The Seat of Magic (9 page)

“I don't know, Mother,” he admitted, so relieved by her presence that he wanted to cry. Oriana hadn't woken again since that initial response to their arrival on the island. She seemed to have slipped into a deeper sleep, mouth slightly open and eyes closed. If it hadn't been for the occasional movement of her gills, he would have thought her gone. And God help him, that would have been too painful to bear. “I don't know what to do for her.”

His mother stroked Oriana's chalky-pale cheek with her raw fingers. “We should get her into water. Come, take her back to her room, and I'll fill the tub.”

Duilio followed his mother into that bedroom. He sat on the
edge of the bed, Oriana still in his arms, to wait while the water ran. Once his mother had the temperature where she wanted it, she bid him to bring Oriana into the bathroom. He stripped off the damp blankets and carefully laid Oriana in the rising water, on her side just as she'd lain next to that post. The metal shackle on her wrist banged against the porcelain with a dull clank. The worst of her burned skin was exposed to his mother's eyes.

“Now go away,” his mother said firmly.

Duilio turned his eyes on her, startled. “Mother, I need—”

“No, you don't.” She pointed toward the bedroom. “There is nothing for you to do now. I want you to go bathe and get some sleep. I'll stay with her.”

She wore a resolute expression. He took a last look at Oriana, who lay motionless in the slowly rising water. Then he turned and walked out of the bathroom.

He stopped out in the hallway and set his back to the wall, shaking. Then he slid down against the wall until he sat on the floor. He had been so focused on bringing her back to the house that he'd refused to let himself think she might not survive. Now that he'd reached the end of what he could do, that worry welled up again, making his throat tighten.

Duilio had no idea where he could turn for aid. There was no doctor he could send for; none would treat nonhumans for fear of rousing the prince's ire. All he could do was hope and pray that water was what Oriana needed. He had to believe his mother knew what was best.

After some time sitting there on the cold floor—minutes or hours, he wasn't sure—a hand wrapped around his arm and hauled him to his feet. “Come on, Duilio,” Joaquim said. “Let's get some brandy. Just what you need right now.”

*   *   *

O
riana woke in water. It flowed through her aching gills and caressed her burned skin. Her eyes, painfully stressed, couldn't focus, but she knew where she was. The muted glow of a skylight
above and the faint taste of bicarbonate of soda in the water told her she was in the oversized bathtub back at the Ferreira household.

A dark blur shifted above the surface, someone watching her. By the gracefulness of the movement, she decided it was Lady Ferreira. An irony, since Oriana herself had come to this house to be the lady's paid companion—a glorified servant. Now the lady was waiting on her.

Oriana tried to raise one hand under the water in greeting. It felt exceptionally heavy, and she realized dully that it still bore the shackle that had secured her to the post. The metal thunked against the side of the tub, and the sound reverberated painfully through the water. Oriana squeezed her eyes shut.

W
EDNESDAY
, 22 O
CTOBER
1902

D
uilio woke to a painful stab of light from the curtains in his bedroom being thrown open. For a second he rubbed his temples, and then rolled off the bed and got to his feet. His mother stood at the window, wearing the same dress she'd worn the night before. “I told you to bathe, Duilinho.”

He sniffed and caught a whiff of his stale clothes and self. Then he shook his head to clear it. “Is she . . .”

“She's asleep,” his mother said.

Feeling a wave of relief, Duilio sat down again. Joaquim must have dumped him on his bed, and he hadn't managed to get under the coverlet. Salt and sand sprinkled the brown silk. “Thank God,” he finally managed, crossing himself. “Do you think she'll be all right?”

The window's light cast his mother into silhouette, so her expression was hidden from him. “She woke for a moment, but fell asleep again. I can't be certain she's seeing normally. I've made her as comfortable as I can. For now she needs sleep, water, and time.”

“I'll go watch her for a while, Mother.”

She laid one hand on his shoulder. “I left Felis sitting with her.
Get cleaned up, and get something to eat. Miss Paredes isn't going anywhere for now.”

Duilio gazed down at his bare feet—he had no idea where his shoes were—and nodded. He needed to send a message to Lady Pereira de Santos, so he pushed himself up from the bed.

Once bathed, he had to admit he felt better. It was nearly eleven by then, so he dressed casually in trousers and an open-necked shirt and made his way to the dining room. His mother wasn't there. Given the time, that made sense, although he'd hoped to question her further. But he could smell food in the warming trays, the staff working hard to accommodate the unraveling of his normal schedule. Duilio spotted Cardenas in the hallway and, when asked, the butler confirmed that Lady Ferreira had retired to her own bed.

Duilio rubbed his temples. “Is Joaquim still here?”

Joaquim had tried to discuss last night's events with him, but Duilio had been so worried over Oriana that he hadn't paid much attention. The brandy hadn't helped. While stowing the sails Joaquim had found a bullet hole in the mainsail; the crew of the mysterious ship had been sincere in their threats. That raised questions to which neither of them had answers.

“Mr. Joaquim has left, sir,” Cardenas said.

