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No matter which way Cecília tried to go, she couldn’t find any landmark, anything familiar, anything that looked like home. Cracked shells of buildings poked out in chunks of plaster and stone. Twisted metal railings rose like deadly snakes from piles of bricks, empty spindles when Cecília was lucky and impaled mangled bodies when she wasn’t. After Lord knew how long of walking through the horror, Cecília couldn’t absorb any more. She fell into the rest of the beaten, bloody mass of humanity, trying to find a way out of town. Even Mr. Bates had fallen silent as the enormity of it all appeared to hit him as well.
Somewhere outside the walls of Lisbon, Cecília’s body suddenly jolted back to reality, the dull ache she had been feeling turning into breathtaking pain. She stumbled slightly.
Mr. Bates snapped out of his own daze. “Senhorita Durante? What’s the matter?”
The question nearly made her laugh. She didn’t waste the breath it would take to state the obvious. “I... I need to sit.”
Mr. Bates took her elbow with his good arm, as though worried she would tip over where they stood, and looked around before leading her to a large stone sitting off the main road. No one else so much as bothered to look. Cecília supposed she couldn’t blame them. She had long stopped listening to the cries for help. There were too many who needed aid while everyone needed to protect their own.
Mr. Bates took a seat on the ground next to her, looking as exhausted as she felt beyond the gray ash that had plastered itself to his face and hair.
No powder or too much. The weak thought bubbled up as she looked at his hair, the humor quickly dying off as she realized the absurdity of it in current circumstances. Instead, she tried to take stock of herself. Her ankle was stiff and swollen. Her left side throbbed where the crucifix had fallen on top of her. Her eyes started to water. If God wanted to make his displeasure known, He had, beyond the shadow of a doubt. The throbbing spiked as a sob escaped. But perhaps it was supposed to. Perhaps it was God multiplying her sorrow as He had Eve’s for her sin.
A muffled grunt startled her enough to look up again, and she turned just in time to see Mr. Bates pushing himself back up to sitting, rubbing a shoulder that didn’t look quite as disformed anymore.
He met her eyes silently for a moment, some sort of determination burning behind the exhaustion, pain, and worry, then asked, “Do you know where we are?”
She tried to blink away her tears. “What?”
“We can’t get to the river. We can’t stay here. We need some sort of plan.”
“Plan?” Cecília’s voice tipped up, incredulous. “The world is ending. The Lord—”
“Has left us both alive,” Mr. Bates completed for her. “It would be a poor show of faith to let ourselves die, don’t you think?”
Cecília looked back the way they had come. The mass of dirty, bleeding people seemed unending as smoke continued to rise from what had once been Lisbon, turning the beautiful golden sunlight a sickly brownish orange.
“Your uncle has a vineyard, doesn’t he?” Mr. Bates continued. “Somewhere in the country?”
The calm practicality in his tone helped make its way past the haze of despair in Cecília’s mind. “Near Queluz.”
“Where’s Queluz?”
“Half a day northwest,” she recited then properly looked around at the land and realized they were on the road west toward Belém. “North from here.”
“That’s where he would go, don’t you think?” he said then added, “Where your family would go?”
Mamãe, Bibiana, Tia Ema... The thought shot a new wave of panic into her stomach. She tried to keep her breathing under control as each sharp breath drove an even sharper pain through her side. They can’t be dead. God wouldn’t punish them... “There or to my grandparents’ in Loures.”
A conflicted look passed over Mr. Bates’s face. “Which is closer?”
“From here, the vineyard.”
Visible relief washed over him. “We should go there, then. Hope that everyone else does as well. Do you think you can lead the way?” His eyes dropped over her. “Do you think you can walk?”
Mamãe and Bibiana are alive. They have to be. Being farther up in the Baixa than Cecília and Mr. Bates had been, though, would mean they likely would leave the city going north, putting them somewhere between Queluz and Loures, nowhere near Belém. Who knew how much longer Cecília’s body would last, but she had to try to get somewhere she would be found.
Forcing herself up with a wince, Cecília nodded. “I think I can.”
***
CECÍLIA HADN’T BEEN to her uncle’s vineyard in years, not since Papai had died and Tio Aloisio had taken over Papai’s business. Not for a year or two before that, even. Still, she recognized the landmarks as she and Mr. Bates made their way north, even though it seemed to take untold ages to move from one to the next. The half-day carriage ride she remembered stretched on hour by hour, as her already sore body tried to collapse. As stiffly as she moved, it was a miracle that any light was left in the sky by the time they reached the little valley holding Tio Aloisio’s vineyard. With the pinkish glow still clinging to the hills on the horizon, Cecília could make out the boxy shape of her uncle’s home surrounded by the scattering of storage houses and lodgings for the men who worked on the vineyard. Everything still seemed to be standing, but the buildings, the trellised grapevines lining the hills around the house, the placidity of it all felt cruelly mocking.
“That’s it?”
