to hurry on my account,” she added with a smile. “I might just stay here indefinitely.”
“Wait till you see where you’re going to sleep tonight.” Lianor left her with that provocative thought before she started up the staircase where several elegantly dressed hotel guests were just descending.
The couple disappeared through one of four sets of tall double doors to the left of them. Mallory caught a glimpse of a sumptuous-looking dining room and sucked in her breath.
What a fantastic place to be raised! And paradise to have the Atlantic at your feet too?
Still mesmerized by such splendor, she didn’t realize anyone else had entered the massive foyer until she heard a girl’s voice cry, “Tia Lianor!”
Mallory turned around to discover two dark-haired girls around ten or eleven who’d come through double doors on the opposite side of the great hall. Behind them she saw a room with a counter and several people working. For a front desk, it had been cleverly hidden.
The girl who was staring at Mallory with brown eyes identical to Lianor’s made a funny sound and put a hand to her mouth. The other girl holding something in her hand started to giggle.
“Are you Apolonia?”
The girl hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
“Do you speak English?” Mallory asked, drawing closer to them.
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard lovely things about you from your Tia Lianor.”
That brought a smile to the girl’s face.
“She’ll be down in a minute. My name is Mallory Ellis.” She extended her hand.
“How do you do,” Apolonia said in very proper English and shook it. Some flicker of recognition caused her features to become even more expressive. “You are her friend from California in America.”
Friend. That was nice to hear.
“Yes. I’ve come to visit her for a couple of days. When you saw me from the back, you thought I was your aunt, didn’t you?” Both Mallory and Lianor happened to be wearing black pantsuits.
She nodded.
“Other people have said the same thing. Who’s your friend?”
“Oh—” she cried, as if suddenly remembering her manners. “This is my best friend, Violente Camoes. We’re waiting for her father.”
Mallory grasped the other girl’s hand that wasn’t full of postcards. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Violente. I love your name.”
“She does not like it,” Apolonia confided. “Her brother says she was named after Queen Maria the First of Portugal. The servants called her Violente because she was insano.”
“Insane?”
“Yes.”
Trying to smother her laughter, Mallory said, “What’s your brother’s name, Violente?”
“Tomas.”
“Ah—that explains it!”
“What do you mean?” Apolonia asked while both girls stared at her wide-eyed.
“Her brother is just jealous because he wasn’t named after a king.”
Apolonia turned to her friend and translated in Portuguese. Her friend’s mouth broke into a wide smile. She whispered something back in Portuguese to Apolonia.
Mallory couldn’t help but marvel at her grasp of English. Not only had she benefited from the English-speaking tourists who stayed here, according to Lianor her niece went to the same private school she’d once attended. It was run by the nuns. No wonder their family was so well educated.
“Violente thinks you’re very nice. I do too.”
“Well thank you. I feel the same way about both of you.”
“My father said you are notarus.”
Mallory blinked. “Do you mean notorious?”
“Yes. I don’t know that word.”
She choked down more laughter. Wait till she told Lianor. “I think he got it mixed up with the word industrious. It means I like to work and use my brain.” She tapped the side of her head so the girls would understand.
“But he frowned like this when he said it,” she informed her before doing a great imitation of one.
“Violente?”
At the sound of a male voice, all three of them turned in time to see a well-dressed man around forty enter the foyer. He signaled for his daughter to come. She waved goodbye to them, then ran toward him.
No sooner had they left the foyer than Lianor appeared on the stairs. Apolonia rushed toward her aunt and started talking in rapid Portuguese.
“Why don’t you speak English in front of our guest. It will be good practice for you.”
“She already has. Very beautifully I might add,” Mallory said after catching up with them. “In fact I found out something quite interesting.”
Quickly she related her exchange with Apolonia. Lianor fought not to laugh in front of her niece. “Your father’s English is excellent, Apolonia, but sometimes even he makes mistakes.”
Mallory’s gaze rested on the girl. “I can’t imagine being able to speak fluent Portuguese when I was your age. You have superior intelligence just like your aunt.”
Her sweet face lit up. “Thank you.”
“Come with us,” Lianor urged. “We’ll show you to your room.”
Mallory followed them to the second floor. The staircase curved around, giving out on a corridor that ran the length of the palace. In between paintings and tapestries, she glimpsed double doors to the various rooms.
They passed another exquisitely shaped marble staircase before reaching a pair of double doors facing them at the south end. They looked massive and impregnable.
Behind them was another set of doors. Above those she saw an inscription set in the colorful azulejo tiles for which Portugal was famous.
“What does it say?”
“Our lips easily meet high across the narrow street. It’s a saying of the poet Frederico de Brito who wrote about the Alfama district of Lisbon where the streets between the houses are only four feet wide. The people on opposite sides can reach out of their homes and touch each other.”
Lianor rolled her eyes. “Someone in the D’Afonso family who had romantic notions put it there. Most likely it was a man who wanted to remind his wife of her marital duty,” she muttered sotto voce.
“No doubt,” Mallory concurred with a grin. She looked down at Apolonia who couldn’t quite follow their whole conversation. Wanting to include her she said, “Why are there two sets of double doors?”
“This is where the king stayed. He kept soldiers by both doors.”
“If we’re talking about Pedro II, I can see why,” Mallory murmured. “The man must have had some serious enemies.”
Lianor’s eyes met hers and they both chuckled. But Mallory’s laughter ceased the moment she stepped inside the suite and got her first look at the royal apartment which was really a small palace within a palace.
The melange of Muslim, Arabic, Visigoth and Moorish accoutrements filling the huge rooms defied description.
Both D’Afonsos took her on the grand tour which included a living room with a priceless Moorish tile floor put down in bands of blue and white that undulated like the rolling waves across an ocean. Dark crisscrossed beams defined the painted ceiling of flowers and angels.
There