boat moored on a quay farther from the old town center. She had no intention of going there. Oriana st rode out of the narrow, confined st reet onto wider São Seba st ião. When she glanced back over her shoulder, Heriberto was nowhere in sight.
Her ire faded. Heriberto set her teeth on their sharp edge—he always had. But now that she was out of his sight, the sick and hollow sensation in her st omach returned with a vengeance. Now she had
more
to worry about. She st opped on the corner and pressed one mitt-covered hand to her belly.
Who’s looking for me?
Surely it was too early for Nela’s my st erious Lady to be doing so, and Carlos already knew where to find her. Could it be Silva, the prince’s seer who had pulled her out of the river three nights before? Or could Lady Amaral have gone to the police after all and blamed her in some way for Isabel’s absence? The la st thing she needed was the police hunting her.
A gentleman in a dark suit brushed again st her as he passed, st artling her. He tipped his hat apologetically before he went on his way. Oriana shook herself. She couldn’t afford to be st anding here on the st reet corner like a lamppo st . She walked on, feeling shaken.
She waited for an opening between the carriages traveling São Seba st ião, and headed toward the quay. Once there, she st ood on the quay in the noontime sun, gazing up toward the old tile roofs of the houses that lined the river. The smell of the water was comforting
It had seemed clear at fir st . The police had no inkling of Isabel’s fate, so it was up to her to seek retribution, wasn’t it? She’d been angry. She hadn’t que st ioned what it would co st her to find the arti st and expose him. She hadn’t allowed herself to doubt. But now she knew she was hunting a necromancer. Not only was she hiding from the police, as always, but now she had to duck Heriberto and Carlos as well. She had little money and few friends and no idea where to look next. But none of that would st op her.
She’d never been able to avenge Marina. She wasn’t going to fail Isabel in the same way.
• • •
T he library of the Ferreira home was Duilio’s favorite room. It housed a colle ct ion of items his father had brought back from his travels. An array of giant clam shells, bleached almo st white, sat atop the middle of a large circular table covered with marquetry, supposedly liberated from a pirate’s lair in the South Seas. A chandelier hung above that display, delicate branches of white coral holding two dozen candles—a fixture too fragile to refit for gas lighting. That came from the st reet bazaars of the desert city of Marrakech. Many of the books that lined the room claimed equally unlikely origin. His father’s desk in the corner—his desk now—supposedly came from Brazil, but Duilio had no idea if that was true either.
Cardenas had left a telegram atop that desk, and Duilio picked it up. Sent from Paris, it told him exa ct ly what he’d expe ct ed. Marianus Efisio was there, but neither Lady Isabel nor her companion had ever arrived. Efisio intended to remain there until he received word from Isabel. Duilio tucked the telegram into a pocket, uncertain whether he felt sorry for Efisio or not.
Felis, his mother’s maid, appeared on the threshold of the library and fixed him with her hawklike eyes. “What is this about you wanting to see
me
, Duilinho?”
Her voice had an angry edge to it, as always. But the woman’s bark was, as it was said, far worse than her bite—mo st of the time. Duilio smiled at her and withdrew a small bundle from his other coat pocket. The bribe should definitely come fir st . He’d seen a woman selling barnacles on the quay—Felis’ favorite treat. “Please, Miss Felis. I’ve been looking for a few days now, and I can’t find someone. I thought perhaps you could help.”
She exhaled loudly but walked over to the chair he held out for her, her eyes on the bounty of
Her ire faded. Heriberto set her teeth on their sharp edge—he always had. But now that she was out of his sight, the sick and hollow sensation in her st omach returned with a vengeance. Now she had
more
to worry about. She st opped on the corner and pressed one mitt-covered hand to her belly.
Who’s looking for me?
Surely it was too early for Nela’s my st erious Lady to be doing so, and Carlos already knew where to find her. Could it be Silva, the prince’s seer who had pulled her out of the river three nights before? Or could Lady Amaral have gone to the police after all and blamed her in some way for Isabel’s absence? The la st thing she needed was the police hunting her.
A gentleman in a dark suit brushed again st her as he passed, st artling her. He tipped his hat apologetically before he went on his way. Oriana shook herself. She couldn’t afford to be st anding here on the st reet corner like a lamppo st . She walked on, feeling shaken.
She waited for an opening between the carriages traveling São Seba st ião, and headed toward the quay. Once there, she st ood on the quay in the noontime sun, gazing up toward the old tile roofs of the houses that lined the river. The smell of the water was comforting
It had seemed clear at fir st . The police had no inkling of Isabel’s fate, so it was up to her to seek retribution, wasn’t it? She’d been angry. She hadn’t que st ioned what it would co st her to find the arti st and expose him. She hadn’t allowed herself to doubt. But now she knew she was hunting a necromancer. Not only was she hiding from the police, as always, but now she had to duck Heriberto and Carlos as well. She had little money and few friends and no idea where to look next. But none of that would st op her.
She’d never been able to avenge Marina. She wasn’t going to fail Isabel in the same way.
• • •
T he library of the Ferreira home was Duilio’s favorite room. It housed a colle ct ion of items his father had brought back from his travels. An array of giant clam shells, bleached almo st white, sat atop the middle of a large circular table covered with marquetry, supposedly liberated from a pirate’s lair in the South Seas. A chandelier hung above that display, delicate branches of white coral holding two dozen candles—a fixture too fragile to refit for gas lighting. That came from the st reet bazaars of the desert city of Marrakech. Many of the books that lined the room claimed equally unlikely origin. His father’s desk in the corner—his desk now—supposedly came from Brazil, but Duilio had no idea if that was true either.
Cardenas had left a telegram atop that desk, and Duilio picked it up. Sent from Paris, it told him exa ct ly what he’d expe ct ed. Marianus Efisio was there, but neither Lady Isabel nor her companion had ever arrived. Efisio intended to remain there until he received word from Isabel. Duilio tucked the telegram into a pocket, uncertain whether he felt sorry for Efisio or not.
Felis, his mother’s maid, appeared on the threshold of the library and fixed him with her hawklike eyes. “What is this about you wanting to see
me
, Duilinho?”
Her voice had an angry edge to it, as always. But the woman’s bark was, as it was said, far worse than her bite—mo st of the time. Duilio smiled at her and withdrew a small bundle from his other coat pocket. The bribe should definitely come fir st . He’d seen a woman selling barnacles on the quay—Felis’ favorite treat. “Please, Miss Felis. I’ve been looking for a few days now, and I can’t find someone. I thought perhaps you could help.”
She exhaled loudly but walked over to the chair he held out for her, her eyes on the bounty of
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