The Shores of Spain (46 page)

“
Are
you a fairy?” Joaquim asked, thinking that might improve his grasp of the builder’s logic.

“That is a very broad term,” the Vilaró replied. “A human term.”

Joaquim decided that was a
yes
, or close enough. He thought about the lock, holding this man for a long time, metal, rusting, but so thick it hadn’t worn away. The key that had fit into this lock would have smallish teeth. It would be slender, made of the same metal.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, imagining that key and trying to feel where it was.

He had to do this, because if he didn’t, he wasn’t sure the chance to escape would come again. He didn’t want to contemplate life in this prison, even in Marcos’ palace. Marina was coming here, and if he couldn’t get out, she and Alejandro were surely walking into danger.

And there it was, burning on the edge of his awareness, a dark light that could only be the iron key he sought. “Miss Prieto, we have to go back up.”

CHAPTER 42

M
arina set aside the book. Alejandro had fallen asleep, his head slumped against the compartment wall. The marquesa slept as well, snoring slightly. That was the first thing Marina had found endearing about the hard old woman.

The train rattled past more countryside, the view growing more barren as they moved west. It wasn’t like the drier areas she’d seen around Madrid, but they were clearly growing closer to that part of the country. She peered at the luggage rack overhead. She would like to use the time to work on deciphering the remaining bits of the code in her mother’s journal. She’d figured out about half of the letters, and the remaining ones should fall into place when she studied it further, but Father Escarrá was reading a newspaper and she didn’t want to disturb him to get into her bag.

So she glanced down ruefully at Alejandro’s book. Perhaps she could start reading this book again from the beginning. She opened the book and thumbed through the first few pages, and then sighed. What she actually wanted was to be done with the thing. She flipped the book to the back instead to see how many pages were left, and paused.

There was writing on those pages.

Neatly inscribed on the blank pages at the back of the book were all the letters with which she’d grown so familiar. Leandra had done the same thing Marina had, only she’d had the journal for
several days. She’d had time to decipher the writing while in hiding and aboard ship. And, possibly because she didn’t want to misplace it, she’d written it in the other book she’d had with her, the one that Alejandro called his own.

That must be why this book was hidden in the bookstore along with the journal. Even if the Canaries found the
journal
, they wouldn’t have known to take this book as well. It was quite clever of her.

Marina read through the deciphered notes Leandra had left.

Her mother hadn’t
only
been focused on the woman they knew as Iria Serpa. Instead she’d seen a larger pattern. While inspecting the background of a new applicant to the Ministry of Intelligence—Iria—she’d discovered that a handful of Canaries had slipped onto the islands via the Spanish embassy. Apparently all had found work in the various newspapers of Quitos. Because of the government’s tight controls over the press, especially on the main island, they had been easy for her to track once she grasped what she was hunting. She hadn’t been able to determine what the Canaries were trying to accomplish, but surmised the Spanish government wanted a foothold on the islands.

Then she’d found more—evidence that this plan had the backing of several prominent members of the ministry. They knew of the Canary spies and were providing them with identity papers and money to establish themselves as sereia citizens. There were even records of a few arrests of those spies, quickly squelched by the then minister of Internal Affairs—the branch responsible for routing out sedition.

Marina rubbed her hands together. They’d started hurting again. That was the branch that accused her father of sedition and had him exiled.

She read on. Her mother had compiled all her evidence and left those papers in a safe-deposit box in the bank at Porto Novo. That information still had to be there, even fourteen years later, because the only people her mother had listed as having permission to open the box were her mate and her daughters.

It was all there, waiting to be discovered.

The cipher recorded in the back of the book ended with her mother’s concerns that someone within the ministry itself was moving to block her. She’d made an appointment to see Minister Raposo, but was uncertain whether the minister was involved. So she’d written it all down in her journal, and planned to leave it where her mate would find it should anything happen to her.

She’d known she was at risk,
Marina thought.

