The Seat of Magic (24 page)

Duilio stared down at the closed book for a moment, noting the tattered edges of the fabric cover. This volume had been read many times. “But not all copies were accounted for?”

“Most, but not all.” Monteiro said. “I heard of a scholar caught studying one once. She was exiled because she'd read it.”

Duilio pinched the bridge of his nose. Monteiro didn't see the relationship, but that was because he didn't have the information they did.

“Was it ever translated into a human tongue?” Joaquim asked. “Or did his original notes survive?”

Monteiro turned mistrustful eyes on Joaquim. “Why do you ask?”

Joaquim's eyes slid over to meet his, so Duilio explained. “The girls who've been murdered, sir. We didn't tell you how the other two died, but in each case what was done could be seen as removal of what was magic about them, as if someone
removed
that seat of magic from their bodies.”

*   *   *

T
he servants had pulled off the dinner with ease, despite having the morning off. Joaquim dutifully agreed to escort Marina back to her flat, her father had left, and no blood had been spilled.

Oriana wished she'd spoken with her father privately, but he'd brought her a sealed letter that must hold answers to the questions she'd written out. The idea of reading it made her nervous. She wasn't sure she was ready to hear his side.

She found Duilio in the library, pensively staring at a glass of brandy she suspected he would never drink. “What did the three of you talk about?”

He pointed to a book lying next to the giant clamshells on the table. “That thing.”

The faded lettering on the spine was in her people's ancient language. “What is it?”

As he told her of her father's description, a sick feeling grew in her stomach. She'd never heard of the book, but that wasn't surprising. She'd never made much effort to become a scholar. “Someone is . . . experimenting?”

“We don't know that,” he said. “It's an alternative we'd never considered before.”

Thinking of someone
experimenting
on her sister, Oriana shuddered.

“Are you cold?”

“No,” she said. “These people sicken me. Like Maraval, they play with people's lives because they think their grand plans are more important than anything else.”

He remained quiet for a moment, then apparently recalled
something he'd forgotten. He picked through the pockets of his jacket and produced an envelope. “Your father gave me this yesterday, but I forgot it in the flurry over Felipa Reyna's death. It's the note that warned him not to talk. He received it the day before Lady Pereira de Santos came to see me.”

She took the envelope from his hand and turned it over to peer at the broken seal. It seemed familiar. “This looks like the last note I had from Maria Melo. I wonder . . . I left it in my room. Do you think Teresa would have thrown it out?”

Duilio rose and held out one hand to help her up. “Let's find out.”

He sent one of the footmen to locate the maid while they headed up to her bedroom. Duilio waited outside, and a moment later the fresh-faced maid came dashing along the hallway.

Teresa looked surprised by Duilio's presence, but when he stood aside, she went on in to speak with Oriana. “Yes, I remember, miss,” she said once Oriana explained what she was looking for. “There were two letters. I put them in the little vanity table. I know right where they are.” The maid disappeared into the dressing room and emerged a second later with two small envelopes in her hand. “Here they are, miss.”

Oriana took the envelopes. The first was still unopened. She'd received it when they were hunting Isabel's killer and hadn't wanted to give up the hunt if her orders told her to leave the city, so she'd never opened it. The second had arrived
after
they'd caught Maraval. That envelope's seal was broken. Oriana shuffled them about in her hands and went out into the hall to show Duilio. She held out the two opened ones. “Same handwriting, and it's the same seal. See the M?”

He slid the unopened one from her grasp. “This one's different.”

It bore an M like the other two, but in a different script. The wax was also different. “I guess she used Heriberto's supplies.”

“Not the same handwriting, either,” Duilio pointed out.

Oriana glanced down at the handwriting on the sealed
envelope. It bore both of her maternal surnames, but Mrs. Melo had intimated that she'd known Oriana's mother. Even so, the longer she looked at it, the more familiar the hand was. Oriana crossed to the table where she'd laid her father's missive earlier that night and turned the envelope over to look at the seal. It matched.

The first missive—the one she'd ignored—had come from her father. M for Monteiro, not Melo. Oriana licked her lips. “It's from my father. He tried to contact me.”

“What does that mean?” Duilio asked softly.

“I don't know,” she admitted. “I . . . I need to read these.”

Duilio handed her the other envelope. “I'll say good night, then.”

Teresa, who'd stood quietly to one side, bobbed politely when he wished her a good night as well. Then he was gone, leaving Oriana alone with the maid.

“Thank you for saving these, Teresa,” Oriana said. “Um . . . why don't I change for the night and you can go on to bed.”

