It wasn’t just that he would like to bed her. He would. He hadn’t for a moment forgotten the vision of her in her bath. But he’d had lovers in the past and would never have dreamed of telling any of them of Mata’s attempt to kill him. Most gentlewomen would be shocked and appalled. Oriana Paredes had joked about it.
Shocked and appalled would sum up Joaquim’s reaction should Duilio confess he was considering Miss Paredes as a potential . . . What was he considering her as? He’d already dismissed the idea of asking her to be his mistress. There was very little left beyond that: lover or wife. Friend? Did women on the islands from which she came have male friends? It wasn’t usually done in Portuguese society, and he wouldn’t be satisfied with that anyway.
Duilio pressed his lips together. Joaquim would protest that Miss Paredes wasn’t a child of the Church. That didn’t matter to Duilio; he lacked Joaquim’s piety. And while Joaquim wouldn’t care that Miss Paredes wasn’t human, he would find it worrisome that she was a spy. That was probably why he hadn’t introduced her to Joaquim yet. Joaquim would immediately pick up on his interest in Miss Paredes, and Duilio didn’t need to be arguing with him. They had other things to worry about.
“Mr. Ferreira? Are you listening?” Miss Paredes lowered the lace veil over her face.
That made him want to snatch the thing off again. “I apologize, Miss Paredes. My mind was wandering.”
She leaned over the table toward him, and something about her posture told him she was spooked. “I think we should go, Mr. Ferreira. We’re being watched.”
Stupid of him to forget that. “Where?”
“There’s a woman over at the church, watching us.”
He wasn’t facing the proper direction to see that. “Do you recognize her?”
“I saw her the last time I was here,” she said. “She was watching me then. I don’t believe it was a coincidence.”
He left more than enough money to cover their fare and, offering Miss Paredes his arm, led her away from the café in the direction opposite the church, back down toward the quay. She occasionally cast glances back over her shoulder. “Is she following?” he asked when they walked around the corner onto the Street of Flowers.
“Not that I can see,” she said softly.
They crossed to the other side of the street, where the tram was beginning its trek up the steep hill. When it halted he drew her over and they both got on, which would spare her the climb. When they got near the house, she jumped down ahead of him. Once on the street, he offered her his arm again, but decided to go all the way up to the Gouveia house, then around to the alley and back down to his own. If someone was following them, it would provide a smokescreen, although not much of one.
Apparently Miss Paredes understood the ruse, as she didn’t argue when he passed the house. She kept walking at his side, her heels clicking on the cobbles. Most of the pedestrians were headed downhill, since it was the end of the workday, so they walked against the traffic. He leaned closer to shield her from a large group of schoolboys approaching them. “What does she look like?”
“Average,” she said, her voice barely audible above the boys’ chatter. “Brown hair. Brown eyes. I don’t know. Intense?”
They’d reached the Gouveia house. Duilio indicated that she should walk around to the side. “That’s very vague, Miss Paredes.”
Her head tilted in his direction. He could see her dry look even through the lace veil.
“I wondered if she might be this Maria Melo,” he said.
“I did too,” she said in return. Softly, as if it were a secret.
“Would this be related to your . . . master? Does she work for him?”
They had reached the back alleyway that housed the mews for the Street of Flowers, and she turned to go down that direction. He steered her around a pothole forming in the narrow cobbled road. “I don’t know if it’s her,” she finally said. “But . . .”
They passed the back of the Queirós house in silence and neared his own. Gustavo stood on the back steps, sharing a cigarette with Ana. The footman glanced up when they walked closer, stubbed out his cigarette, and started toward them, but Duilio waved the young man away. Gustavo took the hint and went inside, urging the housemaid along with him.
“I wish I could help in some way,” Duilio said.
Miss Paredes reached up and worked the mantilla’s comb out of her hair. “I don’t know whom I can trust any longer.”
Duilio led her up the back steps and paused to turn up the gaslight there. The sun hadn’t set yet, but it was already growing gloomy in the shadow of the house. He stood on the step, wrapped in the fading scent of cigarette smoke. “If there’s anything you need of me, Miss Paredes, you need only ask.”
Considering that she was a spy, the offer could be considered treasonous, but Duilio didn’t care. He’d been walking that line for days now.
