Duilio didn’t bother to take the sketch out of his coat pocket. He drew over a delicate chair to sit down behind her where he could see her face in the mirror. “Do you recall ever hearing of one coming into the city?”
“No,” she said, tugging on one of the sheepskin mittens. “Has one?”
He shook his head. “A stray inquiry Joaquim and I are pursuing.”
She looked into the mirror to see his expression. “Does this have anything to do with Erdano’s girl?”
“Perhaps,” he admitted. “I think we’ve found her, Mother, but . . .”
“But she’s dead, as you predicted.” She sighed heavily.
Duilio reached over to the dressing table and grabbed the jar of ointment. He sniffed it and then put the lid on it, wondering if it might benefit Oriana’s burns. “Mother, I need to ask you an upsetting question.”
She gazed at him from under a lowered brow. “Duilinho, honestly.”
He sometimes forgot that although his mother had been raised among humans, she’d spent a couple of years living in the sea, a very different life from the one she had now—a harsher life. “The girl was skinned,” he said. “Not her pelt, we haven’t found that, but her skin. Does that have any significance to you?”
She turned halfway about on her seat to face him. “Our skin and our pelts are inseparable.” She held up her uncovered hand to display the reddened fingertips. Better, but still far from healed. “Damage to one is damage to the other. But there’s no value to taking the skin rather than the pelt. The pelt can be sold. Skin can’t.”
She had a point. A human skin couldn’t be sold. Well, one can be, he admitted to himself, if done in absolute secrecy.
“Miss Paredes ate this morning,” his mother said, interrupting his thoughts. “But fell asleep again directly afterward. Felis told me you’d made a dreadful mess of the bathroom.”
He almost laughed at the exasperation in her voice. “Miss Paredes asked to sleep in her bed to rest her gills. Getting another person out of a bathtub is far more difficult to do neatly than I expected, Mother. I did try to mop it up.”
“You’re smiling,” she said, a glint of laughter in her warm eyes. “Felis reports that Miss Paredes was put to bed without her nightgown.”
He could well imagine Felis reporting to his mother, her spine stiff, wrapped in offended propriety. “You do understand that wasn’t embarrassing to Miss Paredes at all, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course, Duilinho,” she said, “but Felis is lurking in the halls, waiting to box your ears, so be warned.”
Fortunately Felis was with Oriana at the moment, so Duilio didn’t have to worry about avoiding his mother’s maid on his way to the library. Cardenas had left a handful of correspondence on his desk, and Duilio thumbed through the pile. He found a pair of worried inquiries, both related to Alessio’s journals, and sighed. He set them aside and sorted through his other correspondence, a handful of invitations to this ball and that soiree, when he had no time or stomach for such frivolity.
His man of business had also sent a baffling note, asking if there was some matter Duilio didn’t find him capable of handling. It took a moment to determine that the man had heard of the visit by Lady Pereira de Santos’ man of business—Monteiro—and feared replacement. Duilio penned a calming note to the man, explaining that Monteiro had called on a personal matter rather than a professional one.
That train of thought brought something else to mind, though, and Duilio opened the drawer and located the note Monteiro had given him. The man’s handwriting was exceptionally neat, a good thing in a businessman. Duilio folded the slip of paper and secured it in a pocket.
He stopped by to check on Oriana before leaving the house again. She slept peacefully while Felis scowled at him over her needlework. Softly, so as not to wake her, he told the maid, “I’ll look in on her again tonight after dinner.”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t argue.
Dr. Esteves had his office on Fábrica Street, not far from the Torre dos Clérigos, so Duilio headed up to that part of the city afoot. The doctor’s thin-faced receptionist wasn’t any friendlier than Felis, but after Duilio promised to take no more than a few minutes, she reluctantly agreed to let him in to see the man. He settled in an anteroom that smelled of lye and ammonia. Three women sat there, one an elderly and wizened creature in mourning garb, clutching a driftwood cane. The other two were younger, one pretty, one not as much. None of the trio looked to be particularly wealthy. The pretty one sniffled and clutched her handbag close to her, making Duilio suspect she was afraid. Not so much of the doctor, but perhaps of his diagnosis, or the cure.