Cecília nodded, not sure she was breathing well enough to speak.
Releasing his own relieved breath, Mr. Bates helped her down the last hill, and they walked up the path leading to the home’s front door. Though a lit lantern had been hung from a hook out front, the rest of the home remained dark. The emptiness made Cecília’s stomach turn. The vineyard hadn’t been leveled, but it seemed as though all the people who kept the vineyard running while Tio Aloisio was away had disappeared.
Mr. Bates moved up to the wooden door and knocked. After a moment, he knocked again before looking back at Cecília. “No one seems to be home.”
“Do you think something happened to them?” she asked breathlessly.
He studied her, his gaze concerned before he took the lantern off its hook and held it closer to the building.
A long crack snaked up from the door, and Cecília stepped back at the thought of the house crumbling. “Maybe we should stay out here.”
Mr. Bates frowned. “What?”
“If it”—she couldn’t bring herself to say most of the words passing through her mind—“cracks more?”
He turned back to it and prodded at the spot.
“Mr. Bates...” She took another step back.
Some of the plaster flaked off, but the building remained standing. Cecília realized her fists were clenched tightly enough that her nails were biting into her palms. She forced them to relax.
Mr. Bates studied the home for another moment before he lifted the latch on the door and pushed. It swung open without protest. He called inside, “Anyone there?”
No one answered.
He looked back at Cecília. “It’s likely safer staying inside than out here in the dark. We can stay by the door, if you like.”
Cecília tried to convince herself she was being silly, but she found herself still frozen in place.
“Senhorita Durante. We need to sit. Find something to eat.”
Cecília suddenly realized she hadn’t had a thing to eat all day. They had been fasting, of course, before Mass, and everyone in the kitchens had been so busy preparing a feast... Her stomach soured as her thought trailed off before she could decide if she was actually hungry.
The light wavered slightly as Mr. Bates stepped over the threshold with the lantern. He moved around, the light catching the window to the left of the door—what Cecília vaguely recalled was a salon—then to the right before he stepped back up to the threshold. “A few things look as if they were knocked over, but it doesn’t seem bad. I think it’s safe for you to come in.”
Cecília swallowed but forced herself forward, limping worse than before, her protesting muscles beginning to seize from standing still.
“Could I help?”
“You’re hurt yourself.” She somehow managed to keep walking.
“I’ll get by.” He nodded to the left room. “There’s a settee in there. You should sit.”
Cecília turned without argument. “Your shoulder?”
“Stiff. It will be for a while. But I got it back in place. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
She twisted as much as she could to give him a questioning look.
“It’s been...” He hesitated. “Dislocado? Is that the right word?”
“Deslocado?” she corrected.
“I’m getting tired. My Portuguese and Spanish are running together.” He offered a weak smile. “My shoulder’s been out of joint before, more than once. I’ll get it in a sling when I can.”
“You’re not in pain?”
“I didn’t say that.” He stepped into the room after her and set the lantern on a small round table.
Cecília paused. The salon, she remembered, had been decorated much like hers was—like hers had been—in the Moorish fashion, with thick pillows and rugs. That salon had been entirely redone. Tall-backed chairs and dark-wood tables filled the space, all surrounded by shelf after shelf of leather-bound books. “What is all of this?”
Mr. Bates looked back at her. “What’s all of what?”
It’s a wonder Tio Aloisio had any room for trade, bringing all of this with him. She shook her head, doubting she would be able to explain the oddity of seeing the room so changed in her current state. She limped to a long bench with a padded back and lowered herself as carefully as she could. She still grimaced as pain shot up her side. Eyes watering, she bit down a whimper.
“What happened to your side?” Mr. Bates moved closer to her.
“Something fell on me.” She placed her hand gingerly on the spot and gritted her teeth, not wanting to think what it had meant, having a crucifix nearly kill her.
“Would you like me to look?”
She lifted her eyes back to his.
“Something may be broken,” he said quickly. “I know how to wrap it, if so.”
“Are you also a physician, Mr. Bates?” She shifted slightly. She would have to do something about her clothes. Since she was seated again, the boning in her stays that had kept her upright was pressing too hard on her side, and she felt the splintered framing of her pannier jabbing into her hips. She couldn’t let herself consider what state her new dress had to have been in.
“Ships are dangerous places. Saw a man get blown straight out of the rigging once. Cracked his rib. Did something wrong a few days later. Suddenly couldn’t breathe and dropped dead.”
Cecília’s eyes widened.
“Not that I think you’re going to die,” he said in a rush. “Just a reason to check on it. Especially after that walk. You should have been resting far earlier than this.”
Cecília managed a nod even if words wouldn’t come, and Mr. Bates moved to the spot behind her on the bench. His hand gently touched hers. She gasped as he pressed a hard piece of boning tighter to her.
His hand jerked back. “I’m sorry.”
“Sailors don’t tend to wear stays, I take it.” Cecília did her best to keep her voice light, though her discomfort made the words too terse.
