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Tia Ema had barely made it through the door before her quick, sharp voice filled the front hall. “Dores? Dores, where are you?”
Cecília didn’t hear her mother answer before Tia Ema continued: “Querido São José! The crowds out there... and Aloisio! I’m not sure what I will do with that brother of mine. Meu Deus. I—”
“Is that you, Ema?” Mamãe’s voice finally came from deeper inside the house.
Cecília slowed on the steps, moving just enough to be able to argue that she wasn’t eavesdropping. Again.
Tia Ema barely took the time to say “yes” before she was back into her ranting. “Oh, Dores, I’m not sure my heart can take much more! Aloisio sent his boy this morning, and you wouldn’t believe, he said—”
“Is Aloisio still not well?” Mamãe had long learned not to wait for Tia Ema to take a breath before responding. She’d likely learned that before the priest had finished the nuptial blessing the day she’d married Papai.
Tia Ema finally hesitated. “What?”
“He sent word that he wasn’t well enough to attend vigil with us last night.”
“Querido São José,” Tia Ema repeated her favorite exclamation. “That man tells me nothing! That useless boy of his wouldn’t answer me a thing this morning. Just looked at me with those wide eyes the entire time I was speaking and said Aloisio wasn’t coming over and over. I had half a mind to...” Tia Ema continued, word after word spilling out when Mamãe didn’t stop the onslaught.
Cecília reached the landing before the bottom flight of stairs and paused to brush herself off, even if there was no possible way her new gown had gotten dirty on the short walk between her room and the stairs.
Just making sure it’s lying correctly, she tried to convince herself. Made from a French pattern specifically for All Saints’ Day, with ruffled ends on her elbow-length sleeves and a full pannier holding out the hips, the gown was quite a change from the simple day dresses or Turkish robes she wore around the house. If making sure that it fit perfectly before heading downstairs meant pausing a little longer out of sight, where she could hear her aunt and mother talking, it was hardly her fault.
“Has anyone been sent to check on him?” Mamãe finally asked as Tia Ema started on her fourth or fifth tirade against Tio Aloisio’s errand boy. “He hasn’t been feeling well since he returned, has he?”
“He certainly has been relying on that boy to take care of things.” Tia Ema huffed. “I should have gone down to that house of his the second Aloisio docked. He’s always a touch peaked when he returns from abroad. He really needs to—”
“How bad are the crowds?” Mamãe asked. “If Aloisio isn’t coming, should we still go to São Vincente? The Palmeiro’s service—”
“No!” The word escaped Cecília’s mouth before she managed to catch herself, and the voices in the entryway went ominously quiet.
“Cecília?” Mamãe’s far-from-pleased voice echoed up the stairs.
Cecília grimaced, but the damage was already done. She moved into sight, trying to look as innocent as possible. “Good morning, Mamãe. Good morning, Tia Ema.”
Mamãe’s pale face pinched. “What have I told you about lingering, Cecília Madalena?”
“I wasn’t—”
“You obviously have an opinion about what we’re discussing?”
Cecília refrained from bunching the fabric of her gown in her hands at the dark look flashing through her mother’s blue eyes. Mamãe had once been a beautiful woman.
She still would be, Cecília imagined, even though her fair hair was fading from gold to white and the lines on her face were growing deeper, if only she didn’t look so severe all the time. Cecília straightened her shoulders. She had already been caught. Denial wouldn’t help anything. “We told Francisco we’d go to São Vincente. He’ll be looking for us.”
Mamãe shook her head. “I’m sure he’ll have plenty of other things to be worried about today.”
“But—”
“Are you arguing, Cecília Madalena?”
“No, Mamãe.” Cecília bit her cheek to keep herself from adding anything else.
“Go to the oratório and think about what you’ve done. We’ll let you know when we’re leaving.”
