Well, Nela had been correct about hunting a necromancer. That didn’t make Oriana feel any better. “It was wood,” she answered. “I think the letters were inlaid in some kind of metal.”

“Silver and gold are the most common for this sort of work,” the Lady said. “The best for controlling magic. I suspect we’ll find that the inner ring contained some manner of runic inscription, as necromancers seem to prefer that for their handiwork. This center design is nothing I’ve ever seen, though, and that’s saying something.” She pursed her lips and turned the sketch around again. “The main problem I’m having with this is that there’s no apparent recipient. One of the basic tenets of necromancy requires that the recipient take the victim’s life force at the moment of death. In essence, your tale makes this seem like the recipient is a table. There wouldn’t be much point to that unless the table was actively using that power. Now, there are rare devices that can focus power or carry out a specific action, but this is . . . a table.”

Oriana felt tears stinging at her eyes. “You’re saying that Isabel died for nothing?”

“No,” the Lady said. “I’m saying that I haven’t figured this out yet. No one is going to go to this much trouble, to kill a girl, without a reason.”

“It’s not just one girl,” Mr. Ferreira said, leaning closer to hand Oriana a fine linen handkerchief. She wiped her cheeks with it while he spoke. “We have reason to believe that each replica has a pair of victims in it, not all female. All servants who’d worked at the house replicated. Most were never reported missing. Some had allegedly gone home to the countryside or found other positions, but when the police traced them they found false trails.”

The Lady sat back, her eyes narrowing. “Servants who worked at the corresponding house?” She turned to Oriana. “You and this Isabel worked at that house?”

Oriana nodded mutely. She didn’t see a need to correct the Lady’s misconception.

The Lady closed her eyes for a moment, as if mentally organizing what she knew. “I think what we have here is a mixture of necromancy and imitative magic, a rather unusual combination, but not unheard of.”

“Imitative magic?” Mr. Ferreira leaned closer. “Is that like voodoo?”

The Lady looked up. “Have you run across voodoo before, Mr. Ferreira?”

“In Paris, I’m afraid.”

“I see. We’ll have to chat about that one day,” she said. “In the instance that one item is used to represent another related item, yes. In this case, I suspect the houses and the people in them represent the will of that family. That’s why the victims were chosen from among servants who worked in those houses—it gives them a spiritual tie to that house and that family. As they’re using aristocratic households, I would suspect this installment, The City Under the Sea, is a symbolic representation of the entire aristocracy. Why they’re claiming they serve the Lord, I can’t fathom.”

Oriana covered her face with her hands. She’d heard enough of this academic discussion of Isabel’s death. She didn’t care how they were doing this or why. She just wanted to know how to stop them.

Mr. Ferreira’s hand touched Oriana’s elbow, a scrap of reassurance. Oriana dropped her hands to her lap again, resolved to be calm.

“Are you insinuating that the Church is involved?” he asked the Lady.

She shook her head, earrings glittering with the movement. “Not at all, Mr. Ferreira. It’s not their style, despite the use of a scripture. It’s easy to appropriate words.” She laid her arm across the back of the couch again. “And before you ask, it’s not the Freemasons either. Neither group is forgiving about necromancy.”

Oriana lifted her head and took a deep breath. “Then who? Who’s doing this?”

The Lady continued to gaze at Mr. Ferreira, her intense regard belying her casual posture. “Is this what you’re investigating? These houses? Miguel said you wouldn’t tell him.”

“I’m not sure whom to trust,” Mr. Ferreira said stiffly.

“Miguel has been following Mata for days,” the Lady said in patient tones. “This afternoon he let Mata get away because he was concerned you might not get out of that apartment alive. He was about to go up after you when you jumped from the window.”

He jumped from a window? Oriana glanced at Mr. Ferreira’s face. He was tense, frustrated. She could see that in the set of his shoulders. She didn’t know which of the two of them had heard more unsettling news tonight.

“Yes, this is what we’re looking into,” Mr. Ferreira finally said, pointing to the sketch. “The regular police started investigating a few weeks ago. When they asked for permission to pull up one of the houses and open it, they were told to shut down the investigation.”

“By whom?” the Lady asked.

“We don’t know what level it came from. Captain Santiago directed the request to the Ministry of Culture, but there’s no telling how many eyes saw that request before the order was handed down.”

The Lady nodded slowly. “And if I went to Maraval and asked, he would probably say the paper had never gotten as far as his desk.” Oriana had no idea how many people worked in the Ministry of Culture, but any one of them could have alerted the killers to the request. “I’ll ask anyway. I studied with him when I was younger,” the Lady added. “He’s familiar with this type of magic. If nothing else he can tell me who in the city might be able to put together a set of spells of this intricacy.”

“Do you not know?” Oriana asked.

“I’ve been abroad for much of the past three years, Miss Paredes. Witches come and go, particularly where the . . .”

The latch on the library door clicked and began to turn.

“Go stand against the wall,” the Lady ordered, pointing. “Stay behind me.”

Mr. Ferreira grabbed Oriana’s hand and hauled her out of her chair before she could protest. She barely managed to grab the sketch off the table with her free hand before he dragged her back toward the wall with him. The Lady went to stand behind the couch, one hand lying on its back, as the library door swung open, and a silver-haired man walked in, a young girl clutching his arm.

It was Paolo Silva.

Duilio’s whole body tensed when he saw young Constancia Carvalho being squired about on Silva’s arm. He wanted to storm over there and plant the man a facer. The old lecher had a reputation for seducing young women that had never quite made sense to Duilio. Silva simply wasn’t that handsome, and while he might be influential, it was usually older women who found power attractive, not girls of barely seventeen, like the one on his arm now.

Silva gave the library door a gentle push, not obvious enough to alert the girl she was closed in. It would be scandalous if the girl was caught here alone with Silva, even if the man was old enough to be her grandfather.

Miss Carvalho pointed at one of the shelves, fortunately not too near where Duilio stood, Miss Paredes still as stone beside him. It was clear that whatever the Lady was doing worked. Miss Carvalho showed no sign of seeing them there. How fascinating.

“I think the book is on that shelf,” the girl said brightly, pointing. “Father keeps the keys with him, though.”

“I only wanted to see the cover, my girl.” Silva started in their direction.

Duilio heard a soft intake of breath from Miss Paredes. He grabbed her hand to reassure her. Silva didn’t pose a true threat to them right now. Even if the man saw them in the library, his presence here was no less questionable than theirs. And Duilio wanted to know what the man was up to. The Lady moved silently to stand directly between them and Silva.

Silva peered into one of the bookshelves with locked glass doors. Duilio doubted Miss Carvalho could see Silva’s right hand fiddling with the lock. Apparently skill with a skeleton key ran in the family. A muted click sounded, and Silva pronounced, “Oh, look. Your father’s left it unlocked, my girl.” He opened the door and extracted one leather-bound volume. “It is lovely.”