Mr. Ferreira pushed himself out of his chair and came to loom over her. He set a hand lightly on her shoulder. “I meant what I said last night, Miss Paredes.”
She looked up at him. No, he hadn’t forgotten last night’s extraordinary discussion either. She could see it in his eyes, an awareness of her as more than a servant. He looked at her like she was a woman, perhaps even a lover. But opening that door would only lead her to pain. She wasn’t the sort who could take a lover and then go on her way. She just . . . wasn’t. Her scruples wouldn’t allow it. Even for a male as fascinating as Duilio Ferreira. It would break her heart, and she refused to do that to herself. She nodded jerkily. “I know, sir.”
His lips pressed together, possibly in vexation. She wasn’t quite certain how to read that expression. Then he stepped back and left without another word.
As the tram drew closer to Matosinhos, Duilio could see the port of Leixões to the north. The port was an unfinished work that must either be considered art or an eyesore, progress brought to a standstill. The builders had begun constructing two stone “arms” intended to stretch out into the sea to act as breakwaters to protect the ships that would someday sail up the Leça River into the port. Silhouetted against the horizon, two Titans of iron and steel waited—giant steam-powered cranes that ran on rails to the ends of those breakwaters. One sat on each abandoned arm, capable of going back to work and moving giant blocks of stone . . . as soon as the prince should deign to give his permission. Duilio doubted that would happen while this prince was alive.
Not for the first time, Duilio wondered if it wouldn’t be better for Northern Portugal if the seers were correct and the prince was doomed to die. Somehow Miss Paredes had changed the odds of that prophecy coming true. Not through her own choices, of course. She’d been forced into that position. He hated the price at which that had come. He sighed and returned to surveying the passengers of the tram.
The man in the dark suit was the one who concerned him. When he’d gotten on the tram at Massarelos, a prickle had gone down Duilio’s spine. He’d settled a couple of seats behind Duilio and pulled a folded newspaper from under his arm. He didn’t appear to be an immediate danger, but Duilio felt sure the man had no other business there other than to watch him.
Duilio dug into a pocket for his watch, flicked the lid open, and held the case to one side, trying to get a glance at the man’s face in the mirror secreted inside the lid. He didn’t look familiar. In his midthirties, dark-haired, and average in size, he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. Duilio studied him a moment longer while the man perused a copy of the Gazette. He closed the case then and slid the watch back into his pocket.
While at the house Duilio had changed into a more casual suit—one that Marcellin found plebian. But it would be better for running should he find that necessary. He’d changed into less-formal shoes and picked up a spare gun, just in case. If this man intended to chase him down, he’d make it difficult.
When the tram reached the end of the line, Duilio got off and began ambling toward the ships that bobbed on the river. He’d been to the area a few times in the past year, but wasn’t nearly as familiar with it as he would have liked. The man in the dark suit followed in a desultory manner, confirming Duilio’s suspicions.
The Church of Bom Jesus rose majestically in the midst of a public park. Duilio walked up the steps, stopped at the threshold of the church, and crossed himself. He’d been especially lax in his devotions since his brother’s death, one of those things he occasionally resolved to change, usually following one of Joaquim’s lectures. He waited a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness and wondering if someone would come to renounce him. The lack of any divine rebuke reassured him.
He stepped forward into the gold-encrusted nave and spotted a fair-haired priest speaking to an elderly black-garbed woman. The priest nodded toward Duilio as if asking him to wait, so Duilio settled on one of the pews, determined to be patient. The young man eventually left the woman’s side and came to lend his priestly ear to Duilio.
“Are you Father Barros?” Duilio asked without preamble.
“I’m Father Crespo. How can I help you today, my son?”
Duilio hoped his expression didn’t show his amusement at being called my son by a man who must be younger than himself. The priest couldn’t be much older than Cristiano. “I need to speak to Father Barros. Where might I find him?”
The young man’s brows drew together. “I believe he’s closeted with the books, but I’ll inform him he’s needed here.” He scurried off toward the sacristy, much to Duilio’s relief.
Not long after that, another priest emerged from the sacristy, an older man with graying hair and a stern visage. He presented himself to Duilio. “How can I help you today, son?”
This time son made more sense. “I’ve come to make some inquiries,” he admitted. “Inspector Joaquim Tavares suggested you might be able to help me.”
The priest’s eyes narrowed. “And who are you?”
Well, he couldn’t fault the man’s caution. “I am his cousin, Duilio Ferreira.”
“Hmmm . . . you certainly resemble him,” Father Barros said. “Tell me, then, why did he not enter the priesthood after seminary?”
If that question was meant as a test, he was about to fail miserably. Joaquim turned stubborn at times, refusing to discuss certain issues, even with family. He had an overdeveloped desire for privacy. “I honestly don’t know, Father,” Duilio admitted. “He’s never told me.”
“He’s never told anyone, so far as I know. I thought perhaps . . .” The priest shrugged. “Here, Mr. Ferreira, come with me. I’ve not had luncheon yet. Let’s walk into town.”
Duilio followed the man back through the nave and along a path that led to the back side of the church, away from its chapels and statues. They headed toward the town’s center, walking along the narrow cobbled streets among the noontime press of carts and pedestrians. Much like the streets around the Ribeira back in the Golden City, these buildings were old and packed together, with painted walls and iron-railed balconies. The priest led him to the front of one building, its pink facade decorated with only a sign marking it the Restaurant Lindo. “My cousin owns the place, so we can sit in the back as long as you need. Is that man in the dark suit following you?”
“I believe so,” Duilio said without turning to look. “Not being terribly discreet, if you noticed him as well, though.”
Father Barros laughed and pointed out a table in a dark corner of the room. “I wasn’t always a priest, son.”
There had to be a story behind that short statement. If he weren’t pressed for time, he would have liked to get to know the priest better. Duilio headed back toward the corner and picked a chair situated so that he could see out into the street. The man in the dark suit passed the front of the restaurant as Duilio settled at the table. He moved on without pausing. Duilio felt gooseflesh prickle along his arms, but his gift seemed unconcerned at the moment, so he shook off the odd feeling. He could deal with that problem later.
The priest settled across from him. “So, how does Inspector Tavares think I can help you, Mr. Ferreira?”