The Golden City

If he were to seriously consider the fortune Felis had laid out before him, then he had to believe Oriana Paredes would go back to the water. Not her home, not the islands, but to the river. Could she be swimming in the chill waters even at this moment, living in the rough, as selkies did? That didn’t seem right. Every time he’d set eyes on her she’d seemed to fit in perfectly, not chafing at the restrictions of human society. He could no more imagine Miss Paredes hiding among the moored boats along the quay than he could his own mother. No, Oriana Paredes was living in the city. She was going to the water. Returning, Felis had said.

Duilio sat up abruptly. He knew exactly where he would find Miss Paredes; his gift told him he was right. She was going to return to the scene of the crime.

CHAPTER 8

MONDAY, 29 SEPTEMBER 1902

The sides of the submersible groaned, an eerie sound to hear while trapped inside its metal body. Oriana pressed closer to the viewing window. She clutched her hands tighter about her handbag to still their shaking. She didn’t trust this creaking metal fish.

She could have simply swum here but couldn’t afford to risk being seen. And she hadn’t wanted to breathe in that death-laden water, so she’d sold her best pair of embroidered silk mitts to old Mrs. Nunhes at the boarding house to purchase a ticket aboard this rickety contraption. Now she’d begun to question that decision.

Set every few feet along the walls of the submersible’s viewing room, the white-painted casings of small round windows dripped water onto the decking, whether from leakage or condensation, Oriana didn’t know. Either possibility suggested poor workmanship. Even so, she was only one of nearly a dozen paying customers crammed into the small vessel. Finely dressed citizens of the Golden City pressed against those dripping windows, straining to catch a glimpse of The City Under the Sea.

She’d come to this place, hoping that another viewing of the floating houses might reveal some clue she’d missed before. She wanted more to tell Nela’s Lady if she agreed to meet with her. They were getting close, so Oriana steeled herself to look at the sunken houses.

The man sharing her window, a gentleman she’d seen somewhere before, craned his neck to look toward the surface above them. She already knew what she’d see. She clenched her jaw, drew out her small notebook, and gazed out the window. Lanterns inside the submersible lit the scale replicas of the Street of Flowers. With the sun shining down on it, the river’s surface above them truly did look like a silvery street with its houses lined up neatly in file.

It was art that only those who swam could appreciate. Or those who observed from vehicles such as this, chugging and whirring through the calm waters of the river’s edge. It was a shameful waste of money, made all the more sickening by the macabre details that the other observers with her didn’t know. No one in this contraption understood what they were viewing, but she had tasted death in that water, many deaths.

The replica of the Amaral house was remarkably accurate, a fact she hadn’t noticed that night. There was even a wrought-iron railing on the second-floor balcony. On either side she saw the Pereira de Santos home and the Rocha mansion, just as she remembered. Oriana stared at the houses, unable to tear her eyes away. Who would do this? And if necromancy was involved, what were they trying to achieve?

From one corner of the house’s top—its floor—she could make out a sliver of pale light. That had to be the table glowing, visible where she’d pushed the boards loose enough to wriggle out. Had the wood swollen back to close the gap? Odd that no one seemed to have noticed the damage.

“Have you ever seen anything so magnificent?” her companion asked, awe in his voice. The light musky scent of ambergris cologne floated with him when he leaned nearer.

Oriana shuddered, thinking of that dark room where Isabel waited still. And then she couldn’t bear to look any longer.

She drew back from the window and, without answering him, returned to the gilt chairs bolted to the submersible’s observation deck. She shouldn’t have wasted her dwindling funds on this. She hadn’t taken a single note. She hadn’t learned anything new and, now that she’d seen it, she only wanted to escape this place. She wanted to cover her eyes to hide away from the memory of that night. Instead, she forced her hands to settle neatly on her lap, kept her back straight and her chin up.

They were coming about to return to the quay, the captain announced through his speaker. When he requested that all his guests return to their seats, the other viewers left their windows with obvious reluctance. Oriana drew up the hem of her skirts enough to keep them from the water that flowed across the observation deck as the submersible canted at an angle, glad she’d already taken a seat.

She felt the sting of tears at the back of her throat. She didn’t want to embarrass herself, not here, not among these people who had no understanding of what they’d seen.

The ambergris-scented gentleman settled next to her. He hadn’t sat next to her on the ride out to this spot, so it was a matter of choice. Oriana clutched her handbag and favored him with a weak smile.

“They say the artist will do the entire city eventually.” His deep voice was low enough that others wouldn’t overhear the discussion—surely intentional—but his tone carried admiration, hinting that Oriana shouldn’t say anything to disparage the artist in question.

She didn’t want to talk to him. He was a gentleman, surely one of the decorative types who did nothing all day long. He would discover quickly that she was merely a glorified servant and be embarrassed to have spoken to her at all. “There would be no room for the fish,” she returned without much enthusiasm.

He smiled slightly, his lips pressed together, as if he found that amusing but was too well-bred to laugh. “Ah yes, the fish. I suppose we must consider the sereia as well, and not encroach too much upon their waters.”

Oriana resisted the urge to look at him, a flutter of panic swelling in her belly. Had he guessed her secret? Or was his mention of the sereia a coincidence? At least his comment didn’t seem to require an answer. She lifted one hand and tugged at the high neck of her cambric shirtwaist, making sure her gill slits were covered. She wished she’d brought a shawl.

The gentleman was named Duilio, she recalled, a nephew or son of one of the merchant-adventurers who’d served the prince’s father in days past. She couldn’t recall where she’d met him, though. He inhabited the edges of society, if she remembered correctly, a lower sphere than the Amaral family. Isabel wouldn’t have favored him with her conversation. Sitting next to him in the confines of the metal ship, Oriana didn’t have any choice. The other viewers had all taken seats again, so trying to escape him would only make him curious.

He was an attractive man although not particularly striking. Nothing marked him as out of the ordinary. Taller than average, but only an inch or two taller than she was. His dark hair was short cropped, and he wore a frock coat and trousers in somber hues. He had limpid brown eyes, though, and an amiable manner that made Oriana hope he might be harmless. Where had they met before?

“Don’t you agree?” he asked then.

Evidently he did expect an answer. She kept her breathing calm and, hoping to evade further conversation, repeated a claim she’d read in the newspapers. “An entire city suspended from the bottom of the river would pose a navigation hazard.”

Duilio laughed, his head thrown back, displaying even teeth. “I had no idea you were a wit.”

A wit? Oriana shifted uncomfortably on the delicate chair. She couldn’t quite tell whether he meant that as a compliment or sarcasm. “I am generally considered quite dull, sir.”

He glanced down, fingering the fine scarf that hung about his neck, old gold against the dark gray of his frock coat. “I do wonder if people are mistaken about you.”

No, it didn’t sound like sarcasm. She appraised him while his hands were occupied. His coat looked custom made—nothing bought ready-made, like hers. His wool trousers appeared freshly pressed and his patent shoes shone, a sure sign that his valet earned his keep. Oriana felt more aware then of her worn black skirt and pinching shoes.

He glanced at her. “May I ask, are you not Miss Paredes, companion to Lady Isabel Amaral?”