He let himself out of the bath, the scent of his ambergris cologne tickling her nose as he brushed past. Oriana locked the door behind him and rested her back against it.
He had apparently known she was a sereia for some time. That was a humbling revelation. She’d always been so careful, hiding her gills and hands. Isabel would never even have known if she hadn’t stormed back into the back rooms at the dressmaker's and caught Oriana with her hands bared. For two years, no one had noticed her. Even so, he’d known.
At the same time, Mr. Ferreira had utterly fooled her. On the submersible, she’d believed his endless chatter. She’d thought him empty-headed and harmless. He was far more deceptive than she’d ever guessed, and clearly more successful at it than she was. She’d never heard a whisper of his involvement with the police. Society would be livid—and unforgiving—if that ever became public.
She let out a sigh and contemplated the cool water in the tub. After a week without a proper bath, her gills could certainly use more time in the water. And she needed desperately to unravel everything she’d just learned and plot a new course of action.
As she did her best thinking when wet, she went to find that promised box of sea salt.
CHAPTER 11
Duilio waited alone down in the kitchen. Mrs. Cardoza and her helpers had finished with the after-dinner cleaning. Gustavo Mendes, one of the footmen, was playing his twelve-string guitar down in the workroom and singing a mournful song whose notes drifted to the empty kitchen. The music brought back memories of Duilio’s university days, of drinking more Vinho Verde than was wise and listening to fado in the taverns of Coimbra far too late into the night.
While Gustavo was a talented singer, Duilio had quickly discovered after his return that the young man’s true desire was to become a police inspector, like Joaquim. Gustavo had proven to be a help when Duilio had needed to observe someone, break into a house, or be in two places at once. He could have asked Gustavo to wait here, but . . .
Duilio checked his watch again—it was just past ten—and almost missed Miss Paredes slipping down the servants’ stair. He rose when he saw her walking along the narrow hallway toward the back door of the house. She wore black again, a skirt and shirtwaist shabby enough to cause him to speculate as to whether it might be what she’d had on that night. “Miss Paredes?”
Her head snapped about. “Mr. Ferreira. What are you doing down here, sir?”
Judging by her tone, his presence wasn’t wanted. “I thought if you needed to go out, I might accompany you.”
She came down the two steps into the kitchen, her jaw clenched. She looked trapped. “I was not to take up my duties until tomorrow, I thought.”
He caught her implication immediately. “You are an employee of this household, Miss Paredes, not a prisoner. I’m not here to stop you, but as you are our most important lead in this case, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you on your own out there.”
She’d listened with her lips pressed tightly together. “Mr. Ferreira, I have been in this city for two years and have never run into trouble.”
Duilio felt his brows creeping upward.
Miss Paredes shook her head. “That was a stupid thing to say. But truly, sir, I am only going over to Bainharia Street to see a friend. I won’t be gone more than an hour.”
Bainharia Street wasn’t far, but its short length was dark and shadowy, as was that entire area. It would be an excellent location for an ambush. And he was curious to see where Miss Paredes was going at this hour, so he continued to press her. “Are you armed?”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth, a motion he found strangely appealing, as she adjusted the pin holding on her straw hat. “Do you think that’s necessary?” she asked in a tart voice. “There are plenty of streetlamps.”
“And someone almost succeeded in killing you before, Miss Paredes.” He felt bad for pointing that out. It wasn’t as if he’d never walked into a trap himself. “All I’m asking is that you let me follow you. I’ll keep my distance, I promise.”
She sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Oh, very well. You might as well accompany me, since it pertains to your investigation.”
“Thank you. I am honored you’re willing to trust me that far,” he said. She cast him a doubtful glance, but didn’t protest his statement, so he gestured for her to precede him. When she walked up the steps, he could see that her skirt had been torn in a couple of places, then neatly repaired. Hadn’t she said something about her skirt tearing when she escaped the replica in the river? Did it bother her to wear those same garments again?
She stopped at the back door and waited while he picked up his hat and an umbrella. Once outside, he locked the door and set off at her side. “You’d best give me your arm.”
She hesitated, but then wrapped her hand about the crook of his arm as they walked in silence down the alleyway behind the houses. He led her along the alley and onto the Street of Flowers, heading up toward the palace. “Can I assume you have some expertise with weapons?”
“Yes. I lost my dagger in the river, though,” she said softly enough that he had to lean closer to hear. “The man who dove in after me wrestled it out of my hand.” She glanced down at her right palm, covered by her mitt. “I need to replace it.”
The traffic on the Street of Flowers flowed all night, although there were far fewer carriages at this hour. Pedestrians kept their distance, moving along the line of fences in clumps. Duilio watched them, unwilling to risk her safety. “I’ve got a couple of spares. A gun?”
“I know how to use a gun, but the trigger guard can be tricky, so a blade is more reliable.”
He almost stopped walking, puzzled by that claim, and then realized that her webbing would make getting her finger through the trigger guard difficult. That prompted a dozen other questions in his mind, most pertaining to her people’s military—surely they had a navy—but this wasn’t the right time to be asking. Instead he went back to an earlier question. “This man who dove in after you. How did he catch you? Did he outswim you?”
“I’d hit my head on the side of their boat,” she said, sounding embarrassed by that fact, “and I was exhausted by then. I just wasn’t fast enough.”
Her face turned toward him, but he was watching a group of apparently drunken young men stumbling in their direction. He maneuvered Miss Paredes over until they walked next to the fence and made sure he kept between her and the young men. Fortunately, the revelers were too busy insulting each other to bother Miss Paredes. Their chatter faded as they continued down toward the river. “And the other man,” Duilio said. “Silva? Did he say anything?”
She turned onto Souto, the narrow street that would cross Bainharia. It wasn’t much more than a cobbled alleyway, not wide enough for a carriage. A feeble glow came from a streetlamp affixed to the side of one of the buildings that closed in on either side. “He seemed to think he was rescuing me,” she said. “He claimed he’d had a vision about me being in the water and came to save me.”
Duilio pursed his lips. He didn’t like Silva, but he didn’t want to bias her perception of the events of that night. He didn’t want to put ideas in her head.
It had been an unpleasant shock when she’d told him his bastard uncle had been the one to draw her out of the river. At first Duilio had assumed the boat was rowed by a collaborator of hers. When he’d realized Miss Paredes was a victim, Aga’s mention of the two men in the boat had gone from understandable to baffl ing. How had the small boat gotten out there, past the patrols? Hearing that it was Silva in the boat made it less improbable. The man had access everywhere, and could probably talk his way past any police patrol. But Duilio found his entry into her story disconcerting. “Did you see any other boats on the water nearby?”