After a short while spent in uncomfortable silence, the doctor came to the doorway. He was an older man—likely in his late fifties. His graying hair and black coat gave him a serious air. He glanced at the three women, and said, “This is a professional inquiry, ladies. He’ll only be a moment. Miss Victore,” he added to the receptionist, “no interruptions, please.”
The doctor turned his eyes on Duilio and gestured for him to follow. Duilio pursued the man back to an office, where a cup of tea sat cooling on a desk. “Mr. Ferreira? Can I assume this has something to do with a police inquiry?”
He hadn’t said as much to the receptionist, so that startled Duilio. “You’re aware I work with the police?”
“Dr. Teixeira told me you paid him to perform an autopsy for the police.” He gestured for Duilio to sit. “I for one find it refreshing when a gentleman uses his influence for good, or his funds. My father was the Duke of Heranas, but my family doesn’t approve of my clientele and they no longer associate with me.”
The current duke lived farther up the Street of Flowers, close to the palace. Duilio could imagine the man’s horror at seeing the collection of impecunious women in his brother’s waiting room. “I see.”
“I imagine you do,” Esteves said. “Now, young man, what brings you to this part of town?”
Duilio shifted on his chair, then straightened his necktie. “I have questions of a delicate nature,” he said. “Ones a police officer would be forbidden to ask, but as a private citizen I can.”
The doctor sat in a straight-backed chair across from him. “Is this regarding my practice here?”
“Not directly, sir. I wanted to ask if you’ve ever treated one of the otter folk.”
“It’s been a very long time,” the doctor said, “but yes. Before the ban on nonhumans, I did have one come into the hospital where I was working. That was the only time.”
Duilio slipped the sketch from his pocket and began to unfold it. “In human form, I assume.”
The doctor looked amused by the question. “Well, as human as they get. He did have an impressive tail.”
Since that confirmed Duilio’s suspicion, it led to other questions. He passed the sketch to the doctor. “If you look at that hand, could it, in your opinion, be the hand of one of the otter folk?”
“Who is she?” the doctor asked, pushing the drawing back toward Duilio. “If you’re trying to hunt her down, I won’t help you.”
He had to admire that resolve. “She was found dead in an alley five days ago, Doctor,” he said, “partially skinned. In the area where a tail might have been, if she had one.”
The doctor appeared to be weighing his honesty. “Why come to me with this matter?”
“You were recommended to me as a discreet doctor, should a certain member of my household need care. By a Mr. Adriano Monteiro.” The statement was essentially an admission that there was a sereia living in his household. He hoped the display of trust would buy the doctor’s willingness.
The doctor nodded, apparently appeased. He picked up the sketch, drew a pair of spectacles out of a pocket and set them on his nose, then peered at the paper. “The nails in this drawing,” he said, pointing. “The sereia have similar nails
, but they’re far more fastidious about such things. I can’t see a sereia allowing her hygiene to lapse to this point. The girl’s facial structure could belong to a selkie, I suppose, but selkies don’t have nails like this in human form—or a tail. Given this drawing, I would say it’s a possibility she was one of the otter folk, but that’s as far as I’ll go. Without a tail, you have no proof.”
Duilio tucked that statement away in his mind. “She was missing skin about her buttocks and part of the way up her back. Would it be difficult to remove that much skin?”
“Hunters do it all the time,” Esteves said matter-of-factly, handing the sketch back to Duilio. “Is that what you came to ask after?”
“Yes.” Duilio rose. “Thank you for your time, Doctor.”
Esteves escorted him to the door, but Duilio’s mind suggested another question. “If this was an otter girl, do you know of any reason for removing her tail?”
The doctor shook his graying head, his brows drawn together as he considered the last-minute question. “There are those who believe the magic of the otter folk is in their tail, but so little is known of them that it can’t be substantiated.”