“Yes, Mamãe,” Cecília murmured and turned toward the room holding their little wooden shrine. It made sense that Mamãe no longer wanted to go across town to attend High Mass. Cecília had been shocked Mamãe had agreed to go to São Vincente in the first place. Her pride at having a son take the cloth had obviously overtaken her need to never go more than twenty steps from their front door. Since one thing had gone wrong, of course she would want to go to the Palmeiro’s private chapel down the street instead. No doubt, if Mamãe had ever had the finances to build their own chapel, Cecília would have forgotten what the outside world looked like entirely.
Careful to keep her skirts from wrinkling, Cecília knelt in front of the oratório, crossed herself, and said a quick prayer for forgiveness. As far back as her first confession, she had struggled with the commandment to honor thy mother. Before Papai’s death three years before, Mamãe had loved saying that Cecília had too much of her father in her. Cecília had to admit that was likely still true. Unlike her younger sister, Bibiana, who seemed entirely happy at the prospect of spending the rest of her life indoors like a proper Portuguese lady, Cecília had inherited far more of her father’s wanderlust than any daughter should have been cursed with. But after three years of being lucky to get outside long enough even to go visiting, Cecília imagined the Palmeiro’s confessor had to be growing tired of hearing Cecília atone for all the ways she had disobeyed her mother week after week after week.
After lighting a votive candle to place in front of Mamãe’s most prized possession, the golden reliquary that held a lock of blessed Santa Inês’s hair, Cecília stood and blew out a tense breath. She hadn’t heard the bells since they had chimed nine, but it had to be inching toward the half hour. If they didn’t leave soon, they would have no choice but to go to the Palmeiro’s service at eleven.
If she could get Tio Aloisio to join them, though, she might have enough time to change Mamãe’s mind and get all of them across town to São Vincente.
Cecília moved for the back door, listening carefully to make sure she didn’t come across any of the servants as they worked to get things ready for dinner. Beyond dodging where Bibiana was playing with one of her dolls, however, the way was clear. Cecília sent off a quick prayer of thanks and grabbed a black outer robe to wear over her gown. With the pannier under her gown, the robe wouldn’t let her blend in quite as well as she normally did when she slipped out, but with the crowds that always arrived on All Saints’ Day, she would likely be able to make it to the river unnoticed.
Crisp autumn air blew in as Cecília cracked the door, and a rush of excitement pulsed through her. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. Lord knew how many acts of contrition she would be doing that night for sneaking out, but for the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to feel remorse. How anyone could stand staying inside on such a beautiful day—proper lady or not—Cecília would never know.
From the state of the streets, it seemed the rest of Lisbon agreed. Cecília stepped away from the alley behind her house and was swept into the mass of bodies on the main road without a second look. The one time Cecília had managed to lure Bibiana outside on a feast day, Bibiana had hated every minute of it. The crowds had scared her, the tight, winding streets had confused her, and the only good memory she seemed to have from the experience was looking at all the colorful sheets and banners hanging from windows to decorate the cobblestone streets.
That’s what makes Bibiana a better daughter, Cecília supposed. As it was, Cecília could have spent all day moving along with the chaos, looking at the little tent cities that had popped up overnight wherever there was space, and listening to cart women trying to sell sardines to anyone who would stop long enough to listen.
Two more turns and a few stinking brown puddles later, and the Tagus came into view. Cecília’s breath caught. Brilliant blue, the river called to her as it always had, looking all the more beautiful in the midmorning light. All of the white stone buildings facing it looked as though they had been painted gold by the sun, as though God had seen fit to decorate the city far more majestically than the lisboetas had managed with measly banners. For all of Mamãe’s complaints about dirt, thieves, and beggars out on the street, all Cecília could see was the beauty.
Tio Aloisio’s house sat on the bank of the Tagus, close to the strait where the river narrowed before reaching the Atlantic. Not as grand as many of the buildings that had been built close to the king’s riverside palace, the house was still an impressive structure, nearly as tall as Cecília’s home in the Baixa, with similar white walls and a red roof.