She sighed softly. For a moment he could have sworn she wanted to tell him something, but then she shook her head. “I need more time to figure this all out. I’ll try to finish reading that journal this evening after your mother goes to sleep, sir. Given the way he writes, I don’t expect we’re going to learn more. But I’ll try.”
She wasn’t going to open up to him—not tonight at least. He opened the door for her. “I promised I would go see Joaquim,” Duilio said, “but perhaps we can discuss your findings tomorrow after breakfast?”
She nodded and headed upstairs to freshen up before dinner, leaving him alone in the kitchen. Duilio sighed. He needed to decide what he wanted of her. While the Open Hand threatened her life—and the lives of so many others—he didn’t think it fair to press her. He just needed to remember to keep his hands off her.
CHAPTER 26
Fortunately, Anjos had given Inspector Gaspar the address of Joaquim’s apartment in Massarelos. The Cabo Verdean man arrived there not long after Duilio and quickly eased their worries for the Lady’s safety. Joaquim poured a glass of Vinho Verde for Gaspar, who settled in the leather chair near the window. It was the first time Duilio had seen the man sit down.
“She’s not a fool,” Gaspar said. “She didn’t tell Maraval anything about our group or your association with us. And Maraval informed her himself about being linked with the floating houses. That bears out Espinoza’s statement, as per your priest, that Maraval has been overseeing the installation.”
Joaquim leaned against the apartment door. “But he’s not the one behind the deaths?”
“I can’t say that. I didn’t get a look at him myself,” Gaspar said. “And I would only have been able to tell if he’s been practicing witchcraft himself. This entire thing stinks to me of an effort to keep someone’s hands free of actual killing.”
Duilio sat down across from Gaspar in his regular chair. “But she doesn’t think he’s behind it? Does she even have a name?”
Gaspar’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “No.”
Duilio had a feeling Gaspar could talk circles around him. He didn’t think the inspector was more than five or six years older than him, but when he looked in Gaspar’s eyes, the man seemed ancient. As if he’d seen everything in the world twice. “No, she doesn’t think he’s involved?” Duilio asked. “Or no, she doesn’t have a name?”
Gaspar picked up his glass. “She does have a name but it’s not recorded anywhere. No record of her birth, and as far as I know only one man alive knows that name. No, she doesn’t believe Maraval could be involved. He’s an old family friend, her godfather, although not officially, of course. The Church has no record of her birth or baptism.” He took a sip of wine. “Speaking of which, what is your history with Silva?”
“He’s my father’s bastard brother,” Duilio admitted with a shrug.
“There’s nothing wrong with being a bastard,” Gaspar pointed out.
“I agree,” Duilio said. Joaquim had been born only six months after his parents’ marriage; some might question his legitimacy as well, so Duilio chose his words carefully. “I
f Silva and my father had grown up as equals, Silva might have made a charming uncle. But my grandfather cast him out when his mother died, and Silva never forgave him. He made an enemy of my father, he baited Alessio endlessly, and he’s spent the past year taunting me.”
Gaspar regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Could he be involved in this floating-house business? Maraval dropped Silva’s name at one point and then quickly took it back.”
Duilio closed his eyes. Silva had the access. It was unclear how much money the man had, but with the Ministry of Culture doing the funding, that made the high cost of the installation less of a factor in who might be pulling the strings. And there had been that business with Mata getting notes similar to the one that had made Augustus Smithson back off the hunt for his mother’s pelt. Duilio felt certain that linked the two cases, even if Anjos had reason to think Silva didn’t have the pelt. Silva was on close terms with the prince, wasn’t he? His pet seer? Silva would surely rise in influence if the prince became a king. “It’s possible,” Duilio finally said.
Joaquim shook his head. “I don’t agree.”
“I don’t think it’s likely,” Duilio qualified. “If he was involved, he would have never let Miss Paredes go when he had her in his grasp. Nor would he have mentioned the Open Hand to me or told me about the prophecy. He knows I work with the police. Do you think Maraval was trying to deflect attention?”
Gaspar tilted his head to one side. “One reason that Anjos and I—and Miss Vladimirova—were brought in from outside the country was that we have no family ties here, no loyalties that might prompt us to false assumptions. So I’m inclined to reserve judgment on Silva and Maraval both.”
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 outside
s 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 rapped 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.
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