreira asked.
“We don’t know who wanted him out of the way, and unfortunately, Mata didn’t reveal that in his letters. If we can catch him, we have a team who specializes in extracting information, who could get out of him whatever he does know.”
Mr. Ferreira’s face hardened. “Torture?”
The Lady laughed. “Not at all. They wouldn’t lay a hand on him. But he will answer their questions.”
Oriana leaned closer to him. “I could do that,” she whispered. “I could coax answers out of a human if I had to.”
His brows rose but he said nothing.
“So, what did you do, Mr. Ferreira,” the Lady asked, “that would cause this group such dismay that they would send their assassin after you?”
He gestured toward Oriana’s bag. “This might be a good time to show her the sketch.”
He didn’t look too upset, at least. Oriana opened her handbag, withdrew the sketch of the table, and unfolded it. She handed it to the Lady, who took it with careful fingers. “Are you a witch?”
“Not at all,” the Lady said. “I study witchcraft but am not a practitioner.” She turned the sketch about to read the Latin inscription. “Where did you find this? Nela wouldn’t tell me, which makes me suspect this is a matter of import to your people.”
How much was she willing to trust this woman? Oriana glanced over at Mr. Ferreira again, wondering how much she should reveal.
“Whatever you think is appropriate,” he said, as if he’d read her thoughts.
He was letting her make the call, then, of whether or not to trust this unknown person. Oriana pressed her lips together, weighing the odds in the silence of the room. “It was in The City Under the Sea,” she finally said. “It was inscribed on a table. My hands were tied to it.”
“The place with the floating houses?” the Lady asked. “Where was this table?”
“Inside the replica of the Amaral house,” Oriana said. She hadn’t thought it would be difficult to talk about it, but it wasn’t much easier this time than it was the last. “Isabel and I were both there, tied to chairs, our hands lying on the table. When the water came in, Isabel drowned.” Oriana swallowed. “Then that side of the table lit up, those words inscribed in it.”
“It’s a scripture,” Mr. Ferreira supplied. “However, as for me and my house we will follow the Lord.” When Oriana cast a quizzical glance at him, he said. “I apologize, Miss Paredes. My cousin recognized it, but I forgot to tell you.”
Oriana didn’t know if that made any difference, as the words still didn’t make sense of what had happened. “I can’t recall what the letters in the inner ring were. They were in a strange script that I didn’t recognize. And I have no idea about the center. Do you know what this is?”
“The side of the table that the other young lady was touching, that side lit up when she died. Do I understand that correctly?”
Oriana nodded.
“I can shine some light on this, Miss Paredes,” the Lady said, “but it doesn’t make much sense.” She laid the sketch on her knees and touched her fingers to the edge, a visual echo of Isabel’s fingers lying on the edge of the table. “I have wondered, although admittedly not much, why someone would waste all that money building a silly collection of houses that would eventually rot away.”
Oriana had to agree. “Is this a spell to keep them afloat?”
“I don’t believe so. The fact that half the inscription lit when this girl died tells me we’re dealing with necromancy. You were meant to die as well, I assume. You said this was a table. What was it made of?”
Well, Nela had been correct about hunting a necromancer. That didn’t make Oriana feel any better. “It was wood,” she answered. “I think the letters were inlaid in some kind of metal.”
“Silver and gold are the most common for this sort of work,” the Lady said. “The best for controlling magic. I suspect we’ll find that the inner ring contained some manner of runic inscription, as necromancers seem to prefer that for their handiwork. This center design is nothing I’ve ever seen, though, and that’s saying something.” She pursed her lips and turned the sketch around again. “The main problem I’m having with this is that there’s no apparent recipient. One of the basic tenets of necromancy requires that the recipient take the victim’s life force at the moment of death. In essence, your tale makes this seem like the recipient is a table. There wouldn’t be much point to that unless the table was actively using that power. Now, there are rare devices that can focus power or carry out a specific action, but this is . . . a table.”
Oriana felt tears stinging at her eyes. “You’re saying that Isabel died for nothing?”
“No,” the Lady said. “I’m saying that I haven’t figured this out yet. No one is going to go to this much trouble, to kill a girl, without a reason.”
“It’s not just one girl,” Mr. Ferreira said, leaning closer to hand Oriana a fine linen handkerchief. She wiped her cheeks with it while he spoke. “We have reason to believe that each replica has a pair of victims in it, not all female. All servants who’d worked at the house replicated. Most were never reported missing. Some had allegedly gone home to the countryside or found other positions, but when the police traced them they found false trails.”
The Lady sat back, her eyes narrowing. “Servants who worked at the corresponding house?” She turned to Oriana. “You and this Isabel worked at that house?”
Oriana nodded mutely. She didn’t see a need to correct the Lady’s misconception.
The Lady closed her eyes for a moment, as if mentally organizing what she knew. “I think what we have here is a mixture of necromancy and imitative magic, a rather unusual combination, but not unheard of.”
“Imitative magic?” Mr. Ferreira leaned closer. “Is that like voodoo?”
