The Seat of Magic (12 page)

“No, their skin,” Esteves said firmly. “Have you ever seen the pelt of a selkie? By itself it isn't magic. It's the bond between the pelt and their skin that allows them to take on seal form. So even without her pelt, a selkie is still a magical creature, which is thought to be why they're so seductive in human form.”

Duilio stared at the doctor, disturbed. His mother had said the skin and pelt were
inseparable.
“How do you know that?”

The doctor gave a sheepish shrug. “Medical college, Mr.
Ferreira. While students don't officially study nonhumans, they always gather and whisper about them when they should be studying more pertinent topics.”

Since he hadn't always studied what he should at university either, Duilio didn't doubt the man's word on that.

O
riana's old clothes still hung in the dressing room where she'd left them before heading back to the islands. It wasn't a vast selection.

When she'd been companion to Lady Isabel Amaral, she'd had several dark and severe gowns, as well as enough day wear in somber colors to accompany Isabel on whatever mischievous course that young lady decided to pursue. But when Isabel was murdered, Oriana had been forced to flee the Amaral household with almost nothing—only what she had previously packed in one bag. So the overlarge dressing room in the Ferreira household held only two shirtwaists, two skirts, and the out-of-date blue gown of Lady Ferreira's that Oriana had altered to wear at the Carvalho ball.

“We'll definitely need to have the seamstress in,” Lady Ferreira said with a shake of her head. “Why you didn't mention this to me before escapes me, dear.”

Standing at the door of the dressing room, Oriana clutched her borrowed dressing gown. Her head ached, and if she moved too swiftly, the dizziness returned. The links of the chain attached to the manacle on her wrist clinked together, a sound she was beginning to hate. “Lady, I didn't have need of more.”

“Nonsense.” Lady Ferreira opened a large armoire full of a man's garments. “We need to get Alessio's clothes out of here. There's no reason to keep all of this. Felis?”

The elderly maid bustled into the dressing room, the scent of rose water drifting with her in a heavy wave as she passed Oriana. “Yes, lady?”

“Felis, I'd like a couple of the footmen to remove this clothing. Tell Cardenas to distribute it as he sees fit among the servants. Anything not wanted should go to the poor.”

Felis made a quick bob, then sailed out of the dressing room and away.

Oriana watched Lady Ferreira with wide eyes. When she'd been hired as the woman's companion, the lady had been perpetually distracted, responding to very little beyond her son's urgings. With her pelt restored to her, she had regained a vitality that Oriana found most startling. This new Lady Ferreira was a gentle whirlwind.

The lady in question fixed her eyes on Oriana again. “Now, if you are to be my companion, I expect you to be better garbed than this. I'll have my seamstress come in the morning.” Her eyes drifted down to Oriana's bare silvery feet. “And you need more shoes.”

Oriana gazed sheepishly at her toes. Shoes were always a problem, as her feet were wider than a human woman's. In her two weeks imprisoned aboard ship, her nails had grown longer than she liked. They were beginning to curl down at the tips. “I already have . . .”

Lady Ferreira cocked her head. “I wager they don't fit properly. I'll have my shoemaker in tomorrow morning as well.”

Why am I arguing?
In the last two years, she'd never owned custom-made shoes. While the idea of a shoemaker handling her wide feet made her feel self-conscious, the prospect of having shoes that fit properly was too tempting to pass up.

The lady had already moved on anyway. “Now, I want you to prepare a list of any toiletries you need. I'll be sending Felis out later to the druggist, so I'll simply put your list with mine.”

Oriana ran her fingertips across her aching forehead. “My lady, I don't have any way to pay.”

Lady Ferreira waved that protest away with a sweep of one
delicate hand. “You're in my employ, Oriana. Your expenses will be folded into mine. Aspirin, I think.”

And Duilio would end up paying. Oriana had no idea what relationship Lady Ferreira believed existed between her and Duilio. She didn't know the answer to that herself. The man who'd laid his cheek next to hers, who had fed her with his own hands, who'd tucked her under her coverlet so carefully—that man had been gone when she woke. She didn't know where. He'd said they needed to talk, and he'd promised to get the damned iron cuff off her wrist. Other than that, she was certain of nothing about him.

