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Cecília ached so deeply she half wished she’d never woken. It dug down to her bones, straining every muscle and ligament to the point where she thought she might snap apart. Slowly, she forced her eyes open, and the reality of everything crashed back down on her. Somehow, it made the pain worse.
Though her eyes searched the room, she couldn’t bring herself to move from how she had ended up curled on her side on the little bench. Her eyes settled on an open bottle of wine sitting next to a bowl that held part of a loaf of bread.
Releasing a shallow breath, Cecília steeled herself to move. Her body fought against every shift, the sharp pains from the day before joining with muscles that had gone so tense that they refused to stretch. Somehow, she managed to get herself more or less up to sitting, even if her teeth felt as if they might crack from how tightly she had clenched her jaw.
Across the room, Mr. Bates was sleeping in a high-backed upholstered chair, his head leaning at an awkward angle against one of the wings protruding from the side. Though Cecília had the lingering suspicion that Tio Aloisio had brought a fair deal of the new furniture back with him from England, she had to imagine the Englishman would have fared better with the old Moorish pillows on the floor.
As if he could feel her eyes on him, Mr. Bates stirred awake. He winced, and Cecília noticed the bruise that had formed along his jaw and neck. She imagined she couldn’t look much better in the daylight, at least not if the ugly splotches on her forearms were any indication.
“You didn’t get your sling.” Cecília said the first words that came to mind.
“Couldn’t manage it by myself. I figured I’d survive a night.” He seemed to attempt a smile, though it didn’t entirely form. “There’s bread there. It’s stale but not bad if you soak it in the wine. Your uncle has an impressive vintage, though I imagine you already know that.”
“Mamãe never let us drink wine.” Somewhere, her mind realized she had spoken in the past tense, and her stomach twisted. She tried to ignore it by focusing on the confused look Mr. Bates once again fixed on her.
“Your uncle owns a vineyard, and you don’t drink wine?”
“Mamãe says it isn’t fashionable for young ladies to drink.”
“What is fashionable, then?”
“Water, mostly.”
Mr. Bates released an incredulous breath. “That’s a new one.”
“Not in Portugal.” Cecília looked back down at the bottle, bread, and bowl. With the grain shortage they’d had, the fact that someone had left the better part of a loaf of bread sitting around to grow stale was nearly as unsettling as the emptiness of the house itself. Where is everyone?
“You take communion, though?”
Cecília came out of her thoughts with a frown. “Of course.”
“That’s wine.”
“That’s the blood of Christ.”
“Ah. Yes.” Mr. Bates shifted forward in the chair and looked himself over. “I mean no disrespect, Senhorita Durante, but I believe you’ll find that the blood of Christ tastes much more like that bottle of wine than blood, whether or not one believes in transubstantiation.”
Cecília’s muscles attempted to spasm with the new wave of tension moving through her. She let the disdain in her voice say she had no interest in hearing a Protestant’s opinions on her religion. “You can say ‘transubstantiation’ but not ‘dislocated’?”
Mr. Bates’s eyes lifted to her again. “Frankly, I’m impressed I got to Spanish, as late as it was last night. When I lose a word, my mind tends to find French.”
Cecília continued to frown, but her curiosity won out. “French?”
“First language I picked up,” he said. “After English, obviously.”
Cecília realized she hadn’t thought too much about how Mr. Bates spoke. Outside his harsh accent and the single slip the night before, his Portuguese had been flawless. Far better than many of the foreigners who had lived in Lisbon for years. “How many languages do you speak?”
“With some fluency, five. I can get by in a few more, if need be.”
Cecília stared at the man. “You speak five languages?”
“I’ve always had a gift for it.” He prodded his shoulder gingerly. “Part of why your uncle offered to bring me here. He was impressed by how quickly I picked up Portuguese. Of course, I already knew Spanish, and as you can see, they’re rather close. I wager you’d understand me for the most part if I spoke Spanish slowly enough.”
“And how long have you known my uncle?”
“A couple of years now. I happened to receive an invitation to a dinner he was attending in London. An odd confluence of events, really, took me off one ship and then eventually brought me here.”