“Thank you, Cardenas.” The butler bowed and went on his way. Duilio sighed, resigned to eating alone, and went to select his breakfast.

Once he'd written and dispatched his note to the Pereira de Santos home, Duilio headed back to Alessio's old bedroom. He found Felis sitting primly in a straight-backed chair, half in and half out of the bathroom. She effectively blocked his entry, so he couldn't even see the tub, much less whether Oriana was still in it. The elderly maid busied herself plying a needle through a hooped section of linen, embroidering a subtle pattern of flowers around the neckline of a garment. She believed the devil had use for idle hands.

Duilio tried to look past her. “Felis, do you need better light for that?”

“I am not an old woman yet, Duilinho,” she lied tartly. She had been his mother's maid his entire life, so the familiarity was expected. She pointed her needle at him. “You shouldn't be in here.”

He felt his brows draw together.
Ah, because Oriana isn't clothed.
“I brought her back here, Felis,” he said, vexation creeping into his voice. “I only want to see her.”

“It isn't proper,” the woman groused.

This from the same woman who'd read the cards dozens of times for him. She'd predicted his attachment to Oriana that way. Duilio pressed his hands together. “Please, Felis. You know how important she is to me.”

And since she'd chided him about letting Oriana leave, she gave in . . . partially. She moved the wooden chair out of the doorway and then surprised Duilio by going back into the bathroom and shutting the door on him. He was about to knock when the door opened again, and she emerged, thin nose held in the air. “You can go in now.”

Duilio stepped into the bathroom and almost laughed out loud. Felis had taken several of the towels from the shelves on the other side of the room and draped them across the tub, allowing him only a view of Oriana's head and neck.

Oriana still lay on her side, facing away from where he stood. Water dribbled into the tub, the spigot left running slightly so she wouldn't suffocate in still water. Under the illumination of the skylight, he saw that her hair had been cleaned, the water bringing out the burgundy highlights among the brown strands. Her eyes were closed, but the faint motion of the gill slits on the side of her neck told him she was breathing. The sunburned side of her face seemed less red now, and Duilio let loose a sigh of relief. He sat down on the rug, close enough to gaze over the lip of the tub. He reached into the
water and gently stroked her cheek, but she didn't respond. “Has she roused at all?”

“No, Duilinho.” The maid set a gnarled hand on his shoulder. “Your mother says to let the girl sleep.”

“I'll stay here,” he said. “In case she does wake.”

He felt her hand slip from his shoulder, and then he was alone. For a time he simply gazed down at Oriana's face. He saw that the back of her neck was bruised, as if someone had grabbed her that way. He had to wonder if there were other marks, if she had been tortured before being left to die. The light had been poor when he'd carried her to this room, and his mother had sent him away before he'd had the chance to see the answer to that himself.

Oriana hadn't committed any crime, had she? She didn't deserve treatment like this.

The ambassador had said this was done as a warning not to talk. Duilio hadn't asked about what; he'd been too agitated at the time to think it through. Alvaro claimed he'd been notified too late, an intentional oversight. Yet it had been clear that the ambassador had someone specific in mind when he asked Duilio to carry a message out of the palace. That meant someone in the city might have gone to Oriana's aid. Unfortunately, Duilio had no way of knowing who that was. He didn't know whom he could trust on her behalf.

He set his shoulder against the side of the tub and stretched out his legs, preparing to wait until Oriana woke. He had no commitment pressing enough to make him leave, so he let his thoughts chase the problem around in his mind, a futile exercise. The sound of falling water and the smell of sea salt comforted him, wrapping him in familiarity.

It was only when Felis shook his shoulder that he realized he must have dozed off, leaning there against the tub.

The maid stood over him, a stern figure in her black dress. She shook him again. “Wake up, Duilinho.”

“I'm awake.” He pushed himself up off the rug and cast a glance back to see if Oriana still breathed. Once reassured, he turned to his mother's maid. “What did you need, Felis?”

“There's a gentleman asking to see you,” she said, casting a disapproving eye over his casual garb. “He's in the front sitting room.”

Three visitors in four days—a crowd by their standards. He was going to have to start having Cardenas turn away callers. “Will you stay here until I can come back?”

“Yes.” She pushed at him with one hand. “Go on, boy.”

After one last glance at the towel-shrouded tub, Duilio walked out into the hallway and down the stairs toward the front of the house. He wasn't dressed properly to receive visitors, but he didn't care. He would just get rid of this guest as quickly as possible and head back upstairs.

Instead of Lady Pereira de Santos, her paramour—or husband, according to her own confession—waited for him. Adriano Monteiro paced behind the couch, rubbing one gloved hand with the other as if he'd been writing too much. A handsome man with dark hair and a lean build, he was elegantly dressed in a black frock coat and striped trousers, gray waistcoat, and black tie. A touch of silver at each temple lent him an air of distinction. Although he wasn't a gentleman, he certainly had the demeanor of one. He and Lady Pereira de Santos would make an attractive couple if ever they were seen in public together.