The Lady looked up. “Have you run across voodoo before, Mr. Ferreira?”
“In Paris, I’m afraid.”
“I see. We’ll have to chat about that one day,” she said. “In the instance that one item is used to represent another related item, yes. In this case, I suspect the houses and the people in them represent the will of that family. That’s why the victims were chosen from among servants who worked in those houses—it gives them a spiritual tie to that house and that family. As they’re using aristocratic households, I would suspect this installment, The City Under the Sea, is a symbolic representation of the entire aristocracy. Why they’re claiming they serve the Lord, I can’t fathom.”
Oriana covered her face with her hands. She’d heard enough of this academic discussion of Isabel’s death. She didn’t care how they were doing this or why. She just wanted to know how to stop them.
Mr. Ferreira’s hand touched Oriana’s elbow, a scrap of reassurance. Oriana dropped her hands to her lap again, resolved to be calm.
“Are you insinuating that the Church is involved?” he asked the Lady.
She shook her head, earrings glittering with the movement. “Not at all, Mr. Ferreira. It’s not their style, despite the use of a scripture. It’s easy to appropriate words.”
She laid her arm across the back of the couch again. “And before you ask, it’s not the Freemasons either. Neither group is forgiving about necromancy.”
Oriana lifted her head and took a deep breath. “Then who? Who’s doing this?”
The Lady continued to gaze at Mr. Ferreira, her intense regard belying her casual posture. “Is this what you’re investigating? These houses? Miguel said you wouldn’t tell him.”
“I’m not sure whom to trust,” Mr. Ferreira said stiffly.
“Miguel has been following Mata for days,” the Lady said in patient tones. “This afternoon he let Mata get away because he was concerned you might not get out of that apartment alive. He was about to go up after you when you jumped from the window.”
He jumped from a window? Oriana glanced at Mr. Ferreira’s face. He was tense, frustrated. She could see that in the set of his shoulders. She didn’t know which of the two of them had heard more unsettling news tonight.
“Yes, this is what we’re looking into,” Mr. Ferreira finally said, pointing to the sketch. “The regular police started investigating a few weeks ago. When they asked for permission to pull up one of the houses and open it, they were told to shut down the investigation.”
“By whom?” the Lady asked.
“We don’t know what level it came from. Captain Santiago directed the request to the Ministry of Culture, but there’s no telling how many eyes saw that request before the order was handed down.”
The Lady nodded slowly. “And if I went to Maraval and asked, he would probably say the paper had never gotten as far as his desk.” Oriana had no idea how many people worked in the Ministry of Culture, but any one of them could have alerted the killers to the request. “I’ll ask anyway. I studied with him when I was younger,” the Lady added. “He’s familiar with this type of magic. If nothing else he can tell me who in the city might be able to put together a set of spells of this intricacy.”
“Do you not know?” Oriana asked.
“I’ve been abroad for much of the past three years, Miss Paredes. Witches come and go, particularly where the . . .”
The latch on the library door clicked and began to turn.
“Go stand against the wall,” the Lady ordered, pointing. “Stay behind me.”
Mr. Ferreira grabbed Oriana’s hand and hauled her out of her chair before she could protest. She barely managed to grab the sketch off the table with her free hand before he dragged her back toward the wall with him. The Lady went to stand behind the couch, one hand lying on its back, as the library door swung open, and a silver-haired man walked in, a young girl clutching his arm.
It was Paolo Silva.
CHAPTER 20
Duilio’s whole body tensed when he saw young Constancia Carvalho being squired about on Silva’s arm. He wanted to storm over there and plant the man a facer. The old lecher had a reputation for seducing young women that had never quite made sense to Duilio. Silva simply wasn’t that handsome, and while he might be influential, it was usually older women who found power attractive, not girls of barely seventeen, like the one on his arm now.
Silva gave the library door a gentle push, not obvious enough to alert the girl she was closed in. It would be scandalous if the girl was caught here alone with Silva, even if the man was old enough to be her grandfather.
Miss Carvalho pointed at one of the shelves, fortunately not too near where Duilio stood, Miss Paredes still as stone beside him. It was clear that whatever the Lady was doing worked. Miss Carvalho showed no sign of seeing them there. How fascinating.
“I think the book is on that shelf,” the girl said brightly, pointing. “Father keeps the keys with him, though.”
“I only wanted to see the cover, my girl.” Silva started in their direction.
Duilio heard a soft intake of breath from Miss Paredes. He grabbed her hand to reassure her. Silva didn’t pose a true threat to them right now. Even if the man saw them in the library, his presence here was no less questionable than theirs. And Duilio wanted to know what the man was up to. The Lady moved silently to stand directly between them and Silva.
Silva peered into one of the bookshelves with locked glass doors. Duilio doubted Miss Carvalho could see Silva’s right hand fiddling with the lock. Apparently skill with a skeleton key ran in the family. A muted click sounded, and Silva pronounced, “Oh, look. Your father’s left it unlocked, my girl.” He opened the door and extracted one leather-bound volume. “It is lovely.”
“Father never leaves the doors unlocked,” Miss Carvalho protested, sounding panicked.
