The Golden City

gentleman didn’t make any difference. She’d had more than one improper proposal from among Isabel’s circle of suitors, all of them gentlemen. She didn’t think Mr. Ferreira intended the same, though. He’d involved his mother in his offer, something that went beyond the realm of acceptable behavior if he planned a seduction. A gentleman did not include his family in his transgressions.

And she was qualified for the job. She had, after all, been Lady Isabel’s companion for more than a year. Although she had no letter of recommendation from Isabel’s family, she must be considered experienced. She also had her abilities as a seamstress to offer, which had helped convince Lady Amaral to hire an unknown woman as a companion in the first place.

Oriana looked at her pale face in the spotted mirror and nodded sharply. She had to take the chance. Having made her decision, she drew her hair down about her shoulders and neck to hide her gill slits, picked up her pitcher, and headed downstairs to the kitchen to fill it.

It wasn’t the same as a bath, but it would ease the ache in her gills. After days without being able to bathe properly, her skin was beginning to feel dull and dry. And she should sponge off her skirt as well. If she was going to ask after a position in a fine lady’s household, she had better be presentable.

* * *

The Ferreira family lived near the end of the Street of Flowers, not far up from the Church of Sao Francisco—an indicator of the family’s social status. When the aristocrats had built along that street, the most influential located nearer the palace, closer to their prince. The lesser nobles and the gentry had been relegated to the far end near the river. When she’d lived in the Amaral mansion, Oriana would have had to travel some distance downhill to reach the Ferreira household.

Of course, to get from the boarding house to the Ferreira home, she had to go up the steep hills. Climbing had never been easy for her. She’d been told once that the air bladders on the outside of a sereia’s lungs were vestigial. That didn’t matter; they took up space. Her smaller lungs made the steep streets hard going. She might have taken the tram, only she didn’t want to spend what few coins she had—not when she didn’t yet have a position.

So Oriana headed up the Street of Flowers, carrying her portmanteau, her heels clicking along the cobbled edge of the road. When the cool wind tried to pluck away her plain straw hat, she held it with one mitt-covered hand as she walked. Glancing up at the sky, she saw that clouds were rolling in, rain in them. She hoped she would have a place to spend the night.

She felt a sudden pang of homesickness for the house on Amado where she’d grown up among her father’s family. She missed her grandmother’s tile-roofed home with its terrace where she and her sister would sleep under the stars. She missed the beaches and the red-sailed fishing boats that cluttered them. She missed the heady smell of flowers on a summer breeze. Amado was, of all her people’s islands, the most similar in culture and architecture to Portugal, but it wasn’t crowded and formal and stuffy like the Golden City. For better or worse, she’d left it behind long ago. Now she had to make the best of the situation she’d landed in.

When she reached the Ferreiras’ address, she paused, caught her breath, and pulled the bell chain. After a moment, a gray-haired butler appeared at the door.

“I am Miss Paredes.” Fortunately, she didn’t sound winded. “Mr. Ferreira asked that I speak with Lady Ferreira regarding a position here.”

“Yes, Mr. Duilio said you would be coming, Miss Paredes.” He took in her tired costume with perceptive eyes and gestured toward the bag clutched in her hand. “Why don’t you set that on the table over there, miss, and I’ll take you through to meet our lady.”

Our lady. It was a possessive title, suggestive of an elderly woman or an invalid. Oriana did as the butler suggested, leaving her single bag on an exquisitely carved table of dark wood. A fine mirror hung above it, so she took a quick moment to check her hair and make certain her clothes were neat, and then obediently followed the elderly butler through to the front sitting room.

It was elegant, all ivory and gold, and the fine furnishings made Oriana curious to see the remainder of this house. Nothing about the couch or the low tables or chairs was ostentatious, but having worked with fabric in the past, she could tell that each was constructed of quality materials. The brown figured rug under her feet appeared to be wool and silk. The whole room suggested wealth but not extravagance. She wondered if that were only true of the public areas, as in the Amaral home.

Enthroned in one of the chairs across from the sofa, Lady Ferreira sat alone, a wistful expression on her face as she gazed out the window in the direction of the river. A great beauty, the woman had her son’s dark, clear eyes. The lady wore a dark brown suit, suggestive of a working woman’s efficient garb—no frills or lace—yet shantung silk that fine would never be seen in the city’s offices. The skirt was trimmed in black velvet that matched the smart velvet cuffs and lapels on the jacket. Jet earrings dangled next to the lady’s slender throat. A newspaper lay abandoned on the small table next to her right hand, along with a cup of coffee.

“Lady, this is Miss Paredes,” the butler intoned. “Mr. Duilio said she would come by.”

The lady stared out the window as though she hadn’t heard him.

“Lady Ferreira?” Oriana tried. “I’m Miss Paredes.”

The lady moved then, as if a new voice had been enough to rouse her. She turned halfway to gaze over her shoulder. “Ah, my son told me you would come.” She gestured for Oriana to approach and opened one hand to indicate the sofa. Oriana obediently sat, catching the scent of the lady’s perfume, floral with a hint of musk, as she did so. The lady murmured for the butler to bring a tea tray, and then said, “I’ve not had a companion for a long time. It will be nice to have someone to talk to.”

Oriana nodded. “Your son suggested you might consider me for the post.”

“Oh, of course,” the lady said vaguely. Her eyes drifted back toward the window.

“I’ve been companion to Lady Isabel Amaral for the past thirteen months.”

Lady Ferreira simply nodded, her eyes fixed on the windows.

“I do not, however, have a letter of recommendation from the Amaral family, as Lady Isabel left her home unexpectedly.” Oriana waited for a disbelieving response, but the lady simply nodded again. “I am also trained as a seamstress,” Oriana added, “and worked previously at a dressmaker’s shop on Esperanca Street, from which I can provide references pertaining to both my skill and my character.”

“That’s not necessary,” the lady said.

Oriana didn’t know quite what to make of that. She’d been let go without a reference after more than a year in the Amaral household. Most employers would see that as the mark of a troublesome employee. “Did your son vouch for my character, my lady?”

Lady Ferreira had returned to staring out the window. She rubbed the fingertips of one hand with the other, a gesture that reminded Oriana of Nela’s arthritic hands. “He says you need to be here.”

Need to be here? Oriana wondered again whether the man planned this as a prelude to seduction, but couldn’t bring herself to believe he would involve his mother in such a scheme, particularly not when his mother seemed to be . . . less than completely aware of her surroundings. It didn’t sound like Lady Ferreira actually wanted a companion so much as she’d been told to accept one. No matter how it affected her situation, Oriana refused to be party to forcing the woman into company against her will. “Are you certain, my lady? Do you truly want me to stay?”

The woman sat unmoving for a moment, her expression distracted. Then she looked at Oriana directly, the first time she’d done so. “It will be nice to have someone to talk to. Felis is so busy, and has no interest in business. I . . .”

The lady’s gaze had drifted over to the abandoned newspaper. One gloved hand reached for it but paused midmotion. She seemed frozen.

“Felis, my lady?” Oriana prompted after a moment.

“My maid,” Lady Ferreira said, shaking herself. “I do not have visitors. We are still in half mourning. But I enjoy reading the newspapers.”

The half mourning explained the lady’s soberness, but newspapers? Isabel would never have chosen such a thing, preferring to read sensational novels, such as the works of Collins or Sheridan Le Fanu. Or, rather, Isabel liked to have them read to her. Oriana suspected that Isabel had fancied herself one of those gothic heroines. In retrospect, newspapers seemed a safer choice.

Oriana gestured toward the paper lying by the lady’s elbow—the trade daily. “Would you like me to read it to you?”