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Authors: J. Kathleen Cheney
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the second column.
He st opped in the mid st of the foot traffic, causing a portly gentleman in a brown tweed suit to bump into him. Duilio apologized to the equally apologetic gentleman and st epped back again st the wall of the building to his right to get out of others’ way. Then he read the notice in que st ion again.
Lady Isabel Amaral and her companion left the Golden City for Paris Thursday night via train, following the evening departure of Mr. Marianus Guimarães Efisio. Friends of Mr. Efisio expe
ct
they will be married in Paris within the week.
Duilio frowned down at the page. He should be shocked that Efisio had eloped with a woman other than his meek betrothed, Pia Sequeira. But that wasn’t what troubled him.
Miss Paredes had been in the river at midnight la st night, but if he recalled corre ct ly, that train left for Paris via Lisbon at ten in the evening. She couldn’t have been on that train.
He felt a chill, not simply because of the cold st one wall behind his back. Had his gift been wrong? For a moment Duilio st ared up at the tower, realizing only then that he was in the square before the church itself, the baroque facade of the building looming almo st as if in accusation.
Fortunately, the Church in Northern Portugal didn’t hold his natural talent again st him. Here the prince himself employed seers, and it was common knowledge that the Jesuits had many witches within their ranks. Not so in Spain, where seers and healers and any other st ripe of witch were made to disown their gifts or be imprisoned.
Duilio had more than once considered trying to disavow his gift, trying to ignore it, not using it at all. But his gift was a part of him, ju st as his mother’s pelt was a part of her. Now was not the time to st art doubting it. He closed his eyes for a moment, arguing with that inner voice. It insi st ed again that Aga’s my st erious web-fingered woman
was
his Miss Paredes.
Opening his eyes, he glanced down at the paper clutched in one gloved hand. He read the entry again as a group of young girls walked pa st him, whispering among themselves. He pondered the disparity for a moment and a horrible possibility occurred to him. What if Isabel hadn’t been on that train either? He closed his eyes again and asked himself a different que st ion:
Will Isabel Amaral marry her Mr. Efisio?
His gift told him that Lady Isabel Amaral was not to marry Mr. Efisio. That she was never to marry Mr. Efisio. That she was never to marry at all.
She was already dead.
Duilio opened his eyes, the sense of urgency in him rising. From the beginning there had been something wrong with those damned houses in the river—they st ayed afloat long after they filled with water. There were buoyancy charms carved on each house, but after Duilio and Joaquim had begun inve st igating the houses, Cri st iano had told them that such charms were next to useless. That revelation had led them to the di st urbing conclusion that the missing servants were being
sacrificed
to keep the houses floating, that the ta st e of rot the selkies found so obje ct ionable came from slowly decaying bodies hidden inside those houses. What if they’d been wrong?
What if a new house had been added to the artwork while he’d slept fitfully? That house might have held Lady Isabel and her companion. What if one of the two had been
alive
at the time? Or both had?
He had wondered why Miss Paredes was seen out by the houses at midnight. His mind had spun out several different scenarios, mo st involving her people’s government inve st igating the artwork. Now he felt certain that wasn’t the case at all. He quickly searched the newspaper’s front page, hunting for any mention of a new house being added to
The City Under the Sea,
but didn’t find any. It usually took a couple of days for the news to trickle out. And if Aga had witnessed that happening la st night, she hadn’t mentioned it. Perhaps she’d simply arrived too late.
Will I
He st opped in the mid st of the foot traffic, causing a portly gentleman in a brown tweed suit to bump into him. Duilio apologized to the equally apologetic gentleman and st epped back again st the wall of the building to his right to get out of others’ way. Then he read the notice in que st ion again.
Lady Isabel Amaral and her companion left the Golden City for Paris Thursday night via train, following the evening departure of Mr. Marianus Guimarães Efisio. Friends of Mr. Efisio expe
ct
they will be married in Paris within the week.
Duilio frowned down at the page. He should be shocked that Efisio had eloped with a woman other than his meek betrothed, Pia Sequeira. But that wasn’t what troubled him.
Miss Paredes had been in the river at midnight la st night, but if he recalled corre ct ly, that train left for Paris via Lisbon at ten in the evening. She couldn’t have been on that train.
He felt a chill, not simply because of the cold st one wall behind his back. Had his gift been wrong? For a moment Duilio st ared up at the tower, realizing only then that he was in the square before the church itself, the baroque facade of the building looming almo st as if in accusation.
Fortunately, the Church in Northern Portugal didn’t hold his natural talent again st him. Here the prince himself employed seers, and it was common knowledge that the Jesuits had many witches within their ranks. Not so in Spain, where seers and healers and any other st ripe of witch were made to disown their gifts or be imprisoned.
Duilio had more than once considered trying to disavow his gift, trying to ignore it, not using it at all. But his gift was a part of him, ju st as his mother’s pelt was a part of her. Now was not the time to st art doubting it. He closed his eyes for a moment, arguing with that inner voice. It insi st ed again that Aga’s my st erious web-fingered woman
was
his Miss Paredes.
Opening his eyes, he glanced down at the paper clutched in one gloved hand. He read the entry again as a group of young girls walked pa st him, whispering among themselves. He pondered the disparity for a moment and a horrible possibility occurred to him. What if Isabel hadn’t been on that train either? He closed his eyes again and asked himself a different que st ion:
Will Isabel Amaral marry her Mr. Efisio?
His gift told him that Lady Isabel Amaral was not to marry Mr. Efisio. That she was never to marry Mr. Efisio. That she was never to marry at all.
She was already dead.
Duilio opened his eyes, the sense of urgency in him rising. From the beginning there had been something wrong with those damned houses in the river—they st ayed afloat long after they filled with water. There were buoyancy charms carved on each house, but after Duilio and Joaquim had begun inve st igating the houses, Cri st iano had told them that such charms were next to useless. That revelation had led them to the di st urbing conclusion that the missing servants were being
sacrificed
to keep the houses floating, that the ta st e of rot the selkies found so obje ct ionable came from slowly decaying bodies hidden inside those houses. What if they’d been wrong?
What if a new house had been added to the artwork while he’d slept fitfully? That house might have held Lady Isabel and her companion. What if one of the two had been
alive
at the time? Or both had?
He had wondered why Miss Paredes was seen out by the houses at midnight. His mind had spun out several different scenarios, mo st involving her people’s government inve st igating the artwork. Now he felt certain that wasn’t the case at all. He quickly searched the newspaper’s front page, hunting for any mention of a new house being added to
The City Under the Sea,
but didn’t find any. It usually took a couple of days for the news to trickle out. And if Aga had witnessed that happening la st night, she hadn’t mentioned it. Perhaps she’d simply arrived too late.
Will I
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