Would Mother have approached her sisters Valeria and Vitoria about this? She was staying under their roof at the time, yet had chosen to hide the journal from them. Had she suspected them of complicity too? What about her aunt Jovita?

Marina clutched the book close against her chest as the train rattled on.
Thank God I didn’t turn this over to that woman in Barcelona.
She’d thought she might find evidence of a single conspirator in their midst. This was far worse.

*   *   *

L
LEIDA

J
oaquim made his way up the stairs, Miss Prieto close behind him. He came up into the closet within the chapel’s office, and stopped to listen at the closet door before he opened it. The office stood empty. He let out a pent breath.

While Miss Prieto closed the closet door behind them, he stood in the office and concentrated. His perception of the key’s location held steady. It was
inside
the chapel.

Miss Prieto opened the office door only a crack and peered into the chapel. “We’re alone.”

He followed her out and pushed the office door closed. “Over by the altar.”

They approached the altar, the familiar scent of incense growing stronger and his heart sinking deeper with every step. He could feel it. The key was
inside
the altar.

He peered down at the altar’s coverings. One section hung down over the front of the altar, a gold cloth embroidered to depict a young woman with an ax in her right hand—a martyr. “Who is this?” Joaquim asked.

Miss Prieto stood behind the altar where she could watch the door. “Saint Grace of Lleida.”

“The town’s patron?”

“No, a patron of Spain. She was martyred trying to convert her brother to Christianity.”

Joaquim stared at the cloth for a moment, trying to decide what to do. No, he knew what needed to be done. Saying a quick prayer for forgiveness, he carefully lifted the edge of the cloth to reveal a niche in the wood of the altar. Inside that niche was a small casket made of gilded wood.

“What are you doing?” Miss Prieto asked, her voice anxious. “Is it there?”

“There’s a reliquary,” he said. “I . . .”

How could he explain to her that this went against all his training? Joaquim crossed himself. “It would be desecrating the altar to remove it.”

Her eyes met his across the altar. “Let me do it, then.”

“Letting you do it is little different from doing it myself.” Joaquim licked his lips, wishing that his head didn’t hurt. It made him want to ignore his qualms and get this over with.
I’m going to do it,
he thought.
I’m going to desecrate an altar and hope that God will forgive. These people aren’t criminals, and I have the ability to help right the wrongs perpetrated against them.

There
wasn’t
another way, not when their entire plan hinged on his doing this. He reached into the niche and removed the gilded box. When he shook it, he heard something inside rattle, too heavy to be a piece of bone. “What is this relic supposed to be?”

“A shard of the ax that killed Saint Grace,” Miss Prieto said.

That would sound a great deal like a key. He looked at the box,
trying to find hinges or a latch, but there was no way to open it.
I’ve gone this far.
He set the box on the floor in front of the altar and stomped on it. It broke apart with a dry crunch, the wood under the gilding fragile and powdery. Joaquim knelt down and dug through the ruins of the casket. He pulled away a sheet of gold and splintered wood to reveal the relic hidden inside. No saint’s finger bone or splinter of a cross. Joaquim lifted it and showed it to Miss Prieto.

She let out a quiet laugh. “Thank God.”

It was a slender key, old and made of iron just like the locks that bound the Vilaró.

“I’ll go back to Marcos,” she said. “I need to help him with the children. Give us a few minutes to get ready before you release the Vilaró.”

“How will you know when I’ve set him free?”

“
Everyone
will know,” she said, laying one hand on his uninjured arm. “Be cautious. If all goes as planned, we should meet again outside.”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked swiftly out of the chapel. Joaquim stared down at the key, amazed that so much seemed to hinge on such a small thing. He stuck it in his pocket and headed toward the door of the office.

Joaquim had almost reached it when the chapel door opened again.

Piedad stood at the threshold of the chapel, one hand still on the door. “What are you doing here?”

