The Golden City

her to save Duilio.

“I know where the land is,” she reassured him. “Here, let me get this coat off you.”

She could tell he was fighting to keep calm, his breathing still ragged. She worked the buttons of his coat, the wool swollen with water and stubborn. Once she finally had it undone she pushed it off his shoulders. Freed from its weight, he seemed better able to stay afloat. She tugged off his sodden tie, just to be certain he could breathe.

“I’m going to tow you to shore,” she said in his ear. “Don’t fight me.”

He coughed again but nodded, so she wrapped one arm about his chest and began hauling him toward land. He let her carry him most of the way, but after a time insisted on swimming on his own. It wasn’t far. Even so, it seemed to take forever.

They ended up on the Gaia shore, almost all the way out at the breakwater. Her feet found purchase in fine sand, and she pushed herself upright, walking the last little distance to the beach. She slid down on one side of a large rock, where she would be hidden from view from passing traffic on the river. “Just let me rest a while,” she mumbled.

Only a few steps behind her, Duilio didn’t argue. He sat next to her on the damp ground and coughed up more water. She caught him in her arms when he slumped to the sands.

CHAPTER 31

The green hills rolled gently down to the Douro at the Marialva estate, allowing all the guests a fine view of the sparkling waters peeking between carefully manicured stands of trees. Tidy rows of grape vines climbed the far bank of the river. It was a mild spring afternoon, and Oriana had gone with Isabel to an informal picnic on Lord Marialva’s grounds.

Pia walked with them, her white-gloved hands fluttering as she spoke. She wore pink, and with her blond hair down she looked sadly insipid next to her vividly alive cousin. Isabel’s dark green walking suit made her seem more forceful and real. Oriana held a parasol to shade her mistress’ alabaster skin.

They walked past a blanket where a young woman reclined next to the prince’s seer. As they walked closer, Silva took the girl’s hand in his, slowly drew off her short glove, and ran a bare finger across her palm. The girl’s mouth opened in a surprised O at whatever he said.

“I don’t know why anyone listens to that man,” Isabel said loudly enough for the girl to overhear. “He’s wrong more often than the astrologers.” She lifted her chin in the air, the feather from her cap curving around to touch her cheek, and walked on past.

They’d nearly reached the river’s bank by then, the comforting smell of the water filling the air. Marianus Efisio, Pia’s betrothed, stood speaking with another man, one Oriana didn’t recognize. Dark brown hair, medium build, slightly taller than average—not much to distinguish him.

“Who is that with Mr. Efisio?” Oriana asked.

“Mr. Ferreira, the younger one,” Pia whispered, and crossed herself reverently, white gloves fluttering like gull’s wings. “The elder passed recently.”

Isabel laughed under her breath. “You wouldn’t want your handsome betrothed talking to the older Ferreira,” she told Pia, a waspish note in her voice. “They say he took a different lover every night, sometimes more than one . . . and not only women. Scandalous. He was sinfully handsome, Pia, and might have stolen your swain from you. At least with boring Duilio there, your betrothed’s chastity is safe.”

Pia flushed bright red, her cheeks clashing with her pink dress, while Oriana wondered what had made Isabel’s tongue so sharp that day. She extended her arm to keep Isabel’s face shaded by the parasol, and turned her eyes toward the two men in question. The newcomer looked in their direction, his gaze settling directly on Oriana.

But Mr. Ferreira looked away quickly, leaving her with only the impression of warm brown eyes in a serious face. Yet when she saw his face more clearly, his expression seemed fatuous . . . vacant. He went on his way a moment later.

She turned to watch his escape . . . and realized she stood on a seashore instead. It was the beach she’d lived near as a child. She closed her eyes. A cool breeze off the water set her at ease, the smells of flowers and the cries of the birds familiar. It was home.

A musky scent touched her nostrils. She opened her eyes to see Duilio Ferreira standing only an arm’s length away, his bare feet on the sand. He was bare-chested and wearing a black pareu tied in the manner that proclaimed him chosen. Scratches ran across his back and one shoulder, and a number of rose-gold cuffs adorned his ankles and his arms, enough to show his mate held him to be of great value. He turned toward her, revealing that his chest had been painted with the Paredes line mark. His kohl-rimmed eyes laughed. “It is beautiful.”

Oriana stared at him, captivated. What is he doing here?

“As are you,” he added. He stroked her cheek with gentle fingers. She held her breath, waiting for him to kiss her. His warm lips touched hers, soft and patient. His left hand spread on her bare skin below her breast, and then slid around to her back, pulling her closer.

But his grasp suddenly turned cold and wet. His other hand tangled in her loosened hair, just as sodden.

SUNDAY, 5 OCTOBER 1902

* * *

Oriana felt cold water in the shell of her ear, and that jarred her out of whatever strange world of dreams she’d inhabited. She lay on the sands at the edge of the river, warm on one side, chilled on the other. The tide had begun to overwhelm the river’s usual good sense, coming in with icy morning fingers; that was what she’d felt threading its way through her hair.

Duilio Ferreira lay half-across her, with his head pillowed on her breast. His hand rested on her stomach, his legs tangled with hers. Oriana lay still, trying to decide what she should do. She had never lain with a man in her arms before, and hadn’t realized the warmth a male body would carry with it.

She didn’t understand why she’d dreamed such things, why that day by the side of the river had surfaced in her memory. It had been the first time she’d realized Isabel intended to steal away Pia’s betrothed. But she’d forgotten seeing a man named Duilio Ferreira that day.

Or, rather, he had seen her. A man who had seemed otherwise unremarkable had noticed her as a person, rather than a nameless servant. He had looked at her. She recalled wondering about him later, but he’d already gone. And then she’d forgotten all about him.

She swallowed, tasting river water on her tongue. She didn’t want to dwell on whatever had made her cast him in the dream as her mate, dressed and painted as a man of her people would have been. It was laughable. He was wealthy and a gentleman; he would never display himself in such a way. Nor would he take someone like her—a sereia, and a penniless woman who’d spied on his people—as a mate.

She’d been told for years that she would never have a mate, that she was destined for service to her people instead. Was she so unhappy with her current life as to conjure a mate from among the humans?

Oriana closed her eyes, hearing the denial spinning through her thoughts. Presented with the truth, she didn’t want to face it; the numinous thread that her people believed bound her soul to another’s—that thread of Destiny she’d always believed didn’t exist—was tied to him. She knew the way he smelled, the twist of his lips when he held in some clever comment that made her wish she could blush.

She did believe in Destiny after all.

* * *

Duilio woke when water soaked through his shirt anew. The morning tide was coming in. The sun had begun to rise. Birds screeched in the rocks above them, barely visible in the fog that blanketed the shore.

He was tangled in Oriana’s arms, one of his wool-covered legs between her bare ones. Desire flushed through his body, leaving him almost painfully aroused. His left hand lay just below her breast, and for a traitorous second he wondered if she knew he’d awakened. But she had one hand loosely atop his head; she must have felt