“Not exactly serendipitous, coming here just for this.”
“So goes the Rota Fortunae, I suppose.” He offered another small smile, though it didn’t entirely hide the tension sliding into his tone.
Somehow, the small crack in Mr. Bates’s calm practicality made Cecília feel better. She looked back at the bread and wine, trying to decide if her battered body would even let her eat. It had been more than a day since her last meal, and she still wasn’t hungry. “So what do we do now?”
“Now?”
“I need to find my family.”
“They could still be making their way here. In all the chaos yesterday, it’s very possible we’re just the first to arrive.”
“And if they aren’t?”
Mr. Bates looked at her for a moment before he said, “I know you’re worried, Senhorita Durante. You have every right to be, but we have more than enough to worry about right here and right now. We should get ourselves settled. You still need to eat. We should wrap your side. Then, if no one else shows up today—maybe tomorrow—we can make further plans.”
“You want us to sit around an empty house for two days?”
“Can you honestly say you’re in any shape to go elsewhere?” He held her eyes as if waiting to see if she would argue before he continued, “I told your uncle I would see you home. It seems that’s just going to take longer than originally thought.”
Not certain what else she could say, Cecília picked up the bottle of wine and sniffed it. The smell brought back memories of chapels and Mass and things she certainly didn’t want to remember as long as she wasn’t kneeling next to her mother and sister. In her mind, all of them were alive and well.
“I can look for a well, if you want water.” Mr. Bates had obviously misinterpreted her expression. “But we have that right now, and it’s going to make you feel better than water will, believe me. If you feel anything like I do this morning, you could likely use something even stronger. It’s been a long time since I’ve ached like this.”
She took a drink, trying to keep her thoughts off her face as she felt him watching her. Her stomach only churned worse as the warmth of the wine slid past her chest. She tightened her grip on the neck of the bottle. “You’re Protestant.”
Mr. Bates’s eyebrows furrowed. “Does that matter right now?”
“It feels as though it should.”
“I have no desire to convert you, if that’s your worry. Or anyone else for that matter. I wouldn’t have come to Portugal of all places if I did. Again, no offense meant, but you are considered a rather backward part of Europe.”
“Backward?” Cecília’s hackles rose.
“It’s a lovely country. Don’t mistake my meaning,” he said, “but the rest of the world out there? It’s a new age. We’re learning, studying, growing. You, well, you still have a bloody Inquisition going.” He caught himself. “Beg pardon my language.”
“Why’d you even come, then,” she snapped, “if the rest of the world is so wonderful?”
“Money.” He said the word as though it should have been obvious. “Your uncle offered the me the chance to set up business here. I would have had to be mad to turn that down.”
“Greed is a mortal sin.”
“The love of money may be the root of all evil,” Mr. Bates said, “but the need of money is simply practicality. The only ones who can pretend that isn’t a fact are ones who have never struggled for it.”
Cecília forced down another gulp of the wine, having to admit the warmth was helping her muscles to relax, though she still found herself grinding her teeth. No use wasting your breath arguing scripture with an Englishman. She attempted to force her mind to something more productive to talk about before she ended up in an argument she didn’t have the stamina to maintain. If Mr. Bates was content with the state of his soul, that was entirely his business. He had nothing to do with her or—the thought registered—“Tio Aloisio...”
“What?” Mr. Bates asked.
“My uncle.” Cecília’s eyes snapped back to his face. “Was he going to Mass when he left yesterday?”
Mr. Bates hesitated long enough to leave Cecília with the sickly feeling that she had her answer. He finally shook his head stiffly. “Your uncle’s faith is his affair, Senhorita Durante, not mine.”
“But you know where he was going.”
“Senhorita Durante—”
“Mr. Bates”—she kept her voice hard—“is my uncle still Catholic?”
Mr. Bates released a breath. “I couldn’t say what he considers himself, Senhorita Durante. But no, he wasn’t going to Mass.”
Cecília felt the air leave her lungs, nearly as strongly as when the cross had landed across her back. It was no wonder that Lisbon had been cast so low, filled with the likes of her and greedy Englishmen and whatever was happening with Tio Aloisio...
