Then a warm body enveloped hers, two large arms coming around hers and grasping the handles of the cutters. The taste in the water told her it was a selkie. His muscular arms strained, and the cutters sliced through the chain. The house was free! It began to float upward, turning now that it was loose, like a fish righting itself in the water, which must be terrifying for the victims inside.
Oriana shoved at the warm body holding her. The selkie released her, although one of his hands squeezed her left buttock before he swam away. She was too relieved to bite him. She let go of the cutters and swam after the rising house, trying to guide it upward. Gods grant that those inside were still alive. She broke the surface only a second after the house did and bobbed in the ripples there. Her throat opened and she tried to catch her breath.
Lights told her where the patrol boat was, and the yacht. Voices carried across the water, a spate of urgent cries. She didn’t see the rowboat. A gunshot sounded, but she couldn’t tell from which vessel. The house, now on one side, began moving in a stately fashion toward the patrol boat, and she realized the annoying selkie—it had to be Erdano—was propelling it in that direction.
She treaded water. Where had the rowboat gone? She felt cold from more than just the night air. She twisted about to look the other direction, thinking perhaps she’d mistaken where he’d been. He wouldn’t just leave her out here.
The floating house banged against the side of the patrol boat, and with shouting that carried over the water, the crew reached down with hooks and a long metal pry bar to break into it. The selkie moved away, his dark head coming in Oriana’s direction.
“Go after the yacht!” she yelled at him. “Follow it!”
He jerked about in the darkness and slipped under the water again.
She swam closer to the patrol boat. A bright flash of light momentarily blinded her. They must have found a photographer willing to bring his precious gear out on the water with them. She blinked to clear her eyes and yelled at the top of her lungs. “Where is the rowboat?”
In the chaos on the deck of the patrol boat, someone must have heard her. “Down,” a voice called back—Inspector Gaspar. He yelled something else. “. . . yacht hit it. Go after . . .”
Oriana’s heart slammed against her ribs. The yacht had hit the rowboat? Oh, gods, no!
None of the humans would be able to see in this water. They would never find him.
Another explosion of light came from the deck of the patrol boat. Oriana clamped her eyes closed, took a large breath, and submerged again. She swam down a dozen feet and then held her depth, her fingers spread wide to sense movement. Frantic tremors came from above where the patrol boat and the floating house banged against each other.
There was nothing on her own level save for the motion of the tide. No, there was something . . .
Below her she sensed a struggling movement, like that of a dolphin caught in a net. He was still alive! Oriana whirled in that direction and tracked the source of the movement.
She saw a flash of whiteness far below—his shirt. The current was pulling Duilio out to sea, while an anchor was dragging him lower each second. Could he hold his breath longer than a human?
She pushed herself downward until she reached him. His leg was caught in the anchor’s rope. Oriana wrapped her arms about him and pressed her lips to his, giving him the mouthful of air she held. It surely wouldn’t be enough. She had to get him loose.
She found the rope tangled about him, caught in the wool of his trousers. It must be crushing his leg, the weight of the anchor and undertow pitted against his will to survive. She patted his knee to reassure him and began to saw at the taut rope with her knife. After a moment only a thread was left, and then that thread snapped.
Unanchored, Duilio began to drift upward through the dark water. With a thankful prayer to whichever god was helping her, Oriana swam up after him, wrapped her arms about his body, and kicked hard.
When they broke the surface, he gave a ragged gasp. He choked and coughed while she supported him. “Be still,” she said, tears stinging her eyes now that he was safe. “Let the water hold you.”
There was panic in his eyes, visible this close. “Where are we?”
He couldn’t see the nearby shore, she realized, and had no innate sense of the direction. Following the lights of the city would mean swimming across the river, more than a mile against the current, a foolish choice when the unlit Gaia shore was closer. They’d drifted far from the patrol boat, certainly far beyond the crew’s ability to see two people stranded in the water. She could hear its engine chugging away. They must be heading back toward the city to get the victims to a doctor. At least she hoped that was the case. They had trusted her to save Duilio.
“I know where the land is,” she reassured him. “Here, let me get this coat off you.”
She could tell he was fighting to keep calm, his breathing still ragged. She worked the buttons of his coat, the wool swollen with water and stubborn. Once she finally had it undone she pushed it off his shoulders. Freed from its weight, he seemed better able to stay afloat. She tugged off his sodden tie, just to be certain he could breathe.
“I’m going to tow you to shore,” she said in his ear. “Don’t fight me.”
He coughed again but nodded, so she wrapped one arm about his chest and began hauling him toward land. He let her carry him most of the way, but after a time insisted on swimming on his own. It wasn’t far. Even so, it seemed to take forever.
They ended up on the Gaia shore, almost all the way out at the breakwater. Her feet found purchase in fine sand, and she pushed herself upright, walking the last little distance to the beach. She slid down on one side of a large rock, where she would be hidden from view from passing traffic on the river. “Just let me rest a while,” she mumbled.
Only a few steps behind her, Duilio didn’t argue. He sat next to her on the damp ground and coughed up more water. She caught him in her arms when he slumped to the sands.
CHAPTER 31
The green hills rolled gently down to the Douro at the Marialva estate, allowing all the guests a fine view of the sparkling waters peeking between carefully manicured stands of trees. Tidy rows of grape vines climbed the far bank of the river. It was a mild spring afternoon, and Oriana had gone with Isabel to an informal picnic on Lord Marialva’s grounds.
Pia walked with them, her white-gloved hands fluttering as she spoke. She wore pink, and with her blond hair down she looked sadly insipid next to her vividly alive cousin. Isabel’s dark green walking suit made her seem more forceful and real. Oriana held a parasol to shade her mistress’ alabaster skin.
They walked past a blanket where a young woman reclined next to the prince’s seer. As they walked closer, Silva took the girl’s hand in his, slowly drew off her short glove, and ran a bare finger across her palm. The girl’s mouth opened in a surprised O at whatever he said.
“I don’t know why anyone listens to that man,” Isabel said loudly enough for the girl to overhear. “He’s wrong more often than the astrologers.” She lifted her chin in the air, the feather from her cap curving around to touch her cheek, and walked on past.
They’d nearly reached the river’s bank by then, the comforting smell of the water filling the air. Marianus Efisio, Pia’s betrothed, stood speaking with another man, one Oriana didn’t recognize. Dark brown hair, medium build, slightly taller than average—not much to distinguish him.
“Who is that with Mr. Efisio?” Oriana asked.
“Mr. Ferreira, the younger one,” Pia whispered, and crossed herself reverently, white gloves fluttering like gull’s wings. “The elder passed recently.”