A strange thought occurred to Duilio. “What about the selkies? Where is their magic?”
“Ah. It’s said to be in their skin.”
“You mean their pelts?” Without their pelt, a selkie couldn’t resume seal form, a fact his family knew all too well.
“No, their skin,” Esteves said firmly. “Have you ever seen the pelt of a selkie? By itself it isn’t magic. It’s the bond between the pelt and their skin that allows them to take on seal form. So even without her pelt, a selkie is still a magical creature, which is thought to be why they’re so seductive in human form.”
Duilio stared at the doctor, disturbed. His mother had said the skin and pelt were inseparable. “How do you know that?”
The doctor gave a sheepish shrug. “Medical college, Mr. Ferreira. While students don’t officially study nonhumans, they always gather and whisper about them when they should be studying more pertinent topics.”
Since he hadn’t always studied what he should at university either, Duilio didn’t doubt the man’s word on that.
CHAPTER 12
Oriana’s old clothes still hung in the dressing room where she’d left them before heading back to the islands. It wasn’t a vast selection.
When she’d been companion to Lady Isabel Amaral, she’d had several dark and severe gowns, as well as enough day wear in somber colors to accompany Isabel on whatever mischievous course that young lady decided to pursue. But when Isabel was murdered, Oriana had been forced to flee the Amaral household with almost nothing—only what she had previously packed in one bag. So the overlarge dressing room in the Ferreira household held only two shirtwaists, two skirts, and the out-of-date blue gown of Lady Ferreira’s that Oriana had altered to wear at the Carvalho ball.
“We’ll definitely need to have the seamstress in,” Lady Ferreira said with a shake of her head. “Why you didn’t mention this to me before escapes me, dear.”
Standing at the door of the dressing room, Oriana clutched her borrowed dressing gown. Her head ached, and if she moved too swiftly, the dizziness returned. The links of the chain attached to the manacle on her wrist clinked together, a sound she was beginning to hate. “Lady, I didn’t have need of more.”
“Nonsense.” Lady Ferreira opened a large armoire full of a man’s garments. “We need to get Alessio’s clothes out of here. There’s no reason to keep all of this. Felis?”
The elderly maid bustled into the dressing room, the scent of rose water drifting with her in a heavy wave as she passed Oriana. “Yes, lady?”
“Felis, I’d like a couple of the footmen to remove this clothing. Tell Cardenas to distribute it as he sees fit among the servants. Anything not wanted should go to the poor.”
Felis made a quick bob, then sailed out of the dressing room and away.
Oriana watched Lady Ferreira with wide eyes. When she’d been hired as the woman’s companion, the lady had been perpetually distracted, responding to very little beyond her son’s urgings. With her pelt restored to her, she had regained a vitality that Oriana found most startling. This new Lady Ferreira was a gentle whirlwind.
The lady in question fixed her eyes on Oriana again. “Now, if you are to be my companion, I expect you to be better garbed than this. I’ll have my seamstress come in the morning.” Her eyes drifted down to Oriana’s bare silvery feet. “And you need more shoes.”
Oriana gazed sheepishly at her toes. Shoes were always a problem, as her feet were wider than a human woman’s. In her two weeks imprisoned aboard ship, her nails had grown longer than she liked. They were beginning to curl down at the tips. “I already have . . .”
Lady Ferreira cocked her head. “I wager they don’t fit properly. I’ll have my shoemaker in tomorrow morning as well.”
Why am I arguing? In the last two years, she’d never owned custom-made shoes. While the idea of a shoemaker handling her wide feet made her feel self-conscious, the prospect of having shoes that fit properly was too tempting to pass up.
The lady had already moved on anyway. “Now, I want you to prepare a list of any toiletries you need. I’ll be sending Felis out later to the druggist, so I’ll simply put your list with mine.”
Oriana ran her fingertips across her aching forehead. “My lady, I don’t have any way to pay.”
Lady Ferreira waved that protest away with a sweep of one delicate hand. “You’re in my employ, Oriana. Your expenses will be folded into mine. Aspirin, I think.”
