Miss Paredes crouched next to Aga. She asked the question, offering the braid in exchange. “It would make a nice belt,” she added.

Duilio noted that she’d taken Aga’s measure quickly enough.

Aga snatched the length of braid from her hand. “Now?”

“As soon as you can,” Miss Paredes said. “Please.”

Aga immediately began to unbutton her borrowed shirt, provoking João to rush over and launch into a lecture on where and when it was proper to disrobe, which made Aga turn her pretty pout on him. Feeling they’d created enough chaos for one day, Duilio led Miss Paredes off the yacht and up the ramp to where the carriage waited.

“She’s very pretty,” Miss Paredes noted as he helped her up the last step.

“Not very clever, though,” Duilio added. “I’m afraid Erdano’s father wasn’t known for his deep thinking.”

“My people tend to think of selkies as . . .” Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Duilio raised one brow as he opened the carriage door. “As?”

“Well, rather savage,” she admitted. “They choose to live on the sea rather than in homes, as we do.”

He helped her up. “Anything different is barbaric, Miss Paredes. You should see the Scots.” He stepped up after her, to be greeted by Pinheiro’s quizzical look. “Of course, the Scots invented the steam engine, which shows that generalizations are made only to be defied.”

“Did they?” she asked. “Amazing. Wearing skirts all the while?”

“Kilts, Miss Paredes,” Duilio corrected. “Kilts.”

Pinheiro rolled his eyes. Duilio had a distinct feeling that as much as he disliked Paolo Silva, he was going to find Pinheiro an excellent addition to the Ferreira family. “So, Pinheiro, do you sail?”

Oriana changed to the most worn of her clothing, the shabby black skirt and black shirtwaist that had made up her housemaid costume. It was the same garb she’d worn that night, bringing a sense of completion to the choice. She checked the knife’s sheath to make certain it was securely strapped on, buttoned the sleeve, and tugged on her mitts. Everyone who would be on that patrol boat tonight already knew she was a sereia, but she didn’t intend to rub it in their faces.

A knock at her door heralded Teresa’s entrance. The maid waited until Oriana had emerged from the dressing room. “There’s a woman in the sitting room who wishes to speak with you,” she said. “A Mrs. Melo.”

Oriana felt like the world shook. She gripped the edge of the door. “Is she alone?”

“Yes, miss,” Teresa said.

She took a deep breath. “I’ll go down directly,” she said. “Could you advise Mr. Ferreira as well?”

Teresa headed off to find one of the footmen to talk to Mr. Ferreira, who must still be changing clothes. Oriana stripped off her mitts in case she had to get at her knife quickly and headed downstairs to the front parlor. When she pushed the sitting room door wide open, she found the woman from the church sitting comfortably on the couch.

Oriana stopped at the threshold. Should she go in? Would that put her in a more vulnerable position than standing in the doorway? But surely remaining outside would tell this woman she was afraid. She leveled her shoulders and stepped inside. “Mrs. Melo, I believe it is?”

The woman had been watching her, dark eyes hard as stone. She was an attractive woman, but not striking enough to draw attention. Her brows were thick, which lent her a look of intensity that Oriana had noted before. “You’ve done well so far, Oriana.” The woman surveyed the contents of the sitting room with an appraising eye. “I have to say, I’m impressed that you managed to land in a wealthy household following the incident with the Amaral family.”

The incident with the Amaral family? Is that how she saw Isabel’s death? An incident? Oriana forced her fists to unclench. “What do you want?”

“I want to know if Silva spilled everything I told him,” the woman said as she rose. “Did he tell you that we’ll be putting out the new house tonight?”

Oriana suspected her reaction—or lack of one—gave away the answer to that. “Yes.”

“And will Anjos and his collection of freaks move to rescue the girl?”

Collection of freaks? What an odd thing to say. “I’m sure they’ll try.”

“You’ll have to leave here,” the woman said, her eyes fixing on Oriana’s. “You know that, don’t you? Once the press gets wind of Isabel Amaral’s death, they’ll want you hauled in and questioned. You’ll be exposed for certain, and the Special Police—well, most of them—haven’t given up their persecution of our kind. I don’t want to see someone who’s done so much for the cause hanged.”

Done so much for the cause. “You let them kill Isabel. You were there and didn’t stop it.”

“Oriana,” the woman said softly, almost gently. “If you hadn’t been there, the Open Hand might have succeeded with this insane idea. Yes, your employer died, but sacrifices have to be made.”

Oriana couldn’t look at her any longer. “She was my friend.”

“Making you carry her handbag and read to her? I think not. One of the first rules of this occupation, Oriana, is never get too close to anyone. Never become attached to anyone. You haven’t been in this game very long, so I understand your making that mistake. But there are some things you have to give up for your cause. People like us don’t have friends or family. We can’t afford them.”

Oriana wanted to close her eyes, but didn’t dare put that much trust in this woman. She felt ill, a minute away from casting up her lunch on the fine rug.

“I’ll make arrangements,” the woman continued, “for your extraction. I’ll leave word for you here as soon as those arrangements are made. I expect them to be followed explicitly. Do you understand?”

She didn’t have an answer. She wasn’t ready for this. She didn’t want to leave.

“And if you don’t go,” the woman continued in a reasonable tone, “I’ll make certain that the press turns up enough evidence to prove that your father . . . well, let’s say that it will make his life most uncomfortable.”

Oriana looked up. “Leave my father out of this.”

“Remember, Oriana, family is a liability in this occupation. You came to us with a built-in failsafe. I’ve always known that. Now . . . Heriberto, he’s soft. All he wants is to gather enough gold to run away to Brazil, the impetus behind all his petty crime. I promise you, I am not soft. I will do whatever’s needed.”

No, Oriana had no doubt of that. Maria Melo must have witnessed, even participated in, the deaths of dozens of innocents in the last year. She’d handpicked the people who’d died. She’d chosen Isabel. If Oriana had been discovered by the Open Hand, this woman would have stood silently by and watched them kill her too . . . or done it herself. “I understand.”

The woman inclined her head. “I’ll send word.” She walked around the sofa and paused while Oriana stepped aside to let her out of the sitting room. “You do have your mother’s look about you,” she said. “Unfortunately she didn’t understand the rules of the game either.”

And with that parting shot, she walked past a stunned Oriana and down the hallway. Cardenas opened the door, and Maria Melo strode down the steps as if she were queen of the world.

Duilio only caught the last few seconds of that conversation. He’d been half-dressed and still eating his dinner when Gustavo came in to tell him of Miss Paredes’ unexpected visitor. He’d thrown on a jacket, bolted down the mouthful he was chewing, and run down the stairs to see that Miss Paredes was safe.

He’d been about to enter on the pretext that his mother wished to speak to Miss Paredes when he’d realized the visitor was emerging. He ducked into the library instead. Miss Paredes didn’t need him to interfere, but he wished he knew what had happened. When he came out of the library, she seemed shaken by whatever her visitor had to say.