This man had to be the “friend” who begged Lady Pereira de Santos to seek him out in the first place. Duilio wanted to know why. “Mr. Monteiro, what has brought you to our door?”

The man inclined his head, his expression grim. “I came to speak to you.”

“That's obvious. What did you want?” Duilio asked, irritation making him snap.

The man's nostrils flared, betraying a hot temper, but he said nothing.

Duilio sighed and, in a more civil tone, tried again. “I apologize for not being more formally dressed, but I hadn't planned on entertaining today. How can I help you?”

Monteiro didn't seem interested in his cordiality either. “I want to know how she's faring.”

Duilio leaned against the mantelpiece. He wasn't going to quibble with the man over whom he meant by
she
. “Who put her there?”

“I don't know,” Monteiro said with a quick shake of his head. “The rumor is going about that it was a warning not to talk, but I don't know what we're not to talk about.”

Duilio looked back at the man. Was he a sereia spy? Monteiro wore gloves, but Oriana had said most spies had their webbing cut away to allow them to pass more easily as human. “They knew she would die there.”

“Of course they did,” Monteiro snapped. “Is she still alive?”

Duilio doubted he could keep it secret long; the staff knew she was here . . . and he hadn't asked them not to talk. “Yes.”

Monteiro's dark eyes flicked up to the ceiling, and he made the sign of the cross. “Is she blinded?”

Who exactly is this man?
“We don't know yet. What concern is she of yours?”

Monteiro gave Duilio a hard look. He tugged off one of his gloves and held up his bared hand for Duilio to see. Scar tissue ran along both sides of his fingers where the webbing between them had been cut away and the edges cauterized. “I'm her father.”

Duilio gazed at Monteiro's handsome face. The scars indicated only that he was a sereia, not that he was Oriana's father. The man didn't look much like her. Then again, Alessio hadn't resembled their father either. “Then why weren't
you
the one to go get her?”

Monteiro replaced his glove. “Do you think I wouldn't have if I'd known where she was? I heard nothing of this until your message reached the Pereira de Santos household this morning. I never thought they would go to that extreme. There's no reason to hurt
Oriana—not in order to intimidate
me.
I know nothing worth threatening over.”

It was convoluted logic, but Duilio understood blackmail well enough. “Why didn't you come to me yourself? Why send Lady Pereira de Santos?”

“She wished to protect me,” Monteiro said. “We had no way of knowing how you might react to such a request, and you had no reason to see me. I'm not your man of business, after all.”

Lady Pereira de Santos had refused to name Monteiro, even after Duilio indicated he knew of their relationship. He certainly wouldn't have turned Monteiro away unheard, but the man had no way to know that. If Monteiro judged gentlemen by the actions of the lady's aristocratic stepson, he wouldn't have expected a hearing. “I understand,” Duilio finally said.

“Can I see her?” Monteiro asked.

“No,” Duilio answered without hesitation. He folded his arms over his chest. “I only have your word that you're related. Until she can confirm it, I will not let anyone see her.”

Monteiro's nostrils flared again, but he reined in whatever outburst he was considering. “Understandable. I know of a doctor. One who's willing to see one of our people.”

Duilio tamped down his pride. “If you'll give me his name and direction, I'll send for him if he's needed.”

Monteiro drew a slim notebook out of a coat pocket and jotted something down with a pencil. He tore out the page and handed it over. “He's a good man, discreet.”

Duilio glanced down at Monteiro's gloved hand, thinking that the name on the page likely belonged to the man who'd cut those fingers apart.
Dr. Esteves.
“I pray that he's not needed.”

Monteiro crossed himself again, and Duilio copied the motion reflexively. Oriana had told him a small percentage of her people were Christian due to the Church's persistence in sending them
missionaries over the centuries. Had she said that about her father, though?

“Please send word to Lady Pereira de Santos when Oriana regains consciousness,” Monteiro said. “I do want to see her . . . even if she's not eager to see me.”

“I will do nothing against her wishes,” Duilio warned. “I'll talk to her first, then decide.”

Monteiro inclined his head. “Fair enough. I'll be on my way, then.”

Duilio showed him the door and tried hard not to slam it behind the man. He leaned against it and rubbed a hand over his face, teasing out the ramifications of what he'd just learned . . . if it was true.

Oriana's attempted execution had been a warning aimed at her father and the ambassador both, and in which her life was considered insignificant. That indicated a great deal was at stake, made all the more apparent by the fact that someone had attempted to prevent her rescue. Yet neither of them seemed to know what that warning concerned.

And it was curious to Duilio that Oriana had never mentioned that her father lived in the Golden City. She'd said he lived in Portugal, but not that he was a businessman secretly married to Lady Pereira de Santos. The Amaral household, in which Oriana had been employed for a year, stood next to the home of Lady Pereira de Santos, where Monteiro would have come and gone on a regular basis. Yet when Isabel Amaral was murdered, Oriana hadn't gone to
him
for help. Surely they were estranged—but not enough that the man didn't care what happened to her. There was, without doubt, a great deal Duilio didn't understand about her family.