“Ferreira,” a voice called across the water. “Ferreira!”

Duilio stared out into the fog. He couldn’t make out a boat, but he heard oars cutting the water, the noisy splash of an inefficient rower. “Gaspar? On the sand.”

“Coming,” Gaspar called back.

Oriana half rose out of the water. “I’ll go find him.”

She didn’t wait for his response. She dove into the water and disappeared into the fog. Duilio leaned against the rocks, his ankle throbbing. The splashing grew closer, and then he saw a small boat sliding toward the sand. Gaspar sat inside, Pinheiro with him. Duilio waded out to them. “Do you have a blanket?”

Chuckling, Gaspar dug one out of the bow and handed it over. Duilio helped Oriana settle it about her and lifted her up into the boat. He pushed the boat away from the shore and then clambered over the side and settled on a middle plank facing her. She managed to work the blanket around so that not even an inch of her silvery feet showed. After fending off a spate of questions from both of the other men, Duilio finally got to ask a question of his own. “What happened to the two in the house? Was it Miss Carvalho and the footman?”

“Yes, both are alive,” Gaspar said.

Duilio saw Oriana’s shoulders slump in relief. She’d saved them.

“The boy was in rough shape,” Gaspar added as he rowed toward the city. “It looks like he fought them, trying to keep them from the girl. A couple of broken ribs, and his face was so swollen he could hardly breathe, which is why we had to leave you out there. We needed to get him to a doctor.”

Duilio didn’t blame them. They would never have been able to see him in the river in the dark anyway. “And the photographer? Did he get any pictures?”

Gaspar grunted. “Yes. It’s a matter now of developing them and convincing his editor to run them. Anjos is already meeting with the City Council, bypassing the Ministry of Culture altogether. We expect that, given the evidence, they’ll agree that the remainder of the houses must be cut loose.”

“Good,” Duilio said. “What did Maraval say?”

“Nothing so far,” Gaspar said. “Anjos and his team didn’t find the man. They did, however, find an extensive collection of magical artifacts in a secret basement, which bears out Silva’s claim. The Jesuits have volunteered to catalog the collection, but they haven’t found your missing pelt yet. Maraval wasn’t at the ministry either, which leaves . . .”

“The mysterious workshop?” Duilio asked.

“Yes. If he’s on the run, it’s likely he’ll go there. Miss Vladimirova is questioning the servants at his home. If any of them know the location, she’ll get it out of them—I promise.”

“I told the selkie to follow the yacht,” Oriana told Gaspar. “If he did, he’ll know where it is.”

Duilio was glad to hear that Erdano had gone after them. He hadn’t dared to ask.

“We’ll have to hope that one plan or another gives us an answer,” Gaspar said, “or Maraval will get away before we have a chance to get our hands on him.”

They planned to take no more than an hour to return to the house, change clothes—or, in her case, put some on—and head back out to find Erdano and his harem. Oriana only hoped that Erdano had been able to follow that yacht. Inspector Gaspar claimed that the regular police were watching all train routes out of the Golden City to prevent Maraval from escaping that way. But why bother with a train when he had a yacht at his disposal?

The police had a carriage waiting when the rowboat reached the Bicalho quay, so a couple of minutes later they were rattling across the cobbles, heading toward the Ferreira house in the morning fog. The road was rough, causing her shoulder to bump against his. Oriana clutched the blanket closer; it was chilly.

“I did offer you my shirt, Miss Paredes,” Duilio reminded her.

“And how would you explain your returning to the house half-naked?” she asked. “Would that be any easier?”

“I will, of course, replace the garments you lost, Miss Paredes,” he said magnanimously.

“So you don’t have an answer either,” she surmised. If he’d been caught in this situation with a young Portuguese woman of any social stature whatsoever, he would be expected to marry her to protect her from scandal. No one would expect the same for a hired companion.

“We should simply say nothing,” he said mischievously, “and let the servants wonder.”

Well, they would probably come up with their own interpretation anyway. “I am far more comfortable in this situation,” she said, “than you would be. More accustomed to such garb.”

“You mean wearing a blanket?” He regarded her with raised brows. “What exactly do people wear on your islands?”

She smiled, gazing down at the one hand in her lap. She still had the dagger’s sheath strapped to her arm, but the blade had been forgotten in the river. “That book you read as a boy was right in that those who work near the water often do so unclothed. Otherwise one usually wears a pareu.” When he opened his mouth to ask, she explained. “A length of fabric wrapped about the waist. It would cover from the waist to the knees, or just below.”

“Ah,” he said. “Do you mean the men? Or the women?”

“Both,” she said with a shrug. “When it becomes cooler, one wears a loose vest over that, or even a jacket.”

He shifted in his seat to look at her. “The islands must be warmer than Portugal. No shirts?”

“They come into fashion now and then but aren’t essential.” She shot a swift glance at him, trying to gauge his reaction. “A human would be quite uncomfortable dressing so.”

His lips pursed. “Probably at first. I suspect I would enjoy it after a while. No need for a valet, certainly.”

She plucked at the blanket with her free hand. “Yes, the many layers your people wear are rather . . . redundant.”

“You must hate our clothing.”

“At first I did, a bit,” she admitted. “But I’ve grown accustomed to it.”

It was an ordinary conversation, a break from all the other things they didn’t want to discuss. As if we’d simply met at a café, she thought, wishing with a sudden pang that her life could be that simple. Would she have the nerve to court this man if she had the chance?

The carriage drew into the alleyway behind the houses on the Street of Flowers, getting them quite close to the back door. Cardenas was outside on the steps, sneaking a cigarette, as he did when upset. The butler stubbed it out on the wall and came to meet the cab. When Duilio opened the door and stepped down, Cardenas embraced him and burst into tears. He drew back quickly, though, apparently recalling his station. “We feared the worst, sir, when João told us the rowboat hadn’t returned.”

Oriana stayed in the carriage, giving the butler a private moment with his master. Duilio kept his hands on the man’s shoulders, reassuring him. “I’m well enough, old friend. I need to get Miss Paredes inside,” he said. “We’re only here to change clothes and get right back out on the water.”

Cardenas nodded and stepped back. Duilio returned to the carriage and insisted on helping her out, lifting her down with an ease that surprised her. She might expect that of the big selkie, but perhaps Duilio was stronger than he looked. He set her on the ground, and she clutched the blanket close. Cardenas went up ahead of them, clearing the servants out of the kitchen so Oriana could dash through in her inappropriate garb.

Duilio led her up the back stair to the second floor, and fortunately no one intercepted them. “I’ll wait for you in the library,” he said when they stood outside her bedroom door.

She showed him her wrist. “Do you have another spare dagger?”

“I’ll find something,” he promised, opened the door for her, and then headed down to his own room.

Oriana went inside. She was short on clothing. If she were staying she would have to ask for an advance on her first quarter’s pay, but she knew better. She closed the bedroom door, dropped the blanket across the settee, and paused.