Half an hour later Oriana sat on the leather settee near the bedroom door, the unopened envelopes lying on her lap. The note from Mrs. Melo wasn't surprising. The warning addressed to her father was only one sentence long, saying that if he talked, he would share his daughter's fate. Maria Melo didn't waste words, Oriana recalled.

She then opened the first note from her father, the one she'd ignored.

I'm not supposed to contact you,
it said,
but H intimated that you're in danger. If you need, I can hide you, M.

Her father had offered her a safe haven. He'd done it despite knowing that Heriberto might turn him over to the Special Police if he found out.

Oriana pressed a hand to her stomach, regretting now the angry words she'd said to her father on Friday. She'd accused him of not caring what happened to her. Now she held proof in her hands that she'd been wrong. Sighing, she laid the note on the table at her
elbow and broke the seal on his new missive, wherein he'd answered the questions she'd written out for him.

Her father's hand was excellent, something she'd forgotten in the last decade. She smoothed her fingers across the page, flattening it. And then she started to read.

M
ONDAY
, 27 O
CTOBER
1902

O
riana had tossed and turned much of the night. Lady Ferreira didn't comment on her bleary look when she arrived at the breakfast table, but when Duilio sat across from her a few minutes later, he did. “Did you find out what you wanted to know? It doesn't look like it brought you peace.”

His mother's eyes rose from her newspaper. “Find out what?”

“Just questions I had for my father,” Oriana said. “Most were . . . things I should have realized, but one answer raised more questions. If you don't mind, Lady Ferreira, I'd like to go talk to him again this morning.”

“Questions about?” Duilio prompted.

Oriana gazed down at the small plate before her. “I need to talk to him first.”

Cardenas brought the morning's mail and Duilio began thumbing through it, one eye still on her. “I need to go up to the palace this morning,” he said, “but I could go with you afterward.”

“I'll go alone. I promise I won't lose my temper.”

He gazed at her a moment, but let the topic drop. “Mother,
Rafael asked that I talk to Miss Carvalho. Make it clear that I'm not going to take the bait.”

Lady Ferreira set her napkin aside. “And you want me to do it for you?”

“Ah, no,” Duilio said, flushing. “It might be better if it came from Oriana. I was wondering if you had any idea what might prove a good venue to find Miss Carvalho.”

He did have reason not to talk to Genoveva Carvalho himself. Unmarried women of good birth didn't spend time alone with men they weren't about to marry. If he spoke with her privately, it would be taken the wrong way.

Lady Ferreira sat back, eyes fixed on some internal point. “Let me see. There's a dinner party tonight at the Vieira house. I expect she and her mother will be there, but that's not ideal for a private conversation.”

“Will she even speak with me?” Oriana asked. “I'm just a servant, after all. . . .”

“Nonsense,” Lady Ferreira said with a wave of one hand. “You're my companion. Besides, Genoveva is too well behaved to make a scene. Now, tomorrow night there's a ball at the Simões house, and a card party at the Freitas house. I expect Lady Carvalho will choose the ball, since Genoveva dances so well.”

A ball?
Oriana almost protested at the idea of preparing for a ball in only two days, but they'd done exactly the same thing once before, and Lady Ferreira had been unwell then. “Are your hands healed enough?”

Lady Ferreira smiled. “Certainly, Oriana. I'll be wearing gloves, so no one will know. And I have a new evening gown on order for you. I'll send Felis around to hurry the dressmaker. Take care of your meeting with your father, and she and I will handle it all.”

Oriana puffed out her cheeks. Duilio's expression was apologetic; he clearly recognized that she may have to endure a hideous scene with the younger woman. Perhaps Lady Ferreira would prove
correct and Miss Carvalho would be sensible. If her father was the one pushing her to court Duilio, as Pinheiro claimed, surely she would be willing to curtail her pursuit of him.

After breakfast, Duilio caught her in the hallway before she went into her bedroom. “Joaquim is setting up an appointment with Anjos for this afternoon. Will you be done by then?”

“I'll be back before lunch,” she promised.

He touched her powdered cheek with gentle fingers. “Please be careful out there.”

“Don't let the infante beat you
too
badly,” she told him in turn.

*   *   *

T
he infante's fist connected with his jaw, and Duilio found himself sitting on the wooden floor. It hadn't been a hard hit, but it had taken him by surprise. The handful of guards in the gymnasium at that early hour cheered.

