“She doesn’t know you’re a sereia?”

She shook her head. “I told Lady Amaral I’d been drugged and dumped off a bridge. I said I didn’t know what had become of Isabel.”

He could understand the lie. She’d had a lot to lose that night. “Did she believe you?”

“I don’t know. She said I was a lying . . .” Miss Paredes paused. “She fired me and ordered me out of the house.”

Without a care for her welfare, he surmised, even after more than a year of service. Lady Amaral couldn’t afford to act as if her daughter wasn’t safely married, so Miss Paredes had to be silenced. He suddenly liked Lady Amaral even less. “So, where did you go from there?”

“I’d hidden my bag next to the coal room steps.” Her hands began to shake. “I stayed there, hiding down by the steps until after dawn, trying to plan what to do. I had a bit of money in my bag and some extra clothes. The first footman has a relative with a boarding house, so I went there.”

Duilio couldn’t imagine what he’d do in the same circumstances, having watched a friend die, left on the quay after midnight with no family to turn to, unable to go to the police, and soaked to the skin. He hoped he would have acted with the same presence of mind.

He reached over and patted her folded hands, hoping to reassure her. “That’s all I need at the moment,” he said. “I suspect I’ll come up with a dozen more questions by this afternoon. I usually stop into the library in the evening before I go up to my room. If you think of something you want to discuss with me, you could leave a note on my desk.”

She nodded briskly, her posture still rigid. “Is that all?”

She seemed eager to escape him, so he moved to the end of the sofa. “Yes, I think so.”

“Should I go get that sketch for you?”

“I would appreciate that,” he said.

Miss Paredes rose, forcing him to rise also. She fell only an inch or two short of his height, tall for a woman but not shockingly so. He stepped to one side to allow her to pass. Her black skirt brushed his thigh as she did so. The contact, even unintentional, startled him.

He found himself looking into her eyes. They glistened. In general, he didn’t react to women’s tears—they were too often a sham. But everything within him believed Miss Paredes in that moment. He wanted to talk to her, to comfort her somehow. He felt the urge to draw her into his arms, no matter how inappropriate that might be between master and servant. He shook his head to dispel that idea.

“I’ll . . . I’ll be back directly,” Miss Paredes stammered.

Duilio watched her go, wondering if sereia had any powers of attraction other than their call, the song that drew men to them. That sudden urge to comfort her, so very out of place for him, surprised him.

Felis read on, her voice sibilant. The maid hadn’t looked in their direction, Duilio observed, and so probably hadn’t noticed anything amiss. His mother hadn’t either, no doubt.

He knew very little about Miss Paredes, but he could remedy that. He would love to spend a few hours talking with her—about something other than death. It was an enticing thought. But it would take longer than hours, he suspected, to learn all he wanted to know. It might take years.

And he didn’t think they had that much time. She was a spy. She had her own agenda and was here in his house only until they found Espinoza. Sooner or later, she would be gone. So by the time she returned from her bedroom at the top of the stairs, he’d managed to quell his curiosity. Her eyes were red, making him suspect she’d allowed herself to cry once out of his sight, but she seemed composed now.

He took the folded piece of paper she handed him with a grave nod. When he opened it, he saw the rings she’d described, with three words in Latin. “Me, however, and . . . house.”

Something teased at the corner of his mind. He should know those words. There was something familiar about them.

“Is that what they mean?” Miss Paredes asked. “Is it Latin?”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s how the words translate, although I have no idea what they mean. I have to wonder what the other half said.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I couldn’t see anything on that side.”

He was impressed she’d recalled all the small details she had. Not all witnesses were as useful. “We’ll figure it out, Miss Paredes. Now, I’ll be gone most of the day, but I’ll keep you apprised. I’m sure my mother will have preparations to make for the ball tomorrow night, so I’ll leave you ladies to your work.”

Miss Paredes, silk-covered hands neatly folded in front of her, didn’t look at him this time. “Yes, of course, sir,” she said without emotion. “We’ll take care of everything.”

A very professional answer, as if she, too, had reminded herself of proper demeanor while upstairs. The mask was necessary if she was to survive in the Golden City. How difficult it must be never to let anyone see who she truly was. She was a sereia first and a spy second, yet neither of those labels told him who she was.

After Mr. Ferreira left, Oriana sat down on the sofa, letting Felis continue to read. She should be doing that herself, but her nerves were rattled.

She hadn’t reckoned it would be so hard to discuss Isabel’s death again. It had been easier the first time. She’d been able to tell Mr. Ferreira the facts of what had happened then, without letting herself feel anything, perhaps because she’d been on the defensive after he’d uncovered her identity. This time, though, he had looked at her as if he felt compassion for her. That had almost been her undoing. She had managed to hold back the tears until she reached the safety of her bedroom, saving herself that embarrassment.

Oriana wiped at her eyes surreptitiously with the tip of one finger, took a deep breath, and went to take over the reading. Felis looked old enough to be Lady Ferreira’s mother, but clearly had all her wits about her. Her hawklike eyes raked over Oriana, her attire, her too-narrow shoes, and then turned solicitously back to her mistress. “Lady, are you truly planning on going out Thursday night? I am pleased. It’s about time.”

The lady nodded. “Yes. Will you pick something for me to wear? Something that would be appropriate. I’ll come see what you’ve picked out later.”

Oriana hid her surprise. Isabel would never have let her maid pick out her garb, which hinted that either Lady Ferreira trusted Felis implicitly or that she didn’t care what she wore. The maid left swiftly, and Oriana spent an hour reading about the business of building boats. It calmed her nerves and, if nothing else, she would learn about boats while she was here.

Despite the fact that she’d spent the past year dealing with Isabel’s fits and starts, entertaining Lady Ferreira did turn out to be more difficult than Oriana expected, just as Mr. Ferreira had promised. She spent the remainder of the morning trying to engage the lady in conversation. At first she read the newspaper aloud, but as soon as she’d completed a few sentences, the lady’s attention would wander back to the windows. Fortunately, Oriana was well schooled in patience. Isabel had been prone to dramatic fits of melancholy. Oriana had gotten plenty of practice cajoling her out of those. After a time, she hit on the idea of asking if Lady Ferreira wished to go out onto the second-floor balcony that looked out toward the river.

That suggestion roused the lady from her daydreams. She settled an old-fashioned lace mantilla over her neatly twisted brown hair and accompanied Oriana up to the gallery that led out onto the balcony. She pushed open the door and stepped out into the light. She laid elegant hands on the wrought-iron railing, her eyes seeking the narrow band of water visible from that particular spot on the Street of Flowers.