The Shores of Spain (5 page)

The embassy on Quitos was a solid building behind a wrought-iron fence, tidy and defensible, but this house was on an open beach. Surely they could spot anyone approaching either by land or water from the rooftop. The lieutenant’s idea was a good one, Duilio decided, provided the rooftops were accessible.

“I’ll inquire into that in the morning,” he promised. He could ask Grandmother Monteiro directly, but he would go through Oriana first.

Captain Vas Neves, the officer in charge of the embassy’s guards, entered their office then, nodding to him before striding past and setting her Kropatschek rifle among the others neatly lined up against one wall. Vas Neves was a hard-faced older woman, tall and lean, with gray hair scraped back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Duilio knew little of her background save that she’d grown up in the former colony of Portuguese East Africa, the daughter of a big-game hunter there. She rarely spoke of her past, but, given what he’d observed of the guards at their target practice, she’d inherited her father’s deadly aim with firearms.

It hadn’t been a popular decision to place a woman in charge, not within the upper ranks of the army, but grudging consent had finally been won. Women were far less vulnerable to the
call
of a sereia than men. That had prompted Prince Raimundo to argue for the creation of a contingent of female guards, a shocking suggestion back home. He’d further shocked his constituents by arguing that the women should wear uniforms identical to the men’s—with trousers, not skirts—granting them greater freedom of movement. The prince had finally won out over the army’s objections, but the obstacle of finding
and training the women in the short months before they set sail remained. Thus the ambassadorial staff had arrived on Quitos with a guard contingent that still had a dozen male members. Those remaining male soldiers spent their time guarding Duilio rather than Oriana, but he would be relieved when they packed them back to Portugal.
They
were too much at risk here, and Duilio was perfectly willing to trust the female members of the guard with his safety.

He turned to the captain. “So, Captain, are your soldiers settled in?”

“We’ve had a couple of issues with the baggage and one dispute with a servant, but Lady Monteiro’s head of staff has sorted them out for us. Nothing serious,” Vas Neves said, one hand lying comfortably on her pistol. The guard’s main challenge had been to distinguish between what was an actual threat and what was normal behavior for a very different culture. They’d avoided triggering any incidents so far, but the past three months in Quitos
had
been nerve-racking. “Quarters are assigned,” the captain went on, “and Benites has the duty rosters well in hand. We’ve also sent word of the ambassador’s presence here to the Portuguese ships in harbor, and will let you know if the captains wish to arrange a visit.”

Obviously they had everything under control, so he wasn’t needed here. “Thank you, Captain. Let me know if there’s anything we can do to make this easier for your personnel. This is supposed to be a retreat for us all.”

The captain nodded and Duilio left the officers plotting their next few days. Duilio walked along the white hallways, nodding to sloe-eyed Corporal Almeida as he passed her duty station in the hall outside his and Oriana’s bedroom. Once inside, he crossed the room to unlatch the inner shutters, allowing the cool evening breeze in through the screens.

For a moment, he stood inhaling the sea air.

Oriana might joke about his frustration over not being allowed to speak, but in truth
this
was far more difficult. He was accustomed
to
doing
, not to standing by while Oriana did all the work. The last three months had been an eye-opening experience. Oriana had done this often enough while she was in the Golden City, forced to wait while he’d gone off to investigate. He could do it too.

He sighed and turned his eyes to the bedding hanging from hooks on the wall.
I have chores to do.

CHAPTER 4

T
he library of the Monteiro beach house was on the second floor. The décor was simple; centuries of living with the sea had taught the sereia to choose furniture and bedding that was easy to move to higher ground or abandon. A much larger collection of books waited at her grandmother’s mountain house, a location safer from the whims of the sea gods.

Gold draperies hung on those walls not covered by book-laden shelves. The fabric shimmered in the lamplight, making the room look rich and reminding Oriana of the opulent libraries she’d seen back in Portugal. A braided rug in mixed blues warmed her bare feet. There was a large rosewood table for opening out the folio-sized texts and a high-backed bench under a pendant lamp meant for more casual reading.

