There, on the small table next to the settee, lay a notecard addressed to Oriana Arenias Paredes.

Her breath went short. It had come from someone who knew both of her mother’s surnames, Paredes and Arenias. Most people paid little attention to the surname a female received from her father. Oriana picked up the note, impressed by the fine quality of the paper and the author’s neat hand. Surely this was from Maria Melo, who’d implied an acquaintance with her mother. Her orders. The ones that would tell her how to get out of the city, where she would be sent, and to whom she would report. Perhaps they would say she had to leave now. How long had this been sitting here?

She ran her fingers over the lettering and then turned the envelope over to break the blue wax seal marked with the letter M. She slid one finger under the flap.

What if I’m supposed to leave immediately? This could order her to leave this morning, an hour ago or an hour hence.

I am not letting Isabel’s killer get away.

Oriana set the note back down on the silver salver on the table and went to the dressing room to find something to wear.

She’d hated these garments at first, so tight and uncomfortable. Now she saw them as a symbol of all the things she would miss from this place. She’d even miss the silk mitts that pinched her webbing. She would miss . . . many things. Once dressed, Oriana gazed at the tired face in the mirror, determined not to let her emotions get the better of her. She inhaled deeply, taking in the masculine smell of her borrowed room. Then she plastered a serene look on her face and went down to the library to meet Mr. Ferreira.

CHAPTER 32

Duilio brought his last knife for Miss Paredes to use. His favorite revolver had been in the pocket of his frock coat last night, now lost forever in the water of the Douro. He would miss that gun, but he had an Enfield revolver that would do well enough until he could get a replacement sent over from England.

The carriage was waiting for them behind the house and bore them out to the quay, where Gaspar and Pinheiro were still waiting. Gaspar had a wooden box about the size of a football in his hands. He opened it up to reveal a golden device sitting atop what looked like a pincushion. A collection of gears with a coil of metal inside, the device ticked and trembled like the works of a watch. “I’d like you to take this along with you,” he said.

Duilio surveyed the clockwork device doubtfully. If it was valuable, he didn’t want to take it out on the water, not on the paddleboat. “What is it?”

“It’s called a blood compass. A clever little device that Anjos and I have found useful,” Gaspar said. “They come in a pair. The other follows this one. In essence, it mistakes this one for the northern pole. Sadly, it only works one way.”

Oriana came to look into the box with him, her brows drawn together. “You can track us up the coast?”

“Precisely,” Gaspar said. “Wherever you end up, we can follow.”

How incredibly clever. Duilio wondered if the box might be one of the magical “toys” that the Lady’s father had tinkered with. Unfortunately, magical items usually came with a price tag. “Do we have to wind it?” Duilio asked cautiously.

Gaspar grinned. “It won’t bite you, Ferreira. I’ve already wound it, so to speak. Or, rather, Pinheiro did.”

Pinheiro held up a bandaged hand. “I had to bleed on it. On both of them.”

Duilio cast a quizzical look at the African inspector.

“Magic doesn’t work on me,” Gaspar said, “so it had to be him. Just try not to lose the thing.”

Duilio grimaced. “If it gets wet?”

“It will still work,” Gaspar said, “unless all the blood is washed off.”

Duilio glanced at Oriana, who just shrugged. He closed the box and tucked it under one arm, nodded once to Pinheiro and Gaspar, and then led Oriana down the ramp to the paddleboat. At least this increased the chance that if they did find Maraval, they wouldn’t have to face the man alone.

Half an hour later, they’d pulled out past the breakwater and traveled north up the coast. The wind was lacking and the water glassy, the reason he’d chosen the paddleboat rather than the sailboat. Oriana had taken off her shoes to keep them from the water, exposing her silvery feet again. From what he could see, the black dorsal stripe came to a point on the inside of her heel. Duilio could make out a rippled edging between the black and silver skin, a narrow border of brilliant blue. She looked up from where she sat by the wheel compartment and caught him staring at her bare feet. She immediately tucked them back under her skirt.

He didn’t know if he should be blushing or not. She had been with him the entire morning—unclothed—and had somehow managed never to turn her back to him, as if she were hiding her dorsal stripe. Was there some risqué aspect to curiosity about a sereia’s dorsal stripe? Her behavior was beginning to make him think so.

And that made him burn with curiosity

“So, where will we find your brother?” she asked.

“I expect he’s gone back to Braga Bay,” Duilio answered. “Where his harem lives.”

“A harem? Truly?”

“It’s the way they live,” he said, feeling a flush creep up from his neck. “The way they’ve lived for centuries. Males are rare, so there are sometimes as many as fifty females in a harem.”

“Fifty?” she asked, sounding appalled. “With one male?”

“Well, to be honest, I don’t think Erdano has nearly that many in his harem. But he does have a number of human lovers as well. It’s natural for selkies to compete.”

“I see,” she said, then shook her head. “No, actually, I don’t. Why would a female share her male with another? Or fifty others?”

“I’ve never understood it,” he admitted. “Selkie charm?”

“What exactly is selkie charm?” she asked.

“Selkies don’t talk about it,” Duilio said. “It’s not a talent or a skill; it’s just the way they are. Their powers of seduction are quite real, but I don’t know to what they can be attributed.”

She looked at him from under a lowered brow. “Do you . . . Have you . . . ?”

He clamped his lips together, holding in the urge to laugh at her hesitance. She was apparently shy when it came to matters of sex, which suggested a modesty sailors believed sereia didn’t possess. If he recalled correctly, the English even used the symbol of the sereia to indicate houses of prostitution. It pleased him that Oriana Paredes didn’t fit that stereotype. “No,” he answered. “I don’t have it, whatever it is. Alessio did, though. No one could resist him.”

She smoothed her skirt. “Is it something to do with the way you smell, perhaps?”

He felt warmth creeping up his cheeks. “Well, we do smell.”

She looked up then, her lips falling open. “I didn’t mean that badly. It’s just that I thought at first you were wearing cologne—ambergris cologne. It took me time to realize you weren’t. Your mother, as well.”

Duilio supposed he should be relieved she hadn’t meant that as an insult. “I do bathe regularly, which limits the smell, but you should hear my valet grumble about it.”

“I am not complaining,” she said.

Duilio chuckled. “So, may I ask, is your ability to call something that your people simply do or a skill?”

Oriana didn’t answer immediately. They’d passed the port of Leixões and were nearing Braga Bay, so Duilio watched the cliffs more carefully. He didn’t want to miss the narrow opening. But he stole a glance at her face and decided she was still unsure whether to answer his query. “You don’t need to answer,” he said. “I’m simply one of those inquisitive people who wants to know everything.”

“I’ve noticed,” she said in a dry tone. “We’re all born with a voice, but we must learn to use it. It’s a combination of natural talent and skill. Some females can call ships from afar. Others can’t get the attention of a man two feet away.”