The Golden City (18 page)

“Please don’t rise,” he told her. “Whatever are you doing?”

“Alterations, sir.” She calmly set the two pins into a small pillow that re
st
ed on the table and reset the needle in the fabric. “For the ball tonight. Is your shoulder better?”

“Is that one of my mother’s old gowns?” he asked, disregarding her query.

Did he think she’d misappropriated it? “Miss Felis assured me your mother wouldn’t mind my wearing one of her old gowns. In fa
ct
, Miss Felis insi
st
ed. She didn’t want me being a discredit to Lady Ferreira due to lack of proper garb.”

Mr. Ferreira sat down in the chair next to the sofa, saving her from craning her neck to look up at him. He
st
eepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. “I doubt my mother would even notice, Miss Paredes,” he finally said. “But I recall your wearing several attra
ct
ive gowns over the pa
st
few months. Why do you not . . . ?” When Oriana didn’t clarify, he said, “Ah. Lady Amaral didn’t allow you to take anything with you when you left. Did she?”

Oriana shook her head. “No, sir. Only the clothes I was wearing that night.”

“People continually surprise me with their pettiness,” he said. “Although in her case I shouldn’t be surprised. She is, unfortunately, the reason I
st
opped back by here.”

That sounded ominous. “Sir?”

“Lady Amaral has gone to the police with the claim that you
st
ole some of Lady Isabel’s property when she threw you out. Jewelry was mentioned.”

Oriana couldn’t help her initial rea
ct
ion—one of disbelief and rage—but she quickly schooled her features to neutrality. “That is not true, Mr. Ferreira.”

One of his dark brows rose. “It never occurred to me it might be, Miss Paredes.”

She could breathe more easily then. “Thank you, sir.”

“I wanted you to be aware of the charge,” he said. “That’s all. The police don’t credit the idea either. After all, Lady Isabel could have taken the missing pieces with her to Paris. However, if Lady Amaral learns you’re living here, she may demand that the police arre
st
you on
suspicion
of theft. She’s influential enough that they might comply without evidence.”

Oriana had learned enough about influence in society here that she knew he was right. She’d
st
ood next to the coal room
st
eps that chilly morning and decided
not
to take the second bag, the one that held whatever Isabel couldn’t cram into her traveling che
st
. No matter how pragmatic it would have been, she’d refused to become a thief. Yet Lady Amaral had ca
st
that slur on her chara
ct
er anyway. “She had the butler escort me out, Mr. Ferreira. He would have seen anything I touched. Although I doubt he’d vouch for me to the police,” she added with unfortunate hone
st
y. “He has his position to think of.”

“I expe
ct
ed as much.” Mr. Ferreira smiled ruefully. “Don’t worry, Miss Paredes. The police do know what sort of person they’re dealing with. She has a hi
st
ory of bringing charges again
st
servants that generally prove to be no more than an excuse to let them go without pay.”

Oriana felt her brows draw together in annoyance. Lady Amaral
hadn’t
paid her when she’d ca
st
her forth. “I see, sir.”

“Yes,” he said in a dry tone. “I’m sure you do. I’ve already talked to Cardenas and told him that if he hears anything about a theft, he’s to ignore it.”

•   •   •

A
maid came in then carrying a tray with a small pot of coffee and a pair of cups. Miss Paredes tucked her hands back into her mending, her vexed expression fading into polite placidity. Duilio rather liked the vexed Miss Paredes, but he wasn’t foolish enough to say so. “Thank you, Ana,” Duilio told the maid in
st
ead. “You may go, but leave the door half-ajar, please.”

The girl curtsied and swept her way out of the room, pulling the door almo
st
all the way closed. He should go and open it wider to prote
ct
Miss Paredes’ reputation, but didn’t bother. He appreciated the privacy for now. He poured himself a cup of coffee. “Would you like a cup?”

“Yes, please,” Miss Paredes said after a brief hesitation.

He added cream to hers, having seen her do so that morning, and set the cup on the small table near her elbow.