“More than enough space for a single man in town,” Tio Aloisio had claimed when he’d bought it a year before so he would have a place to stay closer to the docks. He’d needed one, as often as he’d taken to going on trade missions after inheriting Papai’s ship. He couldn’t very well travel back and forth from his country vineyard.
Pulling her skirts up an inch, Cecília crossed the last street at a jog and came to a stop in front of the wide door. She knocked and waited for someone to answer.
No one did.
Frowning, she tried again. Even if Tio Aloisio had fallen so ill that he couldn’t make it out of bed, the house certainly shouldn’t have been empty. A servant, his cook, the boy Tia Ema cared for so much... someone would be up and about. Cecília lifted her hand to knock a third time. The door opened as if timed to her forward swing.
Cecília jerked her hand back, barely avoiding hitting the man filling the doorway. She froze in surprise. A second later, she realized she no doubt looked idiotic with her fist hovering in the air and dropped it to her side. “Pardon me.”
“My fault, I’m sure,” the man answered with a crooked smile, his words accented in a way that made them sound discordant.
Cecília tried to get her mouth to say something else as her mind whirled, attempting to figure out who was standing in front of her. His clothes looked too well-made to be a servant, but in a simple brown waistcoat, jacket, and breeches, he didn’t look like one of Tio Aloisio’s merchant friends, either. Then again, it didn’t seem he had entirely finished his morning toilette, with his auburn hair clubbed behind his neck with no sign of a wig—or even powder, for that matter.
An assistant, perhaps? He looked at most half a decade older than her—twenty-two or twenty-three, if that.
“May I help you?” he asked when she continued to stand there, mute.
Cecília started and caught her hands in front of her stiffly. “I’m looking for my uncle, Senhor Aloisio Silva Durante?”
“Oh.” The crooked smile came back. “You must be”—he seemed to reach for a name—“Bibiana?”
Cecília puffed up slightly. As little as what the man thought of her mattered, she would have hoped, with seven years separating them, she didn’t look like her ten-year-old sister. “Cecília. Cecília de Santa Rita e Durante.”
His hazel eyes crinkled at the sides. “Everyone here does have very impressive names.”
Cecília released a breath through her nose, trying to hide her discomfort at the entirely odd situation by straightening her spine fully, even if he remained at least half a foot taller than her that way. “Is my uncle here?”
The man nodded as he took a step back. “He’s finishing dressing, I believe. Would you like to wait for him?”
Waiting didn’t make Cecília feel wonderful, not with time ticking down. She still tried to focus on the positive. “He’s feeling better, then?”
The man’s eyebrows furrowed. “Better?”
“He was ill yesterday?”
The confused look didn’t move off the man’s face, but Tio Aloisio’s voice broke in before he could speak again. “Cecília? I thought I heard your voice.”
Cecília released a relieved breath as her uncle’s familiar—and healthy—face came into view. “Tio, I’m glad to see you looking so well.”
He cocked an eyebrow as if he had no idea what she meant, either, before understanding flashed over his expression. “Oh, yes. I’m glad to say my illness was nothing dire. You never know what it will do to your health, being somewhere as damp as London in the fall.”
“I’m glad,” Cecília repeated then rushed on. “Where are you going to Mass, then? Tia Ema said you weren’t coming to São Vincente anymore?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the time today, Cilinha.” He moved around to gather his things. “I have a business meeting I can’t miss.”
Cecília blinked. “But it’s All Saints’ Day.”
“We were delayed getting back.” He picked up his walking stick. “I find I’m still working to catch up. Especially with getting Bates here settled.”
Cecília glanced at the younger man, who was still lingering in the entryway.
He offered a quick smile and a short bow. “John Bates. Pleasure to meet you, Senhorita Durante.”
So the man was English. That explained his accent. Cecília didn’t have time to think too much about it. She turned back to her uncle. “But you’re going to Mass? It’s a Holy Day of Obligat—”
“Of course,” Tio Aloisio said then finally stopped moving long enough to look at her straight on. “Does your mother know you’re here?”