Duilio felt sorry for the girl. She wasn’t the brightest of the Carvalho daughters to begin with. Newly out in society and exuberant over her birthday ball, she must have made an easy target. The girl wrung her hands together, then raised one as if beseeching Silva to return to her side. “I said I would show it to you, but you can’t look inside. Father would be livid.”
“Your father’s a friend of mine,” Silva told her. “He won’t mind.”
Miss Carvalho chewed at her lower lip. She cast a glance back at the door, her eyes widening as she apparently realized for the first time it was closed. She knew she was in trouble. “Please . . .” she began, her voice fading to a whisper.
It was actually clever of Silva, Duilio thought. Cruel, but clever. For any young, unmarried girl to be caught alone with a man would be scandalous. Silva could have crept into the library on his own, but this way, if he got caught he could hold the girl’s reputation hostage in order to get away unscathed. Surely Carvalho would protect his daughter before his books.
The Lady turned slowly to face them. She pointed at Duilio and indicated the chair farther from where Silva stood flipping through his confiscated book, then gestured for Miss Paredes to approach her. Duilio understood—his mere presence would protect young Miss Carvalho’s reputation. He glanced at Miss Paredes and nodded. She let go of his hand and walked a few steps until she stood right at the Lady’s side.
Duilio walked softly around the back of the couch to the chair the Lady had pointed out. The fabric made a soft whoosh when he sat, not loud enough to alert Silva, though. The man continued to flip through the book’s pages.
Duilio waited. The Lady must be keeping him in reserve.
The library door opened a second time. Duilio turned his head and saw it was the eldest of the daughters, Genoveva—the one Carvalho wanted to palm off on him. Lovely in an elegant cream-colored gown, she seemed more mature than her twenty-one years. Her brown eyes flicked between her sister and Silva, and she regally extended one hand. “Come here, Constancia.”
The younger sister darted over to her, but Silva didn’t look up from the book. “Miss Carvalho, how will you explain where your young sister has been for the past quarter hour?”
The elder Miss Carvalho lifted her chin. “No one need know she was here, Mr. Silva.”
“She disappeared from her birthday ball with a man,” he said. “I, for one, would consider that a sign of overeagerness.”
Genoveva strode over to where he stood, leaving the younger girl cowering by the library door. “You will not slander my sister,” she hissed.
Silva’s eyes rose to meet hers, and then he made a show of giving her a thorough appraisal. “I will do whatever I want, Miss Carvalho. Are you offering yourself in her place?”
“She’s been in the ladies' retiring room,” Miss Genoveva said coolly. “She and I were returning to the ballroom when we looked in the library and saw you pawing through my father’s books.” She held out one hand, clearly expecting him to place the book in it.
Silva didn’t. “Two guests saw her come in here with me, Miss Carvalho. I made sure of that. So what will you give me to keep my mouth shut?”
Her nostrils flared. For the first time Duilio thought that if she hadn’t fallen in love with Alessio long ago, an arranged marriage between them might have worked out after all. Genoveva Carvalho had nerve. Duilio glanced over at the Lady and nodded . . . and the Lady an
d Miss Paredes both disappeared from his view, as quick as the blink of an eye. He hadn’t expected that.
Duilio heard a quickly stifled squeak from near the door. Evidently Miss Constancia had seen him, even if the other two inhabitants of the room hadn’t yet. In as light a tone as he could manage in his current irritated state, Duilio said, “None of this is necessary, you know.”
Miss Genoveva shrieked and spun about to stare at him wide-eyed. She pressed one gloved hand to her bosom. Silva chose not to acknowledge Duilio at all.
Duilio put on his blandest smile. “I’ve been here the entire time, Miss Genoveva. I sent my mother home from the dancing, you know, and I was going to meet with Pimental to chat later, only I came in here to find the newspaper and I must have fallen asleep. I guess I blend into the chair.” He laughed as if he found himself amusing, then rose. “Whatever is that book you’re reading, old man? It must be fascinating.”
Silva snapped the book shut and set it back on the shelf. “I doubt that, in your drink-addled state, you would understand a word of it, pup. Likely not if you were sober either.”
Ah, those rare chances to speak with Silva face-to-face. Duilio ignored the insult and turned to Miss Genoveva. “Isn’t Miss Constancia missing her own ball? Nice of her to show him the library, but I expect she wants to get back to the dancing and”—he waved one hand in a vague circle—“whatever things, I suppose, that girls do.”
Miss Genoveva gazed at him for a moment, her eyes uncertain. Then she seemed to snap back to attention. “Yes, of course.”
Without a further word, she strode across the room, grabbed her younger sister’s hand, and dragged the girl out of the library.
“You are inconvenient,” Silva said acidly, dropping his pretense of civility. “Where were you hiding, pup? Under the couch?”
Duilio kept his eyes on Silva, praying he couldn’t see either of the two female occupants of the room. Not that he thought Miss Paredes couldn’t deal with Silva. He would simply rather avoid that confrontation. “I was there the whole time,” he said. “Are your eyes going bad?”
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