Oriana shuddered, thinking of that dark room where Isabel waited still. And then she couldn’t bear to look any longer.

She drew back from the window and, without answering him, returned to the gilt chairs bolted to the submersible’s observation deck. She shouldn’t have wasted her dwindling funds on this. She hadn’t taken a single note. She hadn’t learned anything new and, now that she’d seen it, she only wanted to escape this place. She wanted to cover her eyes to hide away from the memory of that night. Instead, she forced her hands to settle neatly on her lap, kept her back straight and her chin up.

They were coming about to return to the quay, the captain announced through his speaker. When he requested that all his guests return to their seats, the other viewers left their windows with obvious reluctance. Oriana drew up the hem of her skirts enough to keep them from the water that flowed across the observation deck as the submersible canted at an angle, glad she’d already taken a seat.

She felt the sting of tears at the back of her throat. She didn’t want to embarrass herself, not here, not among these people who had no understanding of what they’d seen.

The ambergris-scented gentleman settled next to her. He hadn’t sat next to her on the ride out to this spot, so it was a matter of choice. Oriana clutched her handbag and favored him with a weak smile.

“They say the artist will do the entire city eventually.” His deep voice was low enough that others wouldn’t overhear the discussion—surely intentional—but his tone carried admiration, hinting that Oriana shouldn’t say anything to disparage the artist in question.

She didn’t want to talk to him. He was a gentleman, surely one of the decorative types who did nothing all day long. He would discover quickly that she was merely a glorified servant and be embarrassed to have spoken to her at all. “There would be no room for the fish,” she returned without much enthusiasm.

He smiled slightly, his lips pressed together, as if he found that amusing but was too well-bred to laugh. “Ah yes, the fish. I suppose we must consider the sereia as well, and not encroach too much upon their waters.”

Oriana resisted the urge to look at him, a flutter of panic swelling in her belly. Had he guessed her secret? Or was his mention of the sereia a coincidence? At least his comment didn’t seem to require an answer. She lifted one hand and tugged at the high neck of her cambric shirtwaist, making sure her gill slits were covered. She wished she’d brought a shawl.

The gentleman was named Duilio, she recalled, a nephew or son of one of the merchant-adventurers who’d served the prince’s father in days past. She couldn’t recall where she’d met him, though. He inhabited the edges of society, if she remembered correctly, a lower sphere than the Amaral family. Isabel wouldn’t have favored him with her conversation. Sitting next to him in the confines of the metal ship, Oriana didn’t have any choice. The other viewers had all taken seats again, so trying to escape him would only make him curious.

He was an attractive man although not particularly striking. Nothing marked him as out of the ordinary. Taller than average, but only an inch or two taller than she was. His dark hair was short cropped, and he wore a frock coat and trousers in somber hues. He had limpid brown eyes, though, and an amiable manner that made Oriana hope he might be harmless. Where had they met before?

“Don’t you agree?” he asked then.

Evidently he did expect an answer. She kept her breathing calm and, hoping to evade further conversation, repeated a claim she’d read in the newspapers. “An entire city suspended from the bottom of the river would pose a navigation hazard.”

Duilio laughed, his head thrown back, displaying even teeth. “I had no idea you were a wit.”

A wit? Oriana shifted uncomfortably on the delicate chair. She couldn’t quite tell whether he meant that as a compliment or sarcasm. “I am generally considered quite dull, sir.”

He glanced down, fingering the fine scarf that hung about his neck, old gold against the dark gray of his frock coat. “I do wonder if people are mistaken about you.”

No, it didn’t sound like sarcasm. She appraised him while his hands were occupied. His coat looked custom made—nothing bought ready-made, like hers. His wool trousers appeared freshly pressed and his patent shoes shone, a sure sign that his valet earned his keep. Oriana felt more aware then of her worn black skirt and pinching shoes.

He glanced at her. “May I ask, are you not Miss Paredes, companion to Lady Isabel Amaral?”

She suppressed a groan. She would have preferred that Duilio Who Smelled of Ambergris didn’t remember her. She peered at him cautiously. “I was.”

He nodded, his eyes going serious. “I hear she’s gone abroad. Do you know when she’ll return?”

She fixed her eyes on the metal wall straight ahead of her. If she looked at him when she answered, she might give herself away. “I’m no longer employed in the Amaral household,” she said. It was an honest answer, one no one would refute. “I’m afraid I’m not privy to their plans.”

Despite her determination to appear composed, Oriana’s mind brought forth an image of Isabel’s face, hair streaming about her in the water, her expression frozen between terror and resignation . . . and the pain of that night swept over her again.

Miss Paredes had been behaving with such calm that Duilio had wondered if he was wrong about her. She had gazed up through the water at the replica of the Amaral house without a flicker of recognition reaching her features. She had fended off his intentionally insensitive comments with drivel that had been printed in the newspapers. She had made him doubt.

Until that moment, when he had asked her when Lady Isabel would return.

Something in her eyes gave away her pain. She had been in that house after all. He considered it impressive that she’d chosen to face the scene of what might have been her death. Some victims of crimes never could go back. That argued strength on her part, or stubbornness, or both. And if her grief was a pretense, she should be on the stage at the São João Theater.

He’d been trying to come up with a way to earn her trust, if that was possible. Now he was tempted to console her—perhaps lay one of his hands over hers—which would have been presumptuous of him. He glanced about to see if anyone had noticed her distress and intended to intervene, but the other patrons of the vehicle were happily chattering away.

“My mother is in half mourning,” he said. She didn’t respond, but he continued anyway. “Eventually she’ll go back into society and it would benefit her to have a companion. I wonder, as you’re no longer employed by the Amaral family, if you’re between positions?”

Her large eyes remained fixed on some terrible vision within.

He kept going. “If so, I think you should apply to my mother to be her companion.”

Miss Paredes shook her head briefly, as if rising from sleep.

“She has been searching for one for some time,” Duilio lied.

She blinked and glanced up, her eyes meeting his almost by accident.

No, surely not human. The wide dark eyes seemed too large for her fine-boned face, the irises almost black. Eyes made for seeing in the darkness of deep water. Duilio felt he could almost see into her soul. She’s afraid, he thought. Alone.

“I beg your pardon?” she said, sounding perplexed.

Duilio drew a calling card from the inside pocket of his frock coat. “Come by tomorrow afternoon for tea. My mother will be expecting you.”

“And what should I tell her?” Miss Paredes asked hesitantly, allowing him to lay the card on her palm. The black silk mitts she wore bared only the tips of her long fingers.