“I...” Cecília’s mind didn’t switch over quickly enough to come up with anything that wouldn’t be a blatant lie. “She said since you weren’t coming, we couldn’t—”
“You know better than that, Cilinha.” He shook his head, the curls of his own long white wig bouncing back and forth. “Wandering on your own?”
Cecília wrung her hands in front of her, nothing about the situation turning out how she had hoped. She tried to salvage something out of it. “You can walk back with me. Maybe you can convince Mamãe—”
“What time is your meeting, Bates?” Tio Aloisio cut her off.
Mr. Bates’s eyebrows rose, but he answered, “Ten, sir.”
“You wouldn’t mind walking my niece back home this morning, then? She could likely point out Rua Nova dos Mercadores for you on the way.”
Cecília frowned. “Tio Aloisio—”
“It would actually be my pleasure,” Mr. Bates said over her. “I admit the streets here quite confound me.”
“They do some lisboetas who have lived here their entire lives.” Tio Aloisio clapped Mr. Bates’s shoulder as if they were old friends then turned back to Cecília. “Your mother will be looking for you.”
“Tio...” Cecília started, not certain how she was going to finish her sentence.
Tio Aloisio didn’t give her the chance to, anyway. He checked the time on his gold pocket watch then motioned Mr. Bates outside before stepping through himself, forcing Cecília back onto the street. “I’m running late, as always. See you tonight, Bates.”
“Have a good day, Senhor Durante.” Mr. Bates lowered his head respectfully then swept on a cocked hat and turned to Cecília. “As you please, Senhorita Durante.”
With Tio Aloisio already heading the opposite way down the road at a good clip, Cecília was left with little choice but to go with the Englishman or slip off into the crowd by herself to head back home. She couldn’t quite determine which would get her into less trouble, should anyone Mamãe knew spot her. Unable to decide, Cecília spun on her heel and started back the way she had come. If the Englishman could keep up, she supposed she would point him toward the row of shops that lined Rua Nova dos Mercadores.
New to the city or not, Mr. Bates didn’t seem to have an issue with the crowds. He stayed close at hand, matching each of Cecília’s movements a second after she made them to maneuver around slower clumps of travelers on the street. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, debating whether she should offer any kind of conversation.
He beat her to it. “Is there a reason so many of you wear those black cloaks?”
Cecília frowned. “Pardon?”
“When I first arrived, I thought there were only priests on the street. There are still more priests here than I’ve ever seen in my life, I’m relatively sure, but it seems everyone wears those.” He motioned briefly at her cloak. “I’ve been meaning to ask your uncle about it.”
She shrugged. “Even the less virtuous think twice before attempting to rob someone who has taken holy orders. This is safer than flaunting fine clothing.”
“I take it that’s why your uncle insisted I keep a dagger with me, then?”
“Most men carry a sword if they can afford one.” She didn’t bother to look at him as she swung out wide to avoid those who were kneeling in front of a niche carved into the side of a building dedicated to São António. The builder had included a relic from the blessed saint himself when the niche had been created, or so Cecília had heard whispered. She crossed herself quickly.
Mr. Bates didn’t.
She continued to study him out of the corner of her eye. “You came with my uncle from London, Mr. Bates?”
“Indeed, I did.”
“Are you from London, then?”
“London by way of everywhere else,” he said and smiled when she sent him a questioning look. “I was born in Southampton but jumped a ship as soon as anyone would let me. Have been to the far reaches at this point. London was just my most recent stop.”
She fought down the rush of excitement the idea of travel sent through her, keeping her voice level, properly disinterested. “You’re a merchant? Like my uncle?”
“More a sailor who had the good fortune to make friends in high places. I owe your uncle a great debt for all the help he’s offered in getting me settled in Lisbon.”
Cecília pursed her lips slightly. Many of her uncle’s business partners were English, part of the British Factory as they were called, but she couldn’t understand why Tio Aloisio would take it upon himself to bring another Englishman—an English Protestant, she was willing to assume—back to Lisbon.