Joaquim’s heart beat hard against the walls of his chest. He could surely incapacitate Piedad if he had to, but he would prefer it not come to that.

But it will come to that, won’t it?
Piedad could
call
every guard in the prison to this chapel. Every prisoner within these walls would throw themselves at the bars of their cells trying to reach her, to
protect
her. The moment she became suspicious, he was going to have to fight her.

And there was no good answer he could give her. “I came to see the chapel.”

Piedad came toward him, a sly smile on her pretty face. A smile that didn’t show her pointed teeth, Joaquim noted. “The queen says that I get to keep you for now,” she said. “But if you disobey, do you understand what will happen?”

“You’ll hurt that little girl again.”

She’d reached him by then, and laid one hand on his chest. He saw for the first time that her fingers were scarred from the surgery to remove the webbing, but so slightly that it was barely visible. It must have been done when she was young. “Yes, you understand very well.” Her head tilted. “How did you get out of your cell?”

“I made the healer let me out,” he said.

“And you came
here
? Why?”

He could feel it then, like a wisp of cigarette smoke drifting about his head. She was trying to use her
call
on him. Not like the sereia who’d
called
him from the naval boat, who’d tugged at him from a distance. This was more like Marina’s
call
—subtle and powerful up close. And yet like smoke, it drifted away, ineffectual. “I wanted to pray.”

Her eyes narrowed, as if she’d not expected that answer. No, she’d expected the full truth out of him.

He knew that women could be just as dangerous as any man, but he still didn’t like the idea of hitting a woman. Even one like Piedad, so clearly a woman of violence. Then he thought of Captain Vas Neves and her soldiers, and the sereia naval officer on the boat that had intercepted them.

His mother and Lady Ferreira had raised him to respect women. Not to treat them like inferiors. And here he was, holding off on hitting an enemy merely because she was a woman.

Joaquim moved half a step back and punched her, his fist connecting with her jaw.

Piedad didn’t collapse. She swayed with the punch, pointed teeth bared.

Joaquim didn’t wait for her to get in a swing. With one foot, he swiped her legs out from under her—a trick learned from Alessio. She hit the wall next to the office door floor face-first. Joaquim grabbed the back of her neck and slammed her forehead onto the wall again. She dropped like a rag doll then, still hissing in fury. For a second she huddled on the floor, clutching her forehead.

Damn. I didn’t hit her hard enough
.

Joaquim took a step toward her. Now he was going to have to hit an opponent who was already on the floor.

That was when she lunged toward his leg. Her fine, pointed teeth caught the back of his ankle and she bit down. That
hurt
.

Joaquim planted his weight on that foot and kicked her head with his other heel. It loosened her hold, but he felt something tear in his ankle. That made him kick her again, harder. If that didn’t break her nose, he didn’t know what would.

Her teeth loosened enough that he managed to yank his ankle free. Still lying on the floor, she clutched at her face.

I know exactly how that feels.
Joaquim didn’t wait to find out whether she could
call
in this state. He stumbled back into the office and slammed the door. He dragged the chair against the handle to block the door, opened the closet, and began hurrying down the stairwell. His ankle burned and about halfway down the blood in his shoe made him slip. He slid down the last steps and landed on his rump on the tunnel floor, hitting hard enough that he could feel it in his nose.

For a second he sat there, waiting for the wave of pain to subside. Then he felt that
call
again, the tendrils of Piedad’s influence trying to pull him back, slipping away because his heart already had Marina’s seal on it. He laughed dryly and pushed himself off the floor.

His ankle was
bad
. He could tell that now, but he would deal with it later.

He made his way down the tunnel to where the Vilaró waited. The man’s pale eyes fixed on him as he approached. Joaquim gazed at him in return. “If I let you go, are you going to help these people escape?”

“Yes,” the Vilaró answered in his deep voice.

Joaquim drew the key from his pocket and tried the key in the lock that held the man’s right hand. The tumblers grated as he turned it. “How?”