And Duilio would end up paying. Oriana had no idea what relationship Lady Ferreira believed existed between her and Duilio. She didn’t know the answer to that herself. The man who’d laid his cheek next to hers, who had fed her with his own hands, who’d tucked her under her coverlet so carefully—that man had been gone when she woke. She didn’t know where. He’d said they needed to talk, and he’d promised to get the damned iron cuff off her wrist. Other than that, she was certain of nothing about him.
But he had come to save her. When she hadn’t had any faith left, she’d still hoped he would come after her. She had forced herself to believe it, even when there was no way for him to know what had happened to her, or even much reason for him to intercede. He was wealthy, and a gentleman. He was human—mostly. She was none of those things.
“I cannot believe Alessio bought this,” Lady Ferreira said, holding up a frock coat so Oriana could see it. The red crepe coat was heavily trimmed with swirls of black soutache. “Must be a gift from one of his admirers. Duilio would die before wearing something like this.”
Oriana nearly laughed at the image of Duilio Ferreira in that jacket. Had she ever seen him in any color other than black, white, or gray? No, he must be naturally somber, which could not have been true of his brother. “What was he like?”
Lady Ferreira stroked a white-gloved finger along the trim on the colorful jacket. “Alessio? He was his father’s son in many ways,” she said. “Volatile, charismatic, charming when he wished to be. He had far too many lovers, all of whom laid their hearts at his feet to be trampled—which was what he usually did.” She set the coat back in the armoire. “He had a selkie’s charm, you know, in a very human world that didn’t approve.”
Duilio had told Oriana his brother was killed during a scandalous duel over a lover, but the way the lady spoke, every word sounded like a caress, as if each trait was a favorable one.
Lady Ferreira smiled sadly. “He had few honest friends, and managed to alienate his brother and father and the Tavares boys as well. He fled the university and scandalized society until he was no longer accepted anywhere. He drank far too much, especially after he broke with his father.”
“What provoked that?” Oriana asked softly.
“My husband wanted him to marry. They argued
over that regularly, but Alessio’s tastes never ran to domesticity. He enjoyed falling in love, but had no intention of working at staying in love for more than a week or two. One night his father told him that if he was going to carry on in that manner, it would not be under his roof. Alessio took him at his word and left.”
“Oh. I am sorry.” It was unusual for an unmarried child to leave the family home, so that must have been a great trial for Lady Ferreira.
“He came to visit me regularly when he knew his father was out. I did not agree with his choices, but I still loved him.” She smiled at Oriana then, a warm look holding only a tinge of regret. “Why don’t you get dressed, and we’ll sit down to a civilized meal. Duilio is still out, so it will just be the two of us, but I would enjoy that.”
“Yes, my lady.” Oriana was actually beginning to feel light-headed, so eating was a good idea. “If you’ll give me a few minutes.”
It actually took far longer. While she managed to dress quickly enough, the footmen arrived soon after to begin removing Alessio’s clothing and, before they were quite done, Felis returned, determined to arrange Oriana’s hair and cut her nails for her. It was strange to have such a fuss made over her—as if she were the lady rather than the servant. Fortunately, the elderly maid had brought along a tray with cookies and a glass of water with lemon, which helped Oriana endure her ministrations.
“Such an unusual color,” Felis said as she combed out Oriana’s hair. “I would suggest you wear blue. Or pinks, Miss Paredes. Not light ones, but the deep rosy shades, or ones with a golden undertone.”
Most people who noted her hair color hinted that there had been a terrible accident involving henna, so Oriana had no ready answer for a compliment. “Thank you, Felis,” she mumbled.
The maid continued to comb Oriana’s hair, being very careful near the bruising on the back of her neck. In the dressing table’s mirror, Oriana could see that her split lower lip had scabbed over. Her cheeks looked thinner than normal, and her eyes bigger in her pale face. Felis smiled at her in the mirror, and Oriana managed to return the gesture.
The Seat of Magic Page 11