The Golden City

inscription coming to life after Lady Isabel’s death caused Joaquim to glance about, as if the necromancer might come to the cafe to find them. Duilio withdrew the sketch from his pocket and slid it across the table.

When Joaquim read the writing in the outer circle, his brows drew together. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s in Latin,” Duilio offered sarcastically. Joaquim’s Latin was, without doubt, better than his own.

Joaquim gave Duilio a dry look, folded up the paper, and passed it back. “I mean that I don’t understand the choice of scripture. Why use that one?”

Aha! That was why he’d felt those words were familiar. “Sorry. Which one?”

Joaquim rolled his eyes. “Ego autem et domus mea serviemus Domino. The Book of Joshua, Chapter Twenty-four. ‘However I and my house will follow the Lord.’”

It appeared that Joaquim hadn’t forgotten any of his seminary training while on the police force. “Could this be the Jesuits, then?”

During the ugly days of the Inquisition, witches had hidden inside the Church to escape persecution and most had eventually gravitated toward the nascent Jesuit order. Joaquim had studied with the Benedictines, though, so he didn’t have many connections among the Jesuits. He shook his head. “I can’t imagine they would condone any part of this, Duilio. And the verse doesn’t fit, anyway. It has nothing to do with these crimes.”

“There are houses involved,” Duilio reminded him, which earned another dry look.

The waiter arrived then with two plates: Duilio’s hearty meal of liver and sausage with fried potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, and broa, along with Joaquim’s fish soup. Duilio couldn’t understand how Joaquim didn’t starve; Joaquim was the heavier of the two of them. Duilio simply seemed to require more food. Thinking of that, he picked up a fork.

“Miss Paredes is supposed to meet someone regarding the table’s inscription tomorrow night,” he said. “So perhaps it will make more sense afterward.”

Joaquim nodded but didn’t ask about Miss Paredes’ unknown contact.

Duilio was grateful that Joaquim, such a stickler in some areas, was willing to bend in the important matters. As a police inspector, he was walking a fine line. He hadn’t asked why Miss Paredes was in the city, disguised as a human, but surely he’d guessed there was a chance she was a spy. Even so, the less he knew of her, the less he would have to hide.

Duilio had another concern to lay before him. “I should warn you, the man who pulled her out of the water wasn’t a fisherman, as I’d originally assumed. It was Paolo Silva.”

That made Joaquim set down his fork. “Silva? Your uncle Silva?”

Duilio was tempted to ask which other Paolo Silva it might be, but there were probably a hundred other men in the city with a name that common. “Yes, him. He told her he’d foreseen that a woman would be in the river in need of rescue, which Miss Paredes obviously was.”

Joaquim shook his head. “No good can come of that.”

“True. I’m worried he’ll try to make a public show of the fact that he ‘rescued’ her,” Duilio admitted. “She can’t afford that sort of attention.”

“Neither can we,” Joaquim pointed out. “Can you keep her hidden from him? If she stays to the house . . .”

Duilio pushed away his plate. “I suspect that if we ask her to sit by and do nothing, Miss Paredes will disappear and go hunting Espinoza on her own.”

“I see,” Joaquim said. “A militant sort, is she?”

Duilio held in a laugh. He didn’t know enough of Miss Paredes to speculate on her relative militancy. Not yet. “She doesn’t strike me as being willing to wait around merely because she’s female, and she knows another house will end up in the river in a week or so.”

Joaquim crossed himself. “Yes. We’ll simply have to work faster.”

Duilio only wished they had more to work with. “Will you tell Captain Santiago that I’m working on a new lead? I’d avoid telling him about Miss Paredes, though. He’d probably want to drag her into the station, and I’m not going to allow that.”

Joaquim cast him a shrewd glance before turning back to his soup. “I’ll be discreet.”

* * *

Oriana sat in her bedroom, a blue silk dress in a mass on her lap. After consulting with Teresa about the state of Oriana’s garments, Felis had picked it from among Lady Ferreira’s out-of-date clothing and ordered Oriana to wear it. Since what remained of her wardrobe wasn’t suitable for a ball, Oriana acquiesced. The waist needed to be taken in and the skirt was too short, but she could add a flounce made from part of the underskirt, alterations that she could easily do herself, since Lady Ferreira was napping. The dress would be presentable but somber, suitable for a companion in a house recently out of mourning.

The window seat on which Oriana perched looked out over the Street of Flowers, giving her an excellent view of the traffic passing the house. It also offered the best light in the room. Working on dark fabric with dark thread was hard on the eyes, but she hated doing nothing.

She leaned forward against the window to get a better view of two men striding along the street. The streets weren’t crowded at this hour, so she got a good look at them as they walked in the direction of the quay. One was a fisherman with gray hair and worn shoes—Heriberto. As he walked down the Street of Flowers, he talked quietly with the Amarals’ footman Carlos.

Oriana shoved the dress off her lap and stepped over the crumpled mass on the floor. Her mitts lay on the table next to the leather settee, so she grabbed those up and slid them on before leaving her room and dashing down the stairs. Cardenas gave her a startled glance when she passed him in the hall. “I’m going out for a few minutes,” she told him. “I’ll be right back.”

“May I get you a hat, Miss Paredes?” he asked disapprovingly.

Bother. I am bareheaded. She glanced into the sitting room and spotted Lady Ferreira’s mantilla lying on one of the tables. She grabbed that and settled the comb into her hair, hoping that the lady wouldn’t mind. She tugged the veil forward to cover her face and headed out the door, ignoring Cardenas’ worried eyes.

She hurried down the steps and began walking as quickly as would be seemly. In a couple of minutes, she caught sight of the two men just as they turned down one of the side streets toward the Golden Church of Sao Francisco. Oriana hopped over a pile of mule dung as she crossed the street a few feet ahead of an approaching tram. She didn’t want to lose them.

Was Heriberto looking for her again? She hated the idea of being caught unawares, as she had when he’d found her before. She needed to know what he was after.

The two men stopped at the corner, forcing her to walk more slowly. There were a few more words said, and then Heriberto dropped a handful of coins into Carlos’ hand. That verified her suspicion that Carlos had spilled her hiding place at his kinswoman’s boarding house. Carlos slipped the coins into his pocket and strolled away toward the quay.

The money changing hands disabused her of any notion that his chat with Heriberto was a coincidence. Perhaps she should go to Heriberto and simply ask him what he was after now.

But once Carlos was out of sight, Heriberto walked around the corner onto Infante Henrique Street and up two levels of steps to reach the terrace in front of the church. Under the rose window, he glanced about and walked over to the stone railing that ran along the side. He leaned on the railing, apparently to wait. For whom?

On the street below, Oriana paused. Surely he would note a veiled woman walking back and forth. While the mantilla was commonly worn during Mass, it was too late in the day for that. She could go inside the church and pretend to pray, but then she wouldn’t learn what he was doing here. If only she’d thought to grab a sketchpad, she could pretend to be drawing the church’s stone facade or rose window.

She hesitated there at the base of the stairs, too long perhaps, because he leaned forward, as if he’d suddenly spotted her. She held her breath, prepared to run, but then realized he was gazing past her. Oriana glanced over her shoulder and felt her throat tighten.

Thank the gods she had the veil to hide her face.

The man striding toward her along Sao Francisco Street was dressed elegantly, a tall hat on his head and a polished cane in his hand. His frock coat and pinstriped trousers could pass for a gentleman’s garb, although he