“You aren't paying attention today,” the infante said, offering a hand to help Duilio up. He wore a loose pair of linen trousers and an open-necked shirt, casual garb that better suited the practice floor than Duilio's fine pinstriped trousers.

Duilio accepted the man's help up and rubbed at his jaw, hoping it wouldn't bruise later. He was starting to look like a street brawler. He dusted off his trousers. “My apologies, Your Highness.”

“Raimundo,” the infante reminded him, gesturing for Duilio to accompany him out of the ring. They walked over to one side of the room as two of the guards began to circle each other, fists up. Two other guards stayed close to where they stood, but far enough that they wouldn't overhear. “What has you so distracted, Duilio?”

Duilio chuckled. He didn't intend to tell the infante he'd been thinking of Oriana rather than keeping his mind on the bout. But then again, he couldn't think of anything that would justify his laughter. “A woman,” he finally admitted.

“The woman you spoke to the ambassador about?” The infante raked a hand through his straight hair, pulling it back neatly from
his forehead. “I spoke to him yesterday, briefly. He was grateful for your help.”

“You spoke to him?” Duilio asked.

The infante glanced over at the guards, and answered quietly. “No one knows I got close enough, so do not mention it.”

“Is he still under strict guard?”

“Yes, but the guards were temporarily distracted, so I managed to get to his door. Unfortunately, that means I've lost Bastião for a couple of days.”

Ah, the faithful guard had created a diversion and paid for it. Duilio had to wonder if the replacement guards—whom he didn't recognize—would bend to the infante's will as easily. “Do they still suspect Alvaro an assassin?”

The infante nodded. “Foolishness.”

While the infante dressed in more appropriate garb, Duilio tugged his waistcoat and coat on over his sweaty shirt. “Has Alvaro told you how he heard about her being in danger? He said something about being told not to talk. How would he even get a message like that?”

The infante glanced up. “Official mail from his homeland. It's read before it comes into his hands, but my understanding is that it
does
reach him.”

“But only official mail?”

“Yes,” he said. “Nothing from family or friends, and nothing from any partisans here in the city.”

Duilio chewed his lips for a moment. That meant that both the news about the danger to Oriana and the threat to silence him had come through
official
channels
.
“There's no chance of my talking to him? I have some questions about the woman involved.”

“I'm afraid not. My influence is curtailed without my guards to cover for me.” The infante turned his head to watch an approaching guard, one of the new ones. “Why don't you join me for a walk around the halls before you leave, Duilio?”

Duilio rose and tugged at his coat one final time, trying to get it to lie properly across his shoulders over the damp shirt. They left the gymnasium and had reached the second floor of the new section when the infante grabbed his arm and directed him to a narrower hallway on one side of the central thoroughfare. “Stay out of sight.”

Staying out of sight wasn't possible in the hallway. There were no doorways in which to stand, no niches, or statues behind which to hide. So Duilio stood unmoving against the side of the white-plastered wall, hoping for inconspicuousness. The infante remained at the head of the hallway, watching the approach of a noisy group.

It was the prince and his entourage again. The prince's long graying hair was still uncombed, but he was properly clothed this time. The astrologers followed at a distance, only the doctor pressing close and speaking urgently. The group swept by the open hallway, ignoring the infante completely. Duilio could have sworn that one of the astrologers looked right at the infante, but the man's eyes passed over him as if he weren't even there.

They didn't see us.

This was the second time that had happened. Duilio didn't have any idea what the talent of not being seen would be called—but he'd seen this particular talent before. The Lady shared it. She could hide herself and others with her from view. And it explained how the infante could have spent years at Coimbra without anyone seeming to know he'd been there. He'd surely used a false identity, but that would have been easier to maintain if no one
noticed
him.

The entourage past, the infante continued down the hallway in the opposite direction from the prince. “One day my brother will die, Duilio. Things will change in ways that will require the service of men more open-minded than those who serve my brother.”

Duilio understood what the infante wanted—the same thing he'd asked when he'd first come to the house a couple of weeks ago. But offering his allegiance to another—even the infante—while the prince lived was treason. He could hang for doing so. Then again, he
could hang for merely being who he was, for harboring his mother and Erdano, for allowing Oriana in his home. Treason or not, he liked the infante and would have no problem following him. Duilio bowed his head. “I
would
willingly serve you, but I cannot promise anything, Your Highness.”

One of the infante's brows rose.

“Not without discussing it with Miss Paredes first,” Duilio answered.

“I see,” the infante said, a laugh in his tone. “Do you intend to bow to a woman's will in all things?”

“It's very likely,” Duilio admitted.

