The Golden City

her belly. Who’s looking for me?

Surely it was too early for Nela’s mysterious Lady to be doing so, and Carlos already knew where to find her. Could it be Silva, the prince’s seer who had pulled her out of the river three nights before? Or could Lady Amaral have gone to the police after all and blamed her in some way for Isabel’s absence? The last thing she needed was the police hunting her.

A gentleman in a dark suit brushed against her as he passed, startling her. He tipped his hat apologetically before he went on his way. Oriana shook herself. She couldn’t afford to be standing here on the street corner like a lamppost. She walked on, feeling shaken.

She waited for an opening between the carriages traveling Sao Sebastiao, and headed toward the quay. Once there, she stood on the quay in the noontime sun, gazing up toward the old tile roofs of the houses that lined the river. The smell of the water was comforting

It had seemed clear at first. The police had no inkling of Isabel’s fate, so it was up to her to seek retribution, wasn’t it? She’d been angry. She hadn’t questioned what it would cost her to find the artist and expose him. She hadn’t allowed herself to doubt. But now she knew she was hunting a necromancer. Not only was she hiding from the police, as always, but now she had to duck Heriberto and Carlos as well. She had little money and few friends and no idea where to look next. But none of that would stop her.

She’d never been able to avenge Marina. She wasn’t going to fail Isabel in the same way.

* * *

The library of the Ferreira home was Duilio’s favorite room. It housed a collection of items his father had brought back from his travels. An array of giant clam shells, bleached almost white, sat atop the middle of a large circular table covered with marquetry, supposedly liberated from a pirate’s lair in the South Seas. A chandelier hung above that display, delicate branches of white coral holding two dozen candles—a fixture too fragile to refit for gas lighting. That came from the street bazaars of the desert city of Marrakech. Many of the books that lined the room claimed equally unlikely origin. His father’s desk in the corner—his desk now—supposedly came from Brazil, but Duilio had no idea if that was true either.

Cardenas had left a telegram atop that desk, and Duilio picked it up. Sent from Paris, it told him exactly what he’d expected. Marianus Efisio was there, but neither Lady Isabel nor her companion had ever arrived. Efisio intended to remain there until he received word from Isabel. Duilio tucked the telegram into a pocket, uncertain whether he felt sorry for Efisio or not.

Felis, his mother’s maid, appeared on the threshold of the library and fixed him with her hawklike eyes. “What is this about you wanting to see me, Duilinho?”

Her voice had an angry edge to it, as always. But the woman’s bark was, as it was said, far worse than her bite—most of the time. Duilio smiled at her and withdrew a small bundle from his other coat pocket. The bribe should definitely come first. He’d seen a woman selling barnacles on the quay—Felis’ favorite treat. “Please, Miss Felis. I’ve been looking for a few days now, and I can’t find someone. I thought perhaps you could help.”

She exhaled loudly but walked over to the chair he held out for her, her eyes on the bounty of barnacles. He closed the door, and when he returned she was happily chewing away on one of the briny treats. She drew a tattered box of cards from her apron pocket, removed the deck, and slid them toward him. “What do you need to know, Duilinho?”

Felis wasn’t a witch, he felt sure. Her talent lay in getting someone to organize their thoughts around the cards she presented, making it seem as if the cards knew what was in their subconscious. At least, that was what Duilio suspected she did. While his gift usually only told him yes or no, her card work seemed to bring out more complete answers for him. He didn’t often ask this of her, though, as he didn’t want her to think he took her for granted.

He picked up the deck, shuffled it, and put it back in her wrinkled hands. “There’s a woman. I need to find her.”

Felis withdrew one card and lay it facedown on the polished surface of the table. “This is your card, Duilinho.” She started to deal the cards out into three piles. “Is she a criminal?”

“No,” he said quickly. Many would argue that point since she was in the city illegally, but he didn’t see Miss Paredes that way. “A witness. A victim.”

Felis picked up one of the stacks and turned over the first card, the two of spades. “Yes, she’s under a cloud. Is she in hiding?”

He wasn’t familiar enough with Miss Paredes to predict her actions, but hiding was a good guess. “I suppose.”

Felis discarded one card and laid out another. “In her place, what would you do?”

He sat back. If he’d been captured and nearly killed, he would have been trying to find the person responsible, investigating. But a woman would be more likely to seek assistance, the police or . . .

He shook his head, annoyed with himself. Why was he assuming she would ask for help? If she was a spy, that implied an intrepid nature, a self-reliance he’d not been factoring into his expectations. If such a thing had happened to him, he wouldn’t have known whom to trust. He would have tried to solve the problem himself.

“Seven of diamonds,” Felis said, drawing his thoughts back to the cards. “Traveling near water, perhaps?”

Miss Paredes might return to her people’s islands, he reckoned. “A sea voyage?”

“No, not the sea.” Felis continued to deal out the cards, ending up with several facing upward. She spread them wider and scowled down at them. “The river. Hmm. Why would she do that?”

Duilio reached to flip over the first card she’d laid down, only to withdraw his hand hastily when she slapped it. “You said it was my card,” he protested.

“They’re all my cards, boy, so leave it alone.”

That seemed unfair. One of these days he was going to find a book that listed the supposed meanings of each card. For all he knew, Felis was making it up as she went along.

She slid the jack of clubs out from where it had been hidden behind another card. She scowled and said, “There’s a man involved. A man with ill intent.”

Well, he had to agree that the man who’d put Miss Paredes in the river had ill intent. Perhaps the card represented the artist, Espinoza. “I knew that,” Duilio said. “Any ideas where I can look for her?”

“Back to the water, boy. She’s going back to the water.” She looked up then, clearly at the end of her reading. “That’s where you’ll find her.”

Duilio sat back, puzzling over that claim. It was so vague as to be useless. Felis began to retrieve her cards, apparently ready to leave. When she picked up the last card—the hidden one she’d said belonged to him—she chuckled to herself. Duilio leaned around and saw the king of hearts in her fingers. “What does that mean?”

Felis tucked it in among the others, slid the box back in her pocket, and gathered up her handkerchief full of barnacles. “Remember, boy, you don’t believe in the cards.”

He felt a flush creep up his cheeks. Her tone wasn’t remonstrative; more teasing than anything else. But he didn’t believe in fortune-telling. Not exactly. He wished he’d thought to dissemble instead of admitting that as a child. He helped her to her feet and opened the library door for her. “I believe in you, Miss Felis, which is more important.”

The old woman snorted and walked out without a backward glance.

Duilio paced around the library once, trying to settle his anxious mind. In the far corner, the normal collection of social invitations waited on his desk for his attention, but he didn’t sit. The prayer niche between two bookshelves offered no answer at the moment. He contemplated the liquor cabinet and decided that wasn’t the answer either; that had been Alessio’s favored response to problems, and it had never served him well.

Somewhere on the library shelves, Duilio recalled, there should be a volume in French that told of the strange and barbaric society of the sereia out on their islands, supposedly penned by a sailor who’d been there. His father had brought the book from Lyons or Marseilles, and Duilio had read it a dozen times as a boy. He halfheartedly scanned the shelves, aware that the answer wouldn’t be between its covers either. He couldn’t find the book, though. It was probably sitting next to the copy of the Camoes epic that Joaquim claimed should be in this library; he still hadn’t found that.

Duilio finally flung himself onto the sofa and stayed there, fretting.