Mr. Bates gave a short, equally awkward laugh. “No, I can’t say they do.”
The room went quiet again, silence stretching out as the obvious settled in. Cecília cleared her throat lightly. “You can’t do anything with my gown on?”
“I... Well, I’m sure I could...”
She had already accepted that she couldn’t stay dressed as she was and moved to trying to convince herself there was no reason to worry about impropriety. Twelve hours before, her mother would have become apoplectic at the idea of Cecília doing anything as shocking as being alone in a room with a man not related to her. But there was nothing to be done for it, just like she could do nothing about her clothing without his help. Resigning herself to the situation, she undid the clasp of her black robe. “It’s fine. The stays hurt, and I’ll need help...”
Mr. Bates didn’t answer for a moment. Then he stood. “What do you need?”
“I can do most of it.” She slipped the black robe off stiffly and focused on looking herself over, so she wouldn’t have to watch Mr. Bates watch her—or politely try not to watch her. Though her hands were scratched raw, and her arms were already mottled with deep-purple bruises, it seemed her robe had taken the worst of what had happened. The lace at the elbows of her gown was perhaps even salvageable. She tried to keep her mind on that thought as she unpinned her stomacher and set it aside with her dirty, ripped robe. Carefully, she pulled her arms free of the gown and turned her attention to the layers of petticoats that were draped limply over her broken pannier. Grimacing, she forced herself back up to standing to undo the ribbons holding each layer around her waist. The throbbing in her side grew as she worked to unwrap each tie, but she somehow managed, leaving a puddle of the beautiful fabric she had been so pleased with that morning around her.
Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised. The verse the Palmeiro’s confessor loved to recite whenever she confessed a sin of vanity flittered through her mind.
Sending up yet another quick prayer for forgiveness, Cecília finally lifted her eyes to Mr. Bates. The man had thoughtfully turned to study the books lining the far wall as she worked, though Cecília imagined it had to be too dark to make out what the books were. Cecília swallowed, trying to fight down how exposed she already felt with her stays still wrapped tightly around her, standing there in her thin camisa. She imagined she wouldn’t feel much better when she was down to just the camisa.
She cleared her throat to bring Mr. Bates’s attention back to her. “Could you help...? My stays are laced in the back. You should be able to, with one arm...?”
Mr. Bates’s eyes dropped over her for a split second before he seemed to catch himself, and he nodded. Silently, he moved to her side, and she turned to let him get to the lacing, her heart pounding uncomfortably in her ears. As much as she tried to tell herself it was necessity, every sermon she had heard about immorality and lust of the flesh flew through her head at once. Necessity or not, letting an Englishman undress her had to be its own terrible level of damnation, and Heavens knew her soul didn’t need any more of that.
With a final few awkward tugs, the stays gave way. Cecília took a grateful breath as the boning stopped pressing into her injured side then immediately regretted it, as the expanding air sent a new wave of pain through her. A small grunt sounded from somewhere in the back of her throat.
“Did I hurt you?”
Mr. Bates’s voice brought her back to the present. Cecília shook her head, still holding the front of her stays protectively to her chest, as though that would change the fact that she was practically naked. “Breathed too deeply.”
Mr. Bates nodded, taking a step back from her as he rubbed his own shoulder self-consciously. Or perhaps he was simply in pain as well. “Sit again?”
She didn’t need to be told twice. Though it was blissful, no longer having the boning pushing into her, she suddenly realized how much she had been relying on it to remain upright. Without the structure of her clothes, her body was trying to crumple in on itself. She sat back on the little bench, leaning her less-hurt shoulder against the padded back to leave her hurt side open.
Mr. Bates took a breath as if he was going to speak again, but instead, he silently moved back to his place behind her on the bench. The touch of his fingers on her side made Cecília tense, but he moved quickly, professionally, feeling along her ribs.
She cried out as he reached where the crucifix had landed.
“Sorry.” He pulled back. “But I think there is a break.”
She took as deep a breath as she dared. “You’ll want to wrap it, then?”
His words stumbled slightly as he rushed. “I’m sure I can do that over your... your...”
“Camisa?” She looked at him.
He nodded. “I’ll look for something I can use for that and a sling and see if there’s anything to eat.”
Cecília shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
“You should still try to eat.” He headed toward the door of the room.
“Please, don’t go.” The words escaped before she could stop them. She added at a near whisper, “I don’t want to be alone.”
He pressed his lips into a thin line then said, “We have to eat.”
Cecília frowned but didn’t answer, fingering her gold cross—the one Papai had given her from one of his trips to Brazil—where it sat near the neckline of her camisa. Mr. Bates’s eyes dropped just long enough to make Cecília’s hand still before he caught himself and moved back into the front hallway. Cecília went back to rubbing the metal, finding dents that had formed when she’d fallen. Too tired to think anymore about what that meant, about what any of it meant, she let her eyes drift closed and vaguely hoped she would wake up and find that everything had been an awful dream.