The infante nodded. “Can you come back . . . perhaps Thursday, at the same time, Duilio?”

“It would be my pleasure, Raimundo.” Hopefully by then he would have an answer to the man's request.

*   *   *

L
ady Ferreira had talked Oriana into taking Teresa along with her, so now they waited in the front room of her father's office. Teresa watched the activity in the office with curious eyes, particularly when one of the girls who worked in the back room passed by. She leaned closer to Oriana. “What do the girls do here?”

“They're typists,” Oriana told her. “My sister works here, typing up old files.”

Teresa's lips pursed as she considered that, making Oriana wonder if the young woman had aspirations beyond household service.

Her father's assistant Narciso approached them, a folder under one arm. Oriana was beginning to think he carried one around out of habit. “Miss Paredes, Mr. Monteiro will see you now.”

Oriana touched Teresa's elbow. “Could you wait here?”

“Of course, miss,” Teresa said, simpering up at Narciso instead.

The assistant coughed discreetly, so Oriana rose and followed him down the hallway to her father's office. He held the door open for her. Oriana peered inside, spotting her father sitting alone.
Fortunately, Lady Pereira de Santos wasn't there to confuse the issue. Oriana went inside and sat carefully. The door snicked shut, leaving her alone with her father.

She lifted her eyes to face him. He looked brittle and stiff, as if expecting her to rail against him. “I'm not angry any longer. Not at you.”

“Your aunts kept the truth from you, didn't they?”

If she believed the words he'd written, then they had lied to her. Egregiously. And she had never suspected, not once. “When they told me Marina was dead, they showed me a body, Father. It had been in the ocean for a couple of days, so there wasn't much, but it was enough to convince me Marina was dead. Why go to that much trouble?”

“I don't know,” he said, “but you've seen with your own eyes that she's alive.”

Oriana pressed her fist to her lips, thinking. “What about your exile. You claim you
weren't
exiled for sedition, but that's what all the official reports say.”

He shook his head. “I became inconvenient to someone.”

“To whom?” she asked cautiously.

He rose and went to lean against the wall. “Oriana, I know you. No matter how you might have changed since you went to work for them . . .”

“I have not changed,” she insisted.

He regarded her silently, his lips in a thin line.

That was a foolish thing to say.
Of course she'd changed. Oriana reminded herself to stay calm. “What then?”

He came closer, perching on the edge of his desk before her. “When your mother died on Quitos,” he said, “we had no say in anything.”

They'd lived on Amado then, mostly because it was the island that best tolerated educated males like her father. Her mother's family had lived on Quitos, in the capital. Her mother had traveled
between the two islands frequently, and when she'd died it had taken days for the news to reach them. “I remember.”

“I had some doubts then,” he said, “but nothing to back up my instinct. I couldn't believe she'd just died.”

“It was food poisoning.”

“Your mother could have lived on hot-spiced squid beaks, Oriana,” he said with a fond laugh in his voice. “She could eat anything. It didn't add up for me.”

Her mother
had
been fond of overly spicy foods. “But . . .”

“I had no proof. Nothing. Not until we visited your aunts on Quitos four years later. Do you remember that?”

How could I forget?
She was sixteen. Her father had managed to get exiled and she and Marina hadn't returned to their grandmother's house on Amado, not for years. “What happened?”

He took a deep breath. “Your mother kept a journal, did you know that? When she was at your aunts' house, she hid it under the floorboard in the bedroom.”

“No,” Oriana whispered. “I didn't know.”

“Neither did your aunts, or they wouldn't have left it there. Your mother worked for the intelligence ministry, checking that new candidates were who they claimed they were.”

That much she knew. “So?”

“There were problems with a new member of the ministry. Flaws in her story. Your mother mentioned that in the journal, although she never used the woman's name. That would be unprofessional. She meant to speak with that woman's superior the day she died. I'm certain that's why she's dead. So I went to the ministry and started asking questions. I told them about the journal and the person she'd been investigating. They told me I was disturbed, too grief-stricken to be reasonable, that I was making up lies.” He exhaled heavily. “I persisted until I bothered someone too much. One day I was escorted from the ministry's offices directly to the prison.
There was no trial, no chance to make my case to anyone. I was on a ship the next day. Three days later I was dumped in the bay south of here at Nazaré, told that if I returned to the islands, I would die. I thought I would be able to contact you and Marina through my mother, but she could never get through the walls your aunts put about you two. After a few years we decided it was safer for you not to know. We exiles have contacts on Amado, but Quitos is a different world, and you lived
there.
”