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“Rui Araújo e Botelho de Carreira,” Carlos said. “When we both labored under Lenoir—the mage who imprisoned Sergeyev—he was called O Anjo do Dor.”

Quinton scowled. “The Angel of Pain? That seems kind of anticlimactic. Why not the Angel of Death? It has more gravitas.”

“That is what he called me when his education passed into my hands.”

“I should have guessed.”

Carlos only lifted an eyebrow.

“And of the others, one I don’t know, one’s Griffin, and the other’s your father,” I added. “And like Sam said—his left leg is missing from the knee down and his energy color is . . . way off. That can’t be good.”

Now Carlos scowled. “This presents a complication, but possibly an advantage to us. Rui cannot leave Portugal and plainly he is the master at work here. Whatever else they need to complete the Dragão do Inferno, it must be in Portugal and they will set it aflame here.”

“That’s nice. In the meantime, we need to get the hell out of Dodge,” said Quinton.

“There are tunnels—” I started.

“Those will only take us into the castle,” Carlos said. “With Rui and Griffin this close, that would be an insufficient distance. We can buy time, but with no safe harbor to flee to, time is not enough.”

“Let’s start by getting out of this room where they can see us,” I suggested. “Apparently, Rafa’s temporacline doesn’t operate here, since we see the contemporary world through the windows, and not the world of her time—as we did in the salon last night.”

Quinton looked to Carlos. “My dad’s a hell of a tracker. What about this Rui?”

“Only fair, without recourse to the bones, but he has the scent of us from our visit to their circle. He knows we are here as well or better than your father does.”

“Would he be able to detect our presence when we’re in Rafa’s time frame?”

“Yes, but it would be confusing, even with Griffin’s assistance. If they were in the house and we were outside it, however, the difficulty would be greater, since the house traps magic and contains many temporaclines that scatter and dissipate spells attempted by those unfamiliar with the building’s peculiarities. I could also ensure that they have difficulty leaving. . . .”

“Then we should get into the kitchen, where Rafa’s effect is strongest. That will buy us a little time right now to figure out where to run and how to get them stuck in here when we do.”

“I have no doubt that they will enter on their own if we leave any opening. You trust our mysterious Rafa’s effect more than I,” Carlos said, but he started for the door with us right behind him.

“It’s not that I trust it—or her,” said Quinton as we began down the tower stairs, “but that I’ve been stuck here more hours than either of you and had the chance to study her more. There’s something very strange about Rafa.”

“What, aside from being dead?” I asked.

“Yes. She’s aware of the passage of time since her death, and yet she really isn’t. It’s as if events happen in a vacuum and they all occur simultaneously.”

“Ghosts lose their sense of time and chronology,” I said. “They have no reference for events outside their own lifetimes. Or at least most don’t.”

“I’ve been trying to figure out how she’s connected to this house, aside from having been the housekeeper. She seems to know Amélia, and yet, their lifetimes have no overlap. Ghosts aren’t usually aware of other ghosts, are they?”

Carlos and I exchanged glances over Quinton’s head, but it was I who answered. “If they were aware of an older ghost before they died, they might know about them afterward. But it’s rare for them to know a ghost from a different time frame the same way you and I know living people. It’s not like there’s some ghostly party going on where they discuss their afterlives with one another.”

“But that’s the relationship they seem to have. Rafa calls Amélia ‘Avó,’ which means—”

“Grandmother,” Carlos supplied.

Quinton stopped at the second floor hallway and offered an expectant look.

Carlos shook his head. “I had no children and most of my near family was executed. There were a few surviving women and children, but their descendants would be remote nieces or cousins at best.”

“But it’s possible she is a relative.”

“In a distant fashion.”

Quinton looked thoughtful. “Did your family have any . . . estates or land elsewhere in Portugal?”

“Yes, many.”

“Any that grew olives?”

“Probably, but they were no concern of mine since I was a bastard and would not inherit any of them.”

“What about your wife?”

“Her family had no title, but they were wealthy and I believe they gave her a small property as a wedding gift. It produced income, but it was in the east. I never saw it.”

“You mean, like . . . the Middle East?”

“No. Eastern Portugal near the Spanish border. It was an area frequently in dispute between the two countries.”

“They grow olives in the east, but are more famous for cork, wheat, livestock. . . . No wonder she apologized. . . .”

“For what?”

“She said there was nothing left but olives as if that were a disappointment. If, when you were alive, the estate made its money off the cork oaks or other products but those are all gone now, she might have felt she’d let you down . . . Dom Carlos. She talks about you like you’re some kind of family legend. You’re certain Amélia didn’t . . . have an affair or anything like that . . . ?”

“No. It would be surprising if she hadn’t. But there was no pregnancy, no child.” Carlos frowned. “But if Rafa is a granddaughter of Amélia’s through adultery, she should have no tie to this house. It is mine alone.”

“Well, she’s somebody’s kid. Maybe we should have a chat with Amélia before we blow town,” Quinton suggested, and turned to continue down the stairs to the kitchen.

Outside, I heard a distant boom and a crack like that of giant wings, while a shiver of heat passed through the Grey.

TWENTY-TWO

The kitchen proved a difficult place to summon Amélia. It had probably been a room she rarely frequented when alive—the realm of domestic servants, not the lady of the house. Carlos was becoming frustrated, when Rafa come into the room behind us. He caught her, pinning her in place near the stove with the same word and gesture he’d used the night before. She looked alarmed but didn’t fight.

He leaned close to Rafa. “Who is the lady of this house?” Carlos asked her.

Rafa was confused. “Sua espousa, meu senhor.”

My wife?”

“Sim. Ela é minha bisavó.” Rafa seemed to find the whole conversation odd and she frowned at him. “Por que você está tão cruel com ela? Por que você trouxe essas pessoas—”

Carlos moved his hand in front of her as if he were brushing her speech aside and Rafa fell instantly silent. He looked at Quinton and me, standing on the other side of the old wooden kitchen table. “In Rafa’s temporacline, Amélia is the mistress of the house. She resists coming when I call her, using the power Rafa has given her as leverage. She has no such strength in other versions of the house.”

“But we aren’t as safe,” I said.

“True. But if we move swiftly, we can capture Amélia and escape before Griffin, Rui, and Purlis can get past the gate.”

“That’s assuming they haven’t been busily working their way in while we’ve been hanging out with Rafa,” Quinton said.