J. Cheney - The Golden City

“I can’t help you look today,” Joaquim finally allowed, “but I can ask the officers at the front desk to tell me if they hear anything from the Amaral woman.”

“Thank you,” Duilio said. “I’ll see what I can find out at the Amaral household as well.”

“Don’t talk to the servants, though. I’ll do that on my way by the house tonight.” Joaquim would be better to handle that as he didn’t have a presence in society. The servants would perceive a policeman as closer to their class.

“I’ll see if I can wheedle Lady Amaral into admitting something, then.” Duilio doubted he’d be successful. He lifted the copy of Camões and glanced down at the section where the poet described Vasco da Gama’s discovery of the Ilhas das Sereias in 1499—a violent introduction that had sown distrust between the sereia and the Portuguese for the past four hundred years. To this day, the islands of the sereia didn’t appear on any map, although it was said the Church knew where they were to be found. The sereia preferred to stay hidden. “Can I borrow this book for a bit?”

“You have a copy,” Joaquim said, sounding bewildered now.

It was a safe guess that the book could be found in most libraries in Northern Portugal, but if Joaquim said there should be one in the Ferreira library, there was. “I don’t have it with me,” Duilio pointed out.

Joaquim rolled his eyes and rose. “Fine.”

“So, will you come for dinner tonight, then?” Duilio asked, rising and slipping the book under his arm. He retrieved his newspaper as well. “Mother would like to see you.”

Suddenly somber, Joaquim rubbed a hand over his face. “How is she?”

“The same as yesterday.” Duilio pressed his lips together, but then added, “I know how painful this is for you, but for her sake, please. It helps her to see us.”

“I know.” Joaquim sounded guilty. “I’ll come.”

That was a relief. “Thank you. Now shall we go?”

Joaquim collected his hat and paused with one hand on the door latch. “How do you know your Miss Paredes hasn’t fled the city?”

Another good question . Duilio just couldn’t believe he’d seen the last of her.

SUNDAY, 28 SEPTEMBER 1902

Oriana had spent several hours Saturday in the back rooms of the Porto Gazette , trying to locate every last article they’d printed covering The City Under the Sea . They had stacks of old papers carefully shelved, but no one could tell her in which days’ newspapers to look, so she’d hunted through them issue by issue, taking down every scrap of information she could find on the artwork and its creator. No one seemed to be aware that the water around the artwork tasted of death, that Isabel could not have been the first to die there. Who those other victims might be Oriana didn’t yet know. And the only hint of magic mentioned was the presence of buoyancy charms inscribed atop each house meant to keep them afloat, the sort boatbuilders used. What she needed was an ally who knew far more about human magic than she did. Fortunately, she knew where to find one.

Nela wasn’t precisely a scholar, but the old woman had studied human lore with Oriana’s grandmother prior to being exiled from the islands for sedition. When Oriana first recognized the old woman walking along the street almost two years before, Nela had nodded at her once. Nothing more passed between them. But that bare instant of recognition had given Oriana the courage to contact the woman, no matter that it was a clear violation of the ministry’s directive not to interact with the exiles. Nela had consented to meet with her, although it hadn’t come for free, and Oriana’s supply of coins was dwindling quickly. Nevertheless, she was relieved she’d found someone willing to aid her, so she’d gladly said she would wait until Sunday afternoon to visit.

Nela’s druggist’s shop on the first floor was closed that afternoon, but Oriana and its owner were in the tiny apartment above. The woman handed Oriana a cup of tea and settled across from her in a chair upholstered in a faded blue floral. A white cloth with fringe about the edging covered a small square table, and atop that lay the sketch Oriana had drawn that first morning after settling into her rented room.

Oriana turned it so that Nela could read the letters. “Does this mean anything?”

Her drawing showed the half circle of the tabletop that had lit following Isabel’s death. Oriana had remembered the four words that circled the perimeter of the table. There had been another ring of figures inside that, but those hadn’t been familiar to her at all and had faded from her memory before she’d had access to paper to record them. The center of the table—the half she had been able to make out—was occupied by a large T with a dash under one arm and a line above it. That meant nothing to her either.

Nela’s scarred fingers traced the words in the outer ring. Oriana watched the old woman’s hands, wondering who had done the surgery to remove her webbing. It had been poorly done, leaving her with ugly scars on the sides of each finger. Perhaps Nela had done it herself. But she was able to wear gloves, which meant the woman was far safer than Oriana in this city.

“ Ego autem et domus ,” Nela read musingly. “That’s Latin, I believe, but I’m not very familiar with the language. I don’t know what it means.”

Oriana didn’t either. “I see.”

“Where did this come from?” Nela asked.

“I don’t think I should say.”

The old woman regarded her doubtfully. “Child, don’t waste my time.”

Oriana swallowed. She would have to trust someone if she was going to find out who had created this monstrosity. With her gray-shot hair, this woman reminded Oriana of her own grandmother, her father’s mother back on the island of Amado. Her grandmother had been a woman one could trust. “It’s from The City Under the Sea .”

Nela sat back, her dark eyes narrowing. “You didn’t go down there, did you, child? The Special Police patrol that part of the river well.”

“I know,” Oriana said. The newspapers had noted the frequency of police patrols in that area, particularly at night.

“Someone saw this there and told you about it?” Nela shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Oriana took a deep breath. “It’s not important where it was. Is this a spell? A charm?”

Nela tapped her nose with one finger. “Spells, I think, since they’re combined. A charm has to be kept simple. We have two languages represented: Latin and whatever the next ring is written in. Choice of language is purely stylistic in human witchcraft, so the two disparate languages imply two different spells. The symbol in the center means nothing to me, especially given that I’m only looking at half of it. Why do you have only half?”

How could she answer that without telling Nela everything? The addition of the Amaral house to the work of art hadn’t been mentioned in the city’s newspapers until Saturday morning, and Oriana hadn’t seen anything yet about Isabel’s absence. Lady Amaral apparently hadn’t told anyone, which meant the police probably weren’t even looking for Isabel. Nothing had been heard from Mr. Efisio either. Perhaps the man was still waiting in Paris for Isabel’s arrival.

“It was dark. A girl was seated at the table, with her hands tied to it. She died, and”—Oriana’s stomach twisted, but she forced herself to go on—“and when she did, her half of the table lit. This was inscribed on the surface of the table.”