Her grandmother gestured toward the leather-bound books on one of the shelves at eye level. “If you’ll pull out those, please, child.”

Oriana pulled down the volumes on that shelf and stacked them neatly on the table. When the shelf was empty, she could see a small hole cut in the paneling behind it. Her grandmother handed her a dowel and, following her instructions, Oriana inserted the dowel in the hole and used it to push the paneling aside. It slid back to reveal a shelf in the stone wall behind the paneling. On that shelf was a strongbox made of cast iron with heavy rivets along the seams.

Oriana shot a glance at her grandmother. “When did you put that in here?”

“The shelf was here long before you were born, child,” Grandmother said, laughter in her tone. “The strongbox came from America about ten years ago. There’s a good trade in them here. Many fear that the bank in Porto Novo would have no choice but to hand over our belongings should the government on Quitos demand it. I trust them with my money, but not this.”

Oriana peered at the strongbox. “Is it waterproof?”

“No, although it is supposed to be fireproof, should they ever try to burn this house down.”

What a horrible thought
.

Her grandmother selected a key from her ring and used it to unlock the box. The door swung open to reveal a pile of papers and, atop that, a single book bound in leather, the spine sewn with red thread. Her grandmother plucked out the book and handed it over. Gooseflesh prickled along Oriana’s arms when it touched her hands.

“I haven’t read the thing,” her grandmother said. “Your father advised me not to. That way I can deny any knowledge of its contents.”

That was probably wise
. As her grandmother locked the safe again, Oriana ran her fingers over the journal’s aged cover gingerly, not wanting to snag the delicate leather with her pointed nails. It smelled musty, like any other book one might find in a library. Given all the trouble this thing had caused, it should smell of blood and pain.

Her grandmother began replacing the books Oriana had removed. “I have the original letter that your father sent with it in there also. When I go back up to the mountains, I take the contents of that box with me, so the journal’s never been out of my possession all this time.”

Oriana swallowed, her throat tight. “I see.”

Her grandmother turned back to her, one book in her hand. “In case there’s a need to testify about whether it’s your mother’s or a fake,” she clarified. “Now it’s in your hands, child. I’ll leave you to decide what’s best to do with it.”

Her father had read part of this journal and reached the conclusion
that his mate hadn’t died of food poisoning as he’d been told, but had been murdered. Lygia Paredes had worked for the Ministry of Intelligence, vetting new applicants, yet when Oriana’s father went to that body to beg them to investigate her death, he’d been arrested, falsely charged with sedition, and exiled from the islands—ample reason for her to believe the book held a secret worth killing for. “Has the Ministry of Intelligence searched your house for this?”

“No,” her grandmother said. “The ministry may suspect I have it, but if they
had
found it, it would be gone.”

A good point.
Oriana stepped closer to the lamp on the wall and opened the journal, picking a spot randomly. She peered at the handwriting and smiled fondly; her mother’s hand had never been particularly neat. But what she read there seemed odd. She cast a quick glance back at her grandmother, who was setting the last volumes back onto their shelf, completely masking the sliding panel. “Father noticed there was something wrong with this?”

“Yes,” her grandmother said. “He never told me what, though.”

Her father hadn’t found this journal until four years after her mother’s unexpected death. All that time it had lain under the floorboards in the Paredes house on Quitos, waiting for him. Clearly, Lygia Paredes hadn’t trusted any of her sisters with the journal. She’d hidden it well, in a place where only her mate knew to look. Even so, Oriana doubted that her mother had foreseen the consequences of his discovery—his exile and her daughters being left without a parent.