“Do you know what a Deist is?” Mr. Bates continued, clearly attempting to sound kind.
Cecília shook her head slightly, her mind still racing far too much to talk.
“It’s... the religion of the new age, I would argue. Theology that doesn’t discount man’s inherent ability to reason.”
“I don’t want to hear this,” she whispered.
“There are natural laws that govern the universe, laws that man can study. Newton’s calculus, thermodynamics... arguably, if man could only find the right equations, we would be able to understand the very fabric of the universe.”
“You’re talking heresy!” she snapped.
Mr. Bates hesitated for only a second. “You may think so, if you wish to call it that, but the very fact that man is able to find reason in what was once thought inexplicable proves that the world follows a scientific set of laws over being controlled by constant divine interference. The hand of God is not what stops a ball rolling into a thick patch of grass. It is the static force of the grass itself.”
“You’re saying there’s no God?”
“Not at all. Someone had to set the laws and put the universe into motion. I’m just saying there is reason behind natural philosophy. It isn’t the Almighty reaching down to move every chess piece in all of our lives.”
“And what reason could there be behind what happened yesterday?” Cecília’s hands started to shake. Clenching them around the wine bottle, she attempted to stop them before she damaged some other part of her that she didn’t know could be hurt. “All those people dead? The city burning? What natural law would cause that?”
“I...” Mr. Bates paused, though she wasn’t certain if he was searching for reasons, questioning himself, or simply reacting to her anger. “I’m not certain. I would have to research—”
“Research.” Cecília released an incredulous breath.
A door slammed toward the back of the house, followed by a deep male voice. “Senhora Santiago?”
Realization that she was sitting in her camisa with a bottle of wine, arguing with a heretical Englishman, hit Cecília like a bucket of cold water. She set the bottle down and crossed her arms as well as she could, attempting modesty, but her robe was ruined and the rest of her clothing too complicated to straighten out without help. A second later, the man stepped far enough inside the front hallway to be seen. He slowed as he saw them, and Cecília got a good look at his face. Though he certainly looked older than the last time she had seen him at the vineyard, he was still familiar enough for her to pull up a name. “Jorge?”
The man’s brown-black eyes swung from where they had settled on Mr. Bates to Cecília. The slight furrow of his thick eyebrows said he didn’t recognize her, though she supposed she looked far more different, no longer twelve or thirteen, than he did still in his twenties.
“Cecília,” she said. “Senhor Durante’s niece?”
Recognition moved over his face. “Senhorita Cecília.” His eyes bounced between her and Mr. Bates. “What in Heaven’s name has happened?”
“You must have felt the quake?” Mr. Bates saved Cecília from having to answer. “Lisbon’s in ruins. We came here in hopes that Senhor Durante would as well.”
“This is Mr. Bates,” Cecília added, her voice much more civil than she would have thought she could have managed just a minute before. “One of my uncle’s business partners. Mr. Bates, Jorge...” Cecília realized she had never learned the man’s last name, so she continued, “He’s worked at the vineyard for years.”
Jorge lowered his head, though it seemed less than respectful, before he looked back at Cecília. “English?”
She nodded.
“All seem to be, these days,” Jorge murmured.
Cecília didn’t bother to delve into that. “Where is everyone?”
“The church bells came down in town and damaged part of the chapel roof. Most of us stayed to help there, but Senhora Santiago was supposed to be back...” Jorge trailed off as he went back to looking at Cecília and Mr. Bates. “You said Lisbon...?”
“The quake destroyed it,” Mr. Bates said, matter-of-factly enough that it felt like a punch to the stomach.
The worst of the carnage flashed through her mind, as fresh as if she were reliving it. A stab of pain shot through her side as she took a gulp of air, and she bent sharply.
“Senhorita Durante!”
“Senhorita Cecília!”
Both of the men shifted toward her, but another door opened.
“Susana?” a woman’s voice echoed through the hall. “Where are you?”
Jorge paused and asked, “Senhora Santiago?” His eyes followed Mr. Bates as the Englishman moved beside Cecília on the bench.
“Jorge?” Tio Aloisio’s housekeeper’s voice came closer.
