Most sereia had skin too thick to blush. Oriana was grateful for that at the moment. The warmth flooding her face wouldn’t show. People were passing them on the street, none looking very interested in a petty squabble. Fortunately, the reference to the color of her dorsal stripe—a euphemism for promiscuity back on the islands—wouldn’t mean anything to the passersby who overheard it.

Oriana had no doubt Carlos had claimed she’d agreed to become his lover, but Carlos had never had a chance of seeing her dorsal stripe. “Don’t believe everything you hear,” she told Heriberto.

“Oh, I never do.” He stepped closer, grasping her sleeve to keep her from escaping. He kept his voice low. “No one’s ever seen your stripe, from what I hear. You know, I could make your life here a great deal more comfortable, girl, if you’re interested. And I’m well liked back home. I could get you a better position in the ministry.”

She’d heard that other girls who’d come to the city had done just that, taking Heriberto as a lover in exchange for easier assignments and faster advancement. It bothered her that he had that much influence. Not because he was male. She had no problem with males in positions of authority. But no one should have that much influence over his workers, especially when he was inclined to abuse it. He made a mockery of his posting. She would take Carlos as a lover before Heriberto. No, she would rather turn herself in to the Special Police first.

He laughed shortly, as if he’d read her mind. “I’ll give you two weeks. If you don’t have a sound position by then, I’m sending you home. I’ll even make another appointment with the doctor for you, next Friday. I expect you to show up this time. My superiors aren’t as tolerant as I am, and I’m tired of making excuses for you.”

“I understand.” Oriana jerked her arm free and turned away before Heriberto could say more, almost colliding with a burly carter carrying a cask on his shoulder. She managed to sidestep out of the man’s path, an awkward dance set to the sound of Heriberto’s laughter. Clasping her notebook closer to her chest, she strode away.

“Be there Friday at three,” he called after her.

She glanced back and nodded sharply in acknowledgment. She’d won one concession.

“And someone is hunting for you on the streets,” he yelled. “Asking for you by name. Don’t bring trouble back to my door.”

There was little chance of that. His “door” was a little fishing boat moored on a quay farther from the old town center. She had no intention of going there. Oriana strode out of the narrow, confined street onto wider São Sebastião. When she glanced back over her shoulder, Heriberto was nowhere in sight.

Her ire faded. Heriberto set her teeth on their sharp edge—he always had. But now that she was out of his sight, the sick and hollow sensation in her stomach returned with a vengeance. Now she had more to worry about. She stopped on the corner and pressed one mitt-covered hand to her belly. Who’s looking for me?

Surely it was too early for Nela’s mysterious Lady to be doing so, and Carlos already knew where to find her. Could it be Silva, the prince’s seer who had pulled her out of the river three nights before? Or could Lady Amaral have gone to the police after all and blamed her in some way for Isabel’s absence? The last thing she needed was the police hunting her.

A gentleman in a dark suit brushed against her as he passed, startling her. He tipped his hat apologetically before he went on his way. Oriana shook herself. She couldn’t afford to be standing here on the street corner like a lamppost. She walked on, feeling shaken.

She waited for an opening between the carriages traveling São Sebastião, and headed toward the quay. Once there, she stood on the quay in the noontime sun, gazing up toward the old tile roofs of the houses that lined the river. The smell of the water was comforting

It had seemed clear at first. The police had no inkling of Isabel’s fate, so it was up to her to seek retribution, wasn’t it? She’d been angry. She hadn’t questioned what it would cost her to find the artist and expose him. She hadn’t allowed herself to doubt. But now she knew she was hunting a necromancer. Not only was she hiding from the police, as always, but now she had to duck Heriberto and Carlos as well. She had little money and few friends and no idea where to look next. But none of that would stop her.

She’d never been able to avenge Marina. She wasn’t going to fail Isabel in the same way.

The library of the Ferreira home was Duilio’s favorite room. It housed a collection of items his father had brought back from his travels. An array of giant clam shells, bleached almost white, sat atop the middle of a large circular table covered with marquetry, supposedly liberated from a pirate’s lair in the South Seas. A chandelier hung above that display, delicate branches of white coral holding two dozen candles—a fixture too fragile to refit for gas lighting. That came from the street bazaars of the desert city of Marrakech. Many of the books that lined the room claimed equally unlikely origin. His father’s desk in the corner—his desk now—supposedly came from Brazil, but Duilio had no idea if that was true either.

Cardenas had left a telegram atop that desk, and Duilio picked it up. Sent from Paris, it told him exactly what he’d expected. Marianus Efisio was there, but neither Lady Isabel nor her companion had ever arrived. Efisio intended to remain there until he received word from Isabel. Duilio tucked the telegram into a pocket, uncertain whether he felt sorry for Efisio or not.

Felis, his mother’s maid, appeared on the threshold of the library and fixed him with her hawklike eyes. “What is this about you wanting to see me, Duilinho?”

Her voice had an angry edge to it, as always. But the woman’s bark was, as it was said, far worse than her bite—most of the time. Duilio smiled at her and withdrew a small bundle from his other coat pocket. The bribe should definitely come first. He’d seen a woman selling barnacles on the quay—Felis’ favorite treat. “Please, Miss Felis. I’ve been looking for a few days now, and I can’t find someone. I thought perhaps you could help.”

She exhaled loudly but walked over to the chair he held out for her, her eyes on the bounty of barnacles. He closed the door, and when he returned she was happily chewing away on one of the briny treats. She drew a tattered box of cards from her apron pocket, removed the deck, and slid them toward him. “What do you need to know, Duilinho?”

Felis wasn’t a witch, he felt sure. Her talent lay in getting someone to organize their thoughts around the cards she presented, making it seem as if the cards knew what was in their subconscious. At least, that was what Duilio suspected she did. While his gift usually only told him yes or no, her card work seemed to bring out more complete answers for him. He didn’t often ask this of her, though, as he didn’t want her to think he took her for granted.

He picked up the deck, shuffled it, and put it back in her wrinkled hands. “There’s a woman. I need to find her.”

Felis withdrew one card and lay it facedown on the polished surface of the table. “This is your card, Duilinho.” She started to deal the cards out into three piles. “Is she a criminal?”

“No,” he said quickly. Many would argue that point since she was in the city illegally, but he didn’t see Miss Paredes that way. “A witness. A victim.”

Felis picked up one of the stacks and turned over the first card, the two of spades. “Yes, she’s under a cloud. Is she in hiding?”

He wasn’t familiar enough with Miss Paredes to predict her actions, but hiding was a good guess. “I suppose.”

Felis discarded one card and laid out another. “In her place, what would you do?”