“It’s a beautiful city.” He kept the conversation moving when she didn’t answer. “It is as they say: he who has never seen Lisbon has never seen a good thing.”
At least he and Cecília could agree on that. Glancing at the parishioners spilling out the door of Nossa Senhora dos Mártires into the square in front of the basilica, Cecília was left with the sinking feeling that it was getting far closer to ten than she’d originally estimated. Even if she had convinced Tio Aloisio to come to the Baixa with her, they would have had no chance to make it to São Vincente in time for High Mass. All she could hope was that no one had noticed she’d gone, and the entire morning would be one more thing she would have to privately confess at the Palmeiro’s. She slowed them to a stop just outside the square by another niche—one holding a thick wooden crucifix—and pointed east. “Rua Nova dos Mercadores is that way, if you’d like to part ways here.”
“I’m more than happy to walk you the rest of the way home, Senhorita Durante.”
Because after everything, she needed someone from her bairro seeing her wandering about alone with an Englishman. “With the crowds, I imagine that would make you late for your meeting.”
A conflicted expression moved over Mr. Bates’s face as he scanned the crowd for himself, no doubt seeing she was right.
She saved him the trouble of having to weigh whatever duty he felt to her and however important he considered his meeting. “I’ve lived in Lisbon my entire life, Mr. Bates. I’m certain I’ll be able to make it home without your assistance.”
Mr. Bates began to give one more halfhearted objection before a low rumble moving through the ground made him trail off. Cecília frowned, looking for an approaching coach, though from the way the sound was growing, it would have had to have been a line of coaches barreling toward them.
“What’s that?” Mr. Bates followed Cecília’s gaze.
Cecília shook her head, not having any better idea than Mr. Bates. The rumbling grew stronger, making loose pebbles rattle around her feet as the sound neared a roar.
Earthquake. The thought registered a second too late as the street under her rolled. Cecília tipped forward as shouts went up, mixing with discordant clanging church bells. She put her hand out to brace herself, but the ground lurched again. Her shoulder slammed into the curve of the niche then bucked the other way. She hit cobblestone hard.
The wall of the building across from her split, chunks of white plaster raining down across the street. Rough brick showed through as the ground continued its assault. Then the brick started to tilt. Eyes widening, Cecília curled into herself, everything happening too quickly to make sense. The wall fell. Hard chunks pelted her as it kicked up a cloud of dust so thick that she had no choice but to close her eyes.
Slowly, the shaking slowed, and the roar was replaced by a cacophony of the most horrible sounds Cecília had ever heard—screaming, crying, panicked whinnies of horses. Cecília’s body seized. She tried to unfurl, but her muscles wouldn’t release. Shock kept her curled, eyes squeezed shut as though everything would stop if she didn’t look, as though she would wake up in her bed, the morning a dream. A new roar rose over the screams a second before the rumbling returned. Crying, she dropped her forehead to the ground, mumbling some prayer for mercy as Hell rose up around her. “Misericorda. Misericorda de Deus.”
There was more screaming, more crashing, a loud snap, and pain shooting across her back. Somewhere, her mind registered that something hard had landed on top of her. She choked on dust as she gasped, trying to suck in what air she could under the crushing weight. Time began to blur. Nothing existed beyond the roar and rocking and pain.
The ground slowly stilled once again—after how long, Cecília couldn’t begin to imagine—but she still couldn’t breathe. She struggled to reach whatever had pinned her. One hand touched smooth wood—the crucifix from the niche. She pushed, but it wouldn’t shift. Something had to have been on top of it, pressing into the cross as it pressed into her. Her sight began to blur, her chest not able to expand enough to take in air. As hard as she fought to remain conscious, her mind turned fuzzy.
The third roar barely registered until the crucifix shook loose. Cecília gasped. She ended up coughing, thick dust coating her throat. No longer completely pinned, she still had to fight to free herself. Rough bricks scraped her palms, but they shifted as the shaking stopped, letting Cecília inch her way forward. She could find her way out, if she just kept moving...