Cecília tried to control her breathing before her rib pierced her through.
Mr. Bates placed a hand in the middle of Cecília’s back, careful to stay away from her injured side. “Slow, steady breaths. Just remain calm. You’ll be fine.”
Calm... Cecília refused to look at him. “I need to go home. Lisbon... my mother...”
“I’ll get you home, I promise.” He kept his voice low, soothing.
“Minha nossa senhora!” Senhora Santiago’s exclamation cut through the room. “What in Heaven happened?”
Cecília lifted her eyes to look at the tall, broad woman standing in the doorway. Though gray was taking over her dark hair, Senhora Santiago remained exactly as imposing as Cecília remembered from her childhood, down to the stark black dress she wore.
“They came from Lisbon,” Jorge supplied. “Senhorita Cecília and”—his eyes slid to Mr. Bates—“Senhor Durante’s associate.”
Mr. Bates stood from his place on the bench, leaving the spot on Cecília’s back suddenly cold. “John Bates, ma’am. We were hoping Senhor Durante would find his way here as well, along with Senhorita Durante’s other family. Lisbon is...” He hesitated for a split second, as if planning something more tactful than last time. “The quake hit it much harder than here. Senhorita Durante’s side is injured. It should be wrapped. If there is a physician—”
“You poor dears.” Senhora Santiago looked between them. “You were here all night in such a state?” She turned to Jorge. “Help Mr. Bates to one of the guest rooms then see if you can find Senhorita Serafina’s old things for Senhorita Cecília.” She faced Cecília, pursing her lips slightly. “Let’s get you patched up and into something decent. We can’t have you sitting about in such a state.”
Cecília’s head felt too thick from the pain, the argument, and the sudden flurry of action, so she let Senhora Santiago cluck over her as they made their way deeper into the house, toward what had once been Tia Serafina’s room.
***
CECÍLIA RAN HER FINGERS along the dented cross on her chest and stared at the dark ceiling. Whatever Senhora Santiago had had Cecília drink to help her sleep had worn off, leaving her alone in her late aunt’s ground-floor bedroom with nothing but far too many awful thoughts. She reached out to the little table at her bedside and found the rosary that had been mixed in with the rest of Tia Serafina’s things. As much as it still hurt, Cecília slid so she could kneel by the bed and crossed herself.
I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord; Who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under—
A loud creak from the ceiling made Cecília’s eyes fly open. Little rumbles had been moving through the ground all day, as though God wanted to remind them of His anger, but nothing had caused damage out in the countryside. Still, Cecília couldn’t relax until she heard footsteps that said the house wasn’t going to come down around her. Someone else just happened to be awake.
Cecília tried to find her place in the Apostle’s Creed. Born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried...
The footsteps had moved out to the landing on the second story and started down the stairs. Carefully pushing herself up to standing with a soft whimper, Cecília got her feet under her and limped toward the doorway, blindly feeling for the wooden frame in the dark. Her hand found the latch, and she swung the door open a crack in time to see a familiar tall shape retreating down the hall, toward the back door.
“Mr. Bates?” she whispered as loudly as she dared.
The shape turned, the candle he held giving Cecília enough light to see his face. He frowned and took a few steps toward her so he could whisper as well. “Senhorita Durante. Did I wake you?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” She shifted the rosary beads in her hand slightly, not feeling the need to bring his attention to them after their discussion that morning. “Where are you going?”
“Couldn’t sleep either,” he said. “I was going to get some fresh air.”
Cecília glanced down the rest of the hallway, the door leading out the side just far enough beyond the candle’s circle of light to be hidden in the dark. Being outside, away from the creaking building, seemed far preferable to remaining in the pitch-black room. “May I come?”
Mr. Bates hesitated. “You shouldn’t strain yourself.”
“You’re hurt as well.”
“I also have a fair deal of experience at it. The ocean’s a dangerous place.”
Not as dangerous as the land at the moment. She pressed her lips together. “I’ve been sleeping all day. I can’t stay in there.”
Understanding flashed over Mr. Bates’s expression, as though he had picked up the explanation she couldn’t fully give.