Two of their Paredes aunts, Valeria and Vitoria, had taken Oriana and Marina in, saving them a state upbringing, at least. But they’d never been happy there. Their aunts were unfriendly, their two cousins spoiled, and Oriana had been pushed relentlessly to join the Ministry of Intelligence. Her aunts told her that it was her destiny to serve, not to take a mate and bear children. When Marina ran away years later, their aunts spun out a tale that convinced Oriana her younger sister was dead, murdered by sailors on a human ship. They’d even produced a body, although it had been in the sea long enough
that it was unidentifiable. The dead girl, however, had been of the same petite build as Marina, so Oriana believed their fabrication. Heartbroken and craving revenge, she’d relented and joined the ministry, only to be given one insignificant assignment after another. None of her three aunts—neither Valerian or Vitoria, nor the eldest Paredes sister, Jovita—had done anything to advance Oriana’s career, despite holding high positions in the ministry themselves.

Oriana peered down at her mother’s scrawl and blinked back tears. The pages of this book
must
contain a terrible secret for it to be worth all that pain. She closed the journal, not sure she was ready to address that pain tonight.

“I loved your mother too,” her grandmother said softly. “She was very good to my son, and I would have been happy for them to live here forever.”

Oriana smiled, recalling better days in this house.

“Now, there’s another thing I need to discuss with you, child,” her grandmother added, settling on the high-backed bench. “And I’d prefer not to put it off.”

“Of course, Grandmother.” Oriana dutifully tucked the journal under one arm and went to join her.

*   *   *

D
uilio had everything unpacked by the time Oriana returned with a slender book clutched in her hand. The bedding was laid out as Oriana liked, their clothing neatly organized on shelves in the dressing area, and the shutters closed to keep the chilly night air outside where it belonged. For the month that they planned to stay, it would be comfortable enough.

“Oh, thank you,” Oriana said absently as she took in the fruit of his labors.

He gestured toward the book, suspecting it had caused her melancholy tone. “Is that it?”

She licked her upper lip. “Yes.”

“Have you started reading it?”

She sank down on the carved bench near the door. “I read just a bit and . . . there’s something wrong.”

What does that mean?
Duilio sat next to her. “Your father said there’s no name in that journal to reveal who killed your mother. Nothing specific.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She opened the journal to a page near the center and pointed to the words. Untidy printing in black ink filled the page, some letters capitalized, others not. “Look at this sentence,” she said. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd?”

Duilio stared down at words telling of Lygia Paredes’ fondness for food with mushrooms, fish and prawns, and cheese. Had Oriana’s mother pursued a secondary career as a food critic? “I thought this was about her suspicions regarding the spy within the ministry.”

Back in the Golden City, Oriana had been hounded by a woman from the Ministry of Intelligence who used the name Iria Serpa. The woman had ordered Oriana to leave the city, but the ship that should have taken her back to the islands instead left her chained out on a rocky island to die. Only later had they learned that Iria Serpa was not who she claimed. She was a Canary, from that branch of distant cousins of the sereia who served the Spanish crown—a foreign spy hidden within the ministry itself. They’d assumed the journal would show that Oriana’s mother had discovered that fact . . . not an interest in fine cuisine.

“That’s what I meant.” Oriana shook her head. “She rambles in places, talking about the most inane things. She didn’t even care for mushrooms. Too bland.”

He’d been known to ramble about inane things himself, but when he did, it was usually as a diversion. Duilio stared down at the words on the page, waiting for his brain to sort out what was out of place.

“I’m sure that’s what convinced my father something was wrong,” Oriana said, “but I can’t figure out why she did it.”

It was a good sign, to his mind. Oriana’s mother
had
been hiding information.

Duilio went to his traveling desk near the windows and sat down, the journal in his hand. Oriana came to gaze over his shoulder while he pulled a fountain pen out of one of the drawers. “Do you mind if I make some small marks in this?”

She shook her head, even though it bothered her to write in books. She set one curved nail against her lip, a gesture of anxiety.

Duilio placed a small dot underneath each capitalized letter in the awkward sentence about food. Most were the initial letters in the words, but in the middle of the word
peixe
, the letter I was capitalized. He took a blank sheet of stationery paper and transcribed the capitalized letters onto it. “Did your mother ever work with codes?”

Oriana leaned over him, setting her chin atop his head. The lily-of-the-valley scent of her perfume surrounded him. “I don’t know,” she said. “I was only twelve when she died.”