“You’re not supposed to serve me,” Miss Paredes prote
st
ed.

Duilio didn’t laugh at her wry tone. He broke societal rules regularly enough that this tiny slip in etiquette didn’t merit any twinge of insulted propriety on his part. “I don’t mind serving, Miss Paredes, particularly as your hands are occupied. Do you enjoy sewing?”

She regarded him warily, as if she feared a trap. “Yes. It’s calming.”

Well, now he’d learned something. Miss Paredes liked to sew; it wasn’t merely a part of her disguise. He smiled down into his coffee. “I believe there’s a sewing machine down in the workroom. Did you know that?”

“Yes, but once you’ve accidentally sewn through your webbing, you tend to
st
ay away from machines. I prefer to work by hand.”

Duilio cringed. “I see. The next time you need a gown, it might be simpler to have one made up. I didn’t mean for you to spend your hours here mending.”

She pushed the rumpled blue mound on her lap into order and then picked up her own cup. “Mending is hone
st
work, sir.”

He crossed his legs and peered at her lowered features. Their relationship wasn’t a normal one, caused by circum
st
ances to vacillate between that of ma
st
er and servant . . . and something else. But his remarks about the mending had caused her to revert to servant again, which irritated him. He wanted to
talk
to her, not ju
st
exchange pleasantries.

Duilio decided she had the same sort of pridefulness about money that affli
ct
ed Joaquim. She didn’t want anything given to her, perhaps because that often came with a price.

He’d hit on the simple
st
way to handle Lady Amaral before he’d even left Joaquim’s office: simply have Joaquim take a
st
atement about the value of the missing articles, and Duilio would have his man of business pay the woman that sum. It wouldn’t pinch his pocket, and the funds might entice Lady Amaral to leave Miss Paredes alone. Duilio wasn’t going to mention the transa
ct
ion to Miss Paredes; he didn’t want her scowling at him more than necessary. He fished about for another topic.

“I have often wondered about your people’s culture,” he said then, hoping to draw out the woman behind the mask of servility. “It’s a shame tourism isn’t allowed on your islands.”

“Given our hi
st
ory with your people, are you surprised?” she asked tartly.

His people’s relationship with hers had not gotten off on the right foot, a
st
ory recorded in Camões’ epic poem. The islands had been discovered on one of Vasco da Gama’s voyages. The sailors, spotting the lovely “sea nymphs” bathing there, decided they were a gift from Venus . . . and took advantage. The poet chose to ca
st
the incident in a heroic light. He wrote of the sereia running away into the woods, depi
ct
ing their flight as an attempt to further entice the men—as if sailors long at sea required enticement at all. Duilio had always suspe
ct
ed that interpretation of those events; if a sereia wished to attra
ct
a man, she could
call
him, could she not? “That incident was some four hundred years ago, Miss Paredes. I would hope my people are a little more civilized by now.”

“And yet your Camões is
st
ill heralded as a great poet. Did any of those sailors bring their so-called sereia brides back to Portugal? Did they attempt to right the wrong perpetrated again
st
those women?” Her dark eyes turned toward the dress in her lap. She fiddled with the fabric, giving him an occasional glimpse of the webbing between her long fingers. “We have our own hi
st
ory of that incident—
The Rape of Amado
, it’s called.”

“I am not surprised,” he admitted. “What happened afterward is shrouded in my
st
ery. What do your people say?”

“Amado became a prison of sorts,” she told him. “It had once been a game reserve, ju
st
for hunting, but along with the dozen or so human men who’d
st
ayed behind, all the sereia who were caught up in that incident were seque
st
ered there by their own people. They weren’t allowed to return to their home islands, as if they were contaminated. For long afterward, any humans who ended up on the islands, whether by shipwreck or capture—or those missionaries your Church kept sending—were transported to Amado and not allowed to leave.”

Duilio sat back in his chair. “That seems very harsh. Is it
st
ill seque
st
ered?”