Reaching out once more, her hand hit nothing. She froze, the sensation not making sense until she realized she had reached open air. The day had simply turned pitch black.
And the Lord said unto Moses, Stretch out thine hand toward Heaven, that there may be darkness over the land of Egypt, even darkness which may be felt. The words floated through Cecília’s mind, and she crossed herself before she realized how much pain the movement caused. She couldn’t bring herself to rise from her knees. God had thrown her and the whole city down into the earth. There was no other explanation.
Slowly, some light began to filter through the haze in the air, and Cecília’s eyes struggled to adjust. The sight was worse than the darkness. Bodies poked through piles of stone—men with their heads dashed open, mangled limbs reaching out as if trying to free themselves even without the bodies to which they had once been attached. Others were still alive, and some cried for help, some already fleeing over the rubble. They weren’t in Hell. But Lisbon seemed worse.
As the reality filtered through her shock, a new thought registered in Cecília’s mind. Bibiana. Mamãe.
Cecília scrambled to her feet, pain muddling with the panic to the point where she couldn’t feel her body at all. Unthinking, she started stumbling over the piles of brick and wood and bodies.
“The Day of Judgment has arrived!” A priest’s voice carried over the awful screams still echoing from the rubble. “Remember the Apocalypse of John: And there was a great earthquake, such as was not since men were upon the earth. The sixth seal has been broken! Repent for your sinful souls.”
Cecília’s legs shook. The pain in her side grew as the words worked their way inside her.
“Senhorita Durante?”
Her name registered blankly in her mind. She tried to turn, but her knees gave out. The dirty, bleeding man in front of her reached out as if he was trying to catch her then stopped short, shouting as he cradled his own arm instead. Cecília hit the ground, the jar somehow more painful than anything she had ever experienced and dulled to where she barely felt it.
The man recovered, and he looked around before bending, off-kilter, toward Cecília. “We need to get back to your uncle’s.”
Recognition registered in the mess of Cecília’s mind. “Mr. Ba...”
Another rumble went through the ground, not as strong as the others but enough to send up a new round of shouting. Cecília whimpered. She couldn’t let herself think about the Apocalypse, the man in front of her, or the pain shooting through her body.
Mamãe, Bibiana... She needed to make it back home. God was punishing her. She deserved it. Sneaking out, lying... But He wouldn’t punish them. Not Mamãe. Certainly not Bibiana. Good, innocent little Bibiana.
She forced herself back up to standing, even as every inch of her fought against it, and turned for her best guess of where home might be in the shell that was Lisbon.
Mr. Bates called after her, his voice mixing into the awful clamor filling the dusty air. Cecília moved faster through the horrifying jumble of ruins. Dead eyes stared up at the brown sky, and prostrated living pulled at their hair or kissed painted saints and rosaries. Her foot caught on something. She stumbled but couldn’t bring herself to look. Whatever it had been, she didn’t want to see.
She cleared a pile of rubble only for a wave of smoke to sweep over her. She coughed and moved the lace from her mantilla to cover her mouth in some vague attempt to breathe, but even then, the smoke seared her lungs. Something was burning. No, many things were burning. She had to turn back around, but she didn’t know where else to go.
“Senhorita Durante.”
She started at hearing her name so close to her side. Mr. Bates had followed her.
“We need to make it back to the river. The city’s alight. If we can get on your uncle’s ship, we might have a chance.”
“I can’t... My family...” Cecília shook her head, unsure if she was about to laugh or cry. Nothing made sense. How he can plan... Her mind couldn’t carry her through a thought.
“You won’t find anyone dead.” He grabbed her wrist with his good arm. “Please. Perhaps your parents will go to the river too?”
Papai would have. The thought appeared somewhere deep in Cecília’s mind. As little as she could believe Mamãe would, as well, it was enough to let her follow the way Mr. Bates was leading. Her body ached more and more with each step.