But he
had
come to save her. When she hadn't had any faith left, she'd still hoped he would come after her. She had forced herself to believe it, even when there was no way for him to know what had happened to her, or even much reason for him to intercede. He was wealthy, and a gentleman. He was human—mostly. She was none of those things.

“I cannot believe Alessio bought this,” Lady Ferreira said, holding up a frock coat so Oriana could see it. The red crepe coat was heavily trimmed with swirls of black soutache. “Must be a gift from one of his admirers. Duilio would die before wearing something like this.”

Oriana nearly laughed at the image of Duilio Ferreira in that jacket. Had she ever seen him in any color other than black, white, or gray? No, he must be naturally somber, which could not have been true of his brother. “What was he like?”

Lady Ferreira stroked a white-gloved finger along the trim on the colorful jacket. “Alessio? He was his father's son in many ways,” she said. “Volatile, charismatic, charming when he wished to be. He had far too many lovers, all of whom laid their hearts at his feet to be trampled—which was what he usually did.” She set the coat back in the armoire. “He had a selkie's charm, you know, in a very human world that didn't approve.”

Duilio had told Oriana his brother was killed during a
scandalous duel over a lover, but the way the lady spoke, every word sounded like a caress, as if each trait was a favorable one.

Lady Ferreira smiled sadly. “He had few honest friends, and managed to alienate his brother and father and the Tavares boys as well. He fled the university and scandalized society until he was no longer accepted anywhere. He drank far too much, especially after he broke with his father.”

“What provoked that?” Oriana asked softly.

“My husband wanted him to marry. They argued over that regularly, but Alessio's tastes never ran to domesticity. He enjoyed falling in love, but had no intention of working at
staying
in love for more than a week or two. One night his father told him that if he was going to carry on in that manner, it would not be under his roof. Alessio took him at his word and left.”

“Oh. I am sorry.” It was unusual for an unmarried child to leave the family home, so that must have been a great trial for Lady Ferreira.

“He came to visit me regularly when he knew his father was out. I did not agree with his choices, but I still loved him.” She smiled at Oriana then, a warm look holding only a tinge of regret. “Why don't you get dressed, and we'll sit down to a civilized meal. Duilio is still out, so it will just be the two of us, but I would enjoy that.”

“Yes, my lady.” Oriana was actually beginning to feel light-headed, so eating was a good idea. “If you'll give me a few minutes.”

It actually took far longer. While she managed to dress quickly enough, the footmen arrived soon after to begin removing Alessio's clothing and, before they were quite done, Felis returned, determined to arrange Oriana's hair and cut her nails for her. It was strange to have such a fuss made over her—as if she were the lady rather than the servant. Fortunately, the elderly maid had brought along a tray with cookies and a glass of water with lemon, which helped Oriana endure her ministrations.

“Such an unusual color,” Felis said as she combed out Oriana's
hair. “I would suggest you wear blue. Or pinks, Miss Paredes. Not light ones, but the deep rosy shades, or ones with a golden undertone.”

Most people who noted her hair color hinted that there had been a terrible accident involving henna, so Oriana had no ready answer for a compliment. “Thank you, Felis,” she mumbled.

The maid continued to comb Oriana's hair, being very careful near the bruising on the back of her neck. In the dressing table's mirror, Oriana could see that her split lower lip had scabbed over. Her cheeks looked thinner than normal, and her eyes bigger in her pale face. Felis smiled at her in the mirror, and Oriana managed to return the gesture.

Her afternoon of dealing with Lady Ferreira's plans hadn't completely done her in, but she wouldn't have any trouble getting to sleep that night. Even so, she should attempt dinner first. Felis put up her hair and produced a pair of teardrop-shaped opal earrings that must belong to Lady Ferreira. Oriana slid on the silk mitts she wore to disguise her webbed fingers and, with the cambric blouse's high neck covering her gill slits and her wide feet neatly hidden by a pinching pair of shoes, saw what could be a human woman in the mirror, albeit an exhausted one.

Was this what the rest of her life would be? Passing herself off as human? She didn't much like the idea.

*   *   *

D
inner with Joaquim brought bad news and good. The officers working on finding the men who'd taken up Gita still hadn't turned up any information. Evidently the behavior hadn't been repeated anywhere—making it unlikely the men involved sold women for their living.

