The Golden City

“You are a spy, aren’t you?” he asked, as if needing verification.

“Yes,” she said. “I am a spy.”

He nodded once. “I assume you have a master to whom you report. Do you need to do so?”

No, she wouldn’t tell Heriberto. He would not like this development at all. Oriana shook her head. “I’m avoiding him for now. I will find Isabel’s killer first and face him later.”

One of Mr. Ferreira’s dark brows quirked upward. “That’s brave.”

“I have my reasons,” she said. “So, what do I do now?”

“Well, to start, try to entertain my mother a little, which will be harder than you expect.”

Given her earlier interview with the woman, she did expect that to be difficult. “Should I not speak to the police? The actual police, I mean.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think it would be wise for me to drag you to one of the police stations. If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit down tomorrow, perhaps after breakfast, and go over everything you can remember. I need every detail you can dredge up. Then I’ll talk to my police contacts, find out what we need, and we’ll go on from there.”

“Is that all?” She suspected her frustration came through in her tone.

He pushed away from the vanity where he’d been leaning and added, “I intend no slight, Miss Paredes. I believe you will be key to stopping Espinoza and his cohorts. But we need time to assess your information. Give me one day, please.”

He took her free hand—the one not clutching the towel—and pressed two brass keys into her palm. The sight of the webbing between her fingers didn’t seem to give him pause. “The butler’s copy as well, so you can have some privacy here. And one of these tins,” he added, gesturing toward the jumble of gilded boxes on the vanity table, “probably has sea salt in it.”

He let himself out of the bath, the scent of his ambergris cologne tickling her nose as he brushed past. Oriana locked the door behind him and rested her back against it.

He had apparently known she was a sereia for some time. That was a humbling revelation. She’d always been so careful, hiding her gills and hands. Isabel would never even have known if she hadn’t stormed back into the back rooms at the dressmaker's and caught Oriana with her hands bared. For two years, no one had noticed her. Even so, he’d known.

At the same time, Mr. Ferreira had utterly fooled her. On the submersible, she’d believed his endless chatter. She’d thought him empty-headed and harmless. He was far more deceptive than she’d ever guessed, and clearly more successful at it than she was. She’d never heard a whisper of his involvement with the police. Society would be livid—and unforgiving—if that ever became public.

She let out a sigh and contemplated the cool water in the tub. After a week without a proper bath, her gills could certainly use more time in the water. And she needed desperately to unravel everything she’d just learned and plot a new course of action.

As she did her best thinking when wet, she went to find that promised box of sea salt.

CHAPTER 11

Duilio waited alone down in the kitchen. Mrs. Cardoza and her helpers had finished with the after-dinner cleaning. Gustavo Mendes, one of the footmen, was playing his twelve-string guitar down in the workroom and singing a mournful song whose notes drifted to the empty kitchen. The music brought back memories of Duilio’s university days, of drinking more Vinho Verde than was wise and listening to fado in the taverns of Coimbra far too late into the night.

While Gustavo was a talented singer, Duilio had quickly discovered after his return that the young man’s true desire was to become a police inspector, like Joaquim. Gustavo had proven to be a help when Duilio had needed to observe someone, break into a house, or be in two places at once. He could have asked Gustavo to wait here, but . . .

Duilio checked his watch again—it was just past ten—and almost missed Miss Paredes slipping down the servants’ stair. He rose when he saw her walking along the narrow hallway toward the back door of the house. She wore black again, a skirt and shirtwaist shabby enough to cause him to speculate as to whether it might be what she’d had on that night. “Miss Paredes?”

Her head snapped about. “Mr. Ferreira. What are you doing down here, sir?”

Judging by her tone, his presence wasn’t wanted. “I thought if you needed to go out, I might accompany you.”

She came down the two steps into the kitchen, her jaw clenched. She looked trapped. “I was not to take up my duties until tomorrow, I thought.”

He caught her implication immediately. “You are an employee of this household, Miss Paredes, not a prisoner. I’m not here to stop you, but as you are our most important lead in this case, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you on your own out there.”

She’d listened with her lips pressed tightly together. “Mr. Ferreira, I have been in this city for two years and have never run into trouble.”

Duilio felt his brows creeping upward.

Miss Paredes shook her head. “That was a stupid thing to say. But truly, sir, I am only going over to Bainharia Street to see a friend. I won’t be gone more than an hour.”

Bainharia Street wasn’t far, but its short length was dark and shadowy, as was that entire area. It would be an excellent location for an ambush. And he was curious to see where Miss Paredes was going at this hour, so he continued to press her. “Are you armed?”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, a motion he found strangely appealing, as she adjusted the pin holding on her straw hat. “Do you think that’s necessary?” she asked in a tart voice. “There are plenty of streetlamps.”

“And someone almost succeeded in killing you before, Miss Paredes.” He felt bad for pointing that out. It wasn’t as if he’d never walked into a trap himself. “All I’m asking is that you let me follow you. I’ll keep my distance, I promise.”

She sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Oh, very well. You might as well accompany me, since it pertains to your investigation.”

“Thank you. I am honored you’re willing to trust me that far,” he said. She cast him a doubtful glance, but didn’t protest his statement, so he gestured for her to precede him. When she walked up the steps, he could see that her skirt had been torn in a couple of places, then neatly repaired. Hadn’t she said something about her skirt tearing when she escaped the replica in the river? Did it bother her to wear those same garments again?

She stopped at the back door and waited while he picked up his hat and an umbrella. Once outside, he locked the door and set off at her side. “You’d best give me your arm.”

She hesitated, but then wrapped her hand about the crook of his arm as they walked in silence down the alleyway behind the houses. He led her along the alley and onto the Street of Flowers, heading up toward the palace. “Can I assume you have some expertise with weapons?”

“Yes. I lost my dagger in the river, though,” she said softly enough that he had to lean closer to hear. “The man who dove in after me wrestled it out of my hand.” She glanced down at her right palm, covered by her mitt. “I need to replace it.”

The traffic on the Street of Flowers flowed all night, although there were far fewer carriages at this hour. Pedestrians kept their distance, moving along the line of fences in clumps. Duilio watched them, unwilling to risk her safety. “I’ve got a couple of spares. A gun?”

“I know how to use a gun, but the trigger guard can be tricky, so a blade is more reliable.”

He almost stopped walking, puzzled by that claim, and then realized that her webbing would make getting her finger through the trigger guard difficult. That prompted a dozen other questions in his mind, most pertaining to her people’s military—surely they had a navy—but this wasn’t the right time to be asking. Instead he went back to an earlier question. “This man who dove in after you. How did he catch you? Did he outswim you?”

“I’d hit my head on the side of their boat,” she said, sounding embarrassed by that fact, “and I was