He would, she supposed. Something was driving him back outside as well.
He motioned slightly toward the door with the hand holding the candle. “If you would give me the honor of your company?”
She offered as much of a smile as she could manage and followed him down the hall, doing her best to hide her limp.
After jockeying slightly so Cecília could work the latch as Mr. Bates held the candle with his good arm, the door swung open. A cool gust of air swept inside, and the tightness in Cecília’s chest lessened just enough for her to feel like she could breathe again.
“We likely shouldn’t go wandering in the dark.” Mr. Bates set the candle on the steps, using the outside wall to protect the flame from the wind, and pulled the door up behind them.
Getting away from the house seemed preferable, but between her injuries and not knowing how Tio Aloisio’s garden might have changed in the past few years, Mr. Bates’s suggestion was certainly the most prudent plan. Cecília nodded and started to lower herself, accepting Mr. Bates’s help to remain balanced at the top of the stairs.
The silence of the night settled down on them. With only the pinpricks of stars and the smallest sliver of a crescent moon, the rest of the vineyard might as well have not existed beyond the circle of light the candle cast around the steps and patchy grass below.
Cecília looked out over it, searching for the line where the hills met the sky in the dark. “Is this what it’s like at sea?”
“What?”
“The darkness like this. Back home, before...” She forced herself off the thought before it could take hold. “I’d look out my bedroom window at night to see all the other windows that were lit, and I’d wonder what it had to be like for my father out in the middle of the ocean. It takes over fifty days to Brazil, he once told me. Fifty days of nothing but water.”
“I’ve never been to Brazil,” Mr. Bates said, “but the open sea is an experience. Even darker, though not so quiet. Waves hit the hull. The ship creaks. And that’s just above deck. Add a dozen men sleeping in a room a third the size of your uncle’s library, and you don’t get much quiet.”
“I always wished my father would take me with him when he’d go,” Cecília said.
Mr. Bates laughed lightly. “I’m not certain you would have liked it much. You start with these grand notions of how it’ll be, sailing off to the Orient, seeing the world, and then you find out what it’s really like. Being at sea for weeks at a time. Tight quarters. Bad food...”
“You still do it.”
“True, but it takes a special level of madness to be drawn to it. I imagine most women would be far too sane for any of that.”
“Who says I’m most women?”
He smiled at her. “Had plans to steal a pair of trousers and sail with Anne Bonny, did you?”
“With whom?”
“Anne Bonny. Famous pirate. Dressed like a man to go sailing off with her husband.”
“I wouldn’t be a pirate.” Cecília shook her head derisively. “I would have gone with my father, had he let me. It never seemed fair that João got to go, and I had to stay home.”
“João’s your brother?”
Cecília nodded. “We lost him in the same storm that took my father.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
She gave a weak shrug, that grief seeming oddly far away.
“Though, perhaps for the best you weren’t with them, then?”
She met his eyes, the conversation suddenly feeling too personal. She’d only met the man a day ago, and there she was, alone with him once again, discussing her family and desires she’d kept bottled up since her father had explained she’d never be able to go with him when she was a child. She looked down at her hands, covering the rosary with one palm over the other as she changed the topic. “I... I should likely apologize.”
“For what?” he asked.
“For earlier,” she said. “I shouldn’t have been so rude. While we were talking.” Bibiana wouldn’t have been... Then again, Bibiana never got angry in the first place. She was far too good-natured for that.
“I can’t say I considered anything rude,” Mr. Bates said.
Cecília looked at him. “I was rather curt.”
“Passionate, perhaps”—he offered a crooked smile—“but that’s to be expected when discussing politics or religion. And you’re, by far, not the first person to consider Deist views heretical.”
“And you aren’t worried about that?”
“I’m not Catholic. Your Inquisition has no power over me. And if you lot are right, I’m already damned, simply being Protestant. I can’t say I’m worried over the state of my soul.”
Must be nice. Cecília ran her fingers over the little coral beads of the rosary. She took a shaky breath. “If something happened to Tio Aloisio... I don’t want him to be in Hell.”
“I think it’s early to give up hope, Senhorita Durante. Your uncle could be on his way