When Duilio shared what the doctor had told him about the possibility of the first girl being one of the otter folk, Joaquim groaned. They would have to be careful that the information about
the two dead girls being nonhumans didn't slip out. Fortunately, the press hadn't caught wind of either death, so the police had been lucky so far.

The better news was that Brother Manoel had given in to Joaquim's urging and agreed to release Gita's body to Duilio. He could retrieve her shrouded body in the morning and take her back to Braga Bay. He would be happier if he'd been able to find her pelt . . . and her skin. That would give him closure of one concern. Sailing to Braga Bay and back would take a few hours, and then he could visit the palace, since he hadn't yet informed the ambassador that Oriana was safe. Joaquim rolled his eyes when Duilio mentioned that, but Duilio's gift continued to tell him the infante was important, so he intended to foster the new acquaintance. After all, the man had asked him to call him by his given name. Coming from royalty, that was a great privilege.

When Duilio got home, he found his mother in the library, her feet tucked up under her on the couch and a clothbound book in her gloved hands. The lights in the room weren't turned up high, but that didn't present a problem for her eyes. “What are you reading, Mother?”

“I think you must have left this out, Duilinho,” she said, showing it to him. “Surely there must be something more accurate. And in our language. How irritating.”

Ah, now he recognized it. She held Monsieur Matelot's certainly erroneous volume about Oriana's people. His mother thought French an annoying language, primarily because it wasn't her native one. “Yes, I have to wonder if he ever came near her people's islands.”

“Well, someone must trade with them. And perhaps the sereia in French-held territories are different,” she said with a shrug. “Miss Paredes should write a book. Or you. Either of you would do a far better job.”

That wasn't necessarily high praise. He pulled one of the chairs
from against the wall and sat facing her. “Speaking of Miss Paredes—did she get out of bed today?”

“Yes. We just finished with our dinner an hour ago, and she went back to her room. She's tired, but much improved.” His mother set the offending book on the table next to the couch. “I fear she's a bit lost, Duilinho.”

“Lost?” His mother read people well, so that must be the case. “What do you mean?”

She sighed. “When you first brought Miss Paredes here, she came as my companion, but that wasn't her true function. She was seeking a killer and was a spy for her people.” When he nodded, she continued. “Now neither is true. Now she must try to figure out who she is, and what she must do to survive. That will take time, I think.”

“I've told her she's welcome to stay here as long as she wants.”

“As what, Duilinho? As a servant? As your pet, perhaps?” His mother shook her head. “She is a proud, intelligent young woman. As much as I like her, I don't believe she's cut out to be a hired companion for the remainder of her life.”

He had meant for Oriana to be a
guest
, but his mother was right. Oriana would want to be doing something. “So she needs time to decide what she wants.”

“I agree.” His mother glanced up at him from under a lowered brow. “I don't want her forced into . . . making any precipitous decisions.”

She meant
into his bed
. He felt a flush heating his face. A gentleman didn't take advantage of women in his employ, but apparently his mother felt he needed reminding of that. Perhaps he did. “Of course not, Mother.”

“Good,” she said. “Now, didn't you promise to get that thing off her wrist? It's annoying her terribly.”

Duilio groaned. Why hadn't he taken care of that? If nothing
else, he could have instructed Luís to do it. “Is she still awake, do you think?”

“Probably.” His mother made a gesture clearly intended to shoo him on his way, and then picked up the offensive book from the table with a scowl, as if determined to read the whole thing.

Aware that he'd been dismissed, Duilio made his way upstairs to Alessio's room. He knocked on the door, and when there was no answer, peeked inside. Oriana reclined on the leather chaise before the tea table, asleep. She had replaced her shoes with a pair of Alessio's old felt slippers and her silk mitts lay on the table, but otherwise she was still dressed. She must have been waiting for him.

He went to wake her but he stopped before his hand touched her shoulder. He had seen her sleeping endlessly in the last two days, when she'd been ill and exhausted. Her burned skin had faded from red to its normal ivory, and save for the bruising on her face and a split lip, she looked normal. Her hair trailed in a neat braid over one shoulder. It was as if she were a different woman from the one who'd lain ill for the last two days.

He touched her shoulder, waking her. “You should have gone back to bed.”