She shook her head. “No. After about two hundred years our rulers lifted the ban on travel. Amado is often called the Portuguese island, though. Its people have the mo
st
human blood, their culture is the mo
st
like that of Portugal, and a percentage of them are even Chri
st
ian, which never did spread to the other islands. And thus Amadeans are looked down on by the inhabitants of the other islands who claim pure sereia blood, no matter how untrue that is.”

Her tone had grown sharper as she spoke. She mu
st
be Amadean herself, given her irritation. “Miss Paredes, I’ll promise never to speak fondly of Camões again, if you’ll accept my apology for what happened to your ance
st
ors.”

She seemed surprised. “Your prince is the one who should apologize.”

“Unfortunately,
that
will never happen, Miss Paredes. And I thought we were making such progress. I was hoping to see those islands before I die.”

That
st
atement caused her brows to furrow. She picked one of the pins from her pincushion, possibly planning to
st
ab him with it. “Why?”

“I like different places,” he said quite truthfully. “I’m curious. I like to travel, see how different people live.”

She regarded him warily. “Why our people? There are plenty of others.”

He argued with himself over whether to tell her the truth or not, and then shrugged. “When I was a boy, my father brought home a book about your islands. It was in French, I recall, and made many unlikely claims, among them the report that your people wear no clothing, or very little.
That
prompted my initial curiosity.”

•   •   •

O
riana
st
ared at Mr. Ferreira, wondering what type of impression he intended to make with that bald
st
atement. “That alone piqued your intere
st
?”

He flushed, a hint of red creeping cross his cheeks. “I had no intention of offending you, Miss Paredes. I was twelve, I believe. Boys that age, I’m afraid, find nothing more fascinating than the possibility of glimpsing a woman in her natural
st
ate. I hope that doesn’t negate my earlier apology. I am somewhat more mature now than I was at twelve.”

Her tone mu
st
have been sharper than she’d intended. “I’ll not take it amiss, then, sir. I should tell you, though, that we do wear clothing, although admittedly less than your own people. Our women especially don’t have to put up with this excessive number of layers.” She ge
st
ured at her own skirts, hidden under the blue dress.

He inclined his head, as if in acknowledgment of a gift. “I’ll have to look for that book. You might find it amusing.”

She could only imagine how inaccurate a human-written book about the islands would be. His dark brows drew together, and for a moment he didn’t speak. “Mr. Ferreira?” she prompted, uncertain where his thoughts had
st
rayed.

“May I ask a personal que
st
ion?”

She folded her hands atop the fabric. What could possibly give him pause after admitting having been an imaginative twelve-year-old male at one point? “Of course, sir.”

He ge
st
ured toward her hands. “The webbing between your fingers seems very delicate. I wondered if you often injure it. You said you’ve done so when sewing.”

She felt the urge to smile at his hesitation. “It’s tougher than it looks and heals very quickly. I do prick it on occasion, which jars me to my teeth, but it doesn’t hurt that much.”

“Jars you?”

She licked her lips, working out the words to explain. “Our webbing is what allows us to sense movement in the water—waves or fish or boats. When I injure it, it’s like . . . a loud thunderclap, but not in my ears. In my head.”

“Like a seal’s whiskers,” he said with a slow nod. “How sensitive is it?”

She hadn’t realized the purpose a seal’s whiskers served, but if anyone would know, he would. She held up her hand and spread her fingers wide, which allowed her to sense him. “At this di
st
ance I can feel your breathing, your heartbeat. It’s indi
st
in
ct
, but in water it would be far clearer.”

That apparently gave him something to think about, as he sat with his lips pressed together, unmoving.

Oriana suspe
ct
ed she knew what he wanted. Isabel was the only other human who’d ever known her well enough to dare ask. She moved to the front of the couch, hands
st
ill in her lap. “Would you like to look at them?”

He regarded her cautiously. “Would you find that offensive?”

She didn’t recall exa
ct
ly when, but he’d switched to informal address, speaking to her like a friend,
tu
, rather than ju
st
an acquaintance. She did the same. “Will you show me yours in return?”