Oriana shoved the coverlet down and got out of the bed. She wasn’t going to sleep. Not now. The moon had risen, allowing her to see the minimal traffic on the Street of Flowers. Two inebriated young men walked toward the river, but otherwise the street was empty. She let the curtain fall.

She didn’t know what time it was, but since she was awake, she might as well try to finish off that journal. It was exceptionally dry. She would rather be reading one of those overblown novels Isabel had favored. That tongue-in-cheek thought made her smile; some of those novels had been awful. But it was the first time she’d thought of Isabel without pain since that night.

Oriana went into the dressing room and took down the dressing gown she’d been using for the past few days. A rich burgundy velvet lined in a paisley-patterned satin, it had to have belonged to Alessio. The hem brushed the ground, but she didn’t own anything comparable and didn’t think Alessio Ferreira would mind. So she drew it on over her nightdress and settled on the leather settee near the bedroom door. She lit the lamp and picked up the journal. With about thirty pages to go, she might be able to finish it before it put her to sleep again.

She picked up the letter opener and began searching through the last pages, gently separating the ones stuck together when Mr. Ferreira was doused. The outsides of the journal were the most affected, and the last ten pages had to be carefully eased apart. She was surprised to note that a few were blank, as if Espinoza had been forced to abandon the journal before he finished it out. Given what Mr. Ferreira had said about the artist fighting with someone in his flat, that seemed possible.

She slid the letter opener between the last two pages and slowly jiggled it to pry the pages apart, and stopped. She grabbed up the journal in both hands and forced it open, the paper crackling ominously but not tearing. On one leaf there was a diagram of three circles, the outer comprised of Roman letters, the middle containing what must be a series of runes, and the inner circle holding a group of lines that meant nothing to her at all.

It was the table. Espinoza had seen the table, and it was the last thing he’d recorded in his journal. Was this what had spooked the artist, sending him fleeing to Matosinhos to escape his patron? Oriana licked her lips. The runes resembled the ones she’d seen that night, even if she didn’t remember them properly. And the rest of the words in Latin were there: Ego autem et domus mea serviemus regi.

Her heart pounded against the wall of her chest. Here was the missing half that her own death had been meant to illuminate. She closed her eyes. What can this do that makes it worth killing so many innocents?

Oriana pushed herself off the settee and, journal in hand, walked out into the hallway. There was only one lamp glowing there, but it was enough. She strode past Lady Ferreira’s room and stopped at the next door. Was this Mr. Ferreira’s bedroom? It didn’t matter; she would just try them all. She rapped on the door with the edge of the journal, sparing her webbing the worst of the vibration from knocking.

She heard movement within almost immediately. She stepped back, suddenly recalling that his selkie brother, Erdano, sometimes stayed at the house. For all she knew it might be him in that room. Oriana was relieved when, a moment later, the door opened slightly to reveal a disheveled-looking Duilio Ferreira. His hair was mussed, displaying a curl that he usually managed to keep tamed. Over a nightshirt he wore a dressing gown similar to the one she had on but without the paisley satin. He blinked at her, seemingly at a loss for words.

What was she thinking, coming to a man’s bedroom in the dark of the night?

“I need to show you something,” she blurted out before he mistook her intention. She held out the journal, opened to the diagram.

He took it, eyes fixed on the page. “They’ve altered the verse.”

“What?” She leaned closer to peer down at it over his arm.

He seemed to shake himself. He stepped out into the hallway, closed the door to his bedroom, and went and turned up the one light in the hall. “Come here.”

Oriana joined him under the hissing light fixture.

“That last word in the Latin verse,” he said, pointing. “See? It should be Domino, but they’ve exchanged that for regi.”

“King?” she guessed.

“Exactly,” he said. “That’s probably what gave Espinoza the idea that they wanted to make Prince Fabricio into a king. I guess the writing in the next ring is magic runes, but what in Hades’ name is this business in the center?”

Oriana flicked her braid back over her shoulder. “I hoped you might know.”

The center symbol was a grouping of perpendicular lines forming two Ts, one large, one small, with the tops parallel to each other. Between those were two parallel lines, one short, one long. And under one arm of one T there was a dash—or rather a minus sign, she suspected, since the other T had a plus sign under one arm. She pointed at that. “Could it be . . . mathematical?”

He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it just a bit. “I don’t know. But I know someone who would. Do you mind if I take this? I’ll show it to him first thing in the morning.”

As if the journal is mine. “Not at all, sir.”

An uncomfortable silence fell. It was one thing for her to sneak out to report to Heriberto at night if needed. It was another thing to wake Duilio Ferreira in the middle of what must have been a sound sleep. He was a gentleman, and gentlemen lived by very specific codes of conduct. She’d had to study those rules before coming to Portugal. Meeting in the middle of the night with a woman not his wife—in his nightclothes—broke several of them. That was why he’d closed his bedroom door; he didn’t want to invite impropriety.

She glanced down and noted that his feet were bare. They were nice feet. His dressing gown covered him to midcalf, and given that she’d seen him shirtless a few days before, she’d now seen almost as much of him as would be bared should he wear a pareu—little more than a length of fabric wrapped about the waist—as most of the males on her islands did. She could almost picture him wearing one.

She felt her cheeks growing warm. What a strange thought! She wasn’t certain why that image had popped into her head.

“I couldn’t find my slippers,” he said in an apologetic voice, perhaps believing she was offended. “My valet has hidden them from me.”

Oriana almost laughed then, at the image of Duilio Ferreira henpecked by his own valet. Of course, the elderly Frenchman was very snooty. She drew up the hem of her borrowed dressing gown to show her own silver feet. “I cannot reproach you, sir. By the way, are they black felt slippers, rather worn ones, with gold embroidery on the uppers?”

That got Mr. Ferreira’s attention. “Yes.”

“They’re atop the high cabinet in the servants’ workroom,” she told him. “I wondered what those were doing there. I’ll see if I can retrieve them for you tomorrow.”

He took one of her hands in his own and lifted it to kiss her bare fingers. “I would be forever indebted to you.”

It was done in a joking tone, so she knew better than to read anything into that gesture. He let go of her hand with acceptable readiness and stepped back, the journal tucked under one arm. “Thank you, Miss Paredes.”

She headed toward her own room but turned back. Duilio Ferreira stood at his own door, apparently watching to be certain she made it there safely. Oriana took a deep breath. “The woman called Maria Melo? She’s a sereia. A spy, but much higher in rank than I . . . or my master, evidently.”

His lips pressed together as if he recognized the seriousness of what she’d just done. She’d exposed a member of her own government. She’d committed treason, although no one would ever learn of it. Duilio Ferreira would never betray her confidence. And she felt worlds better for having alerted someone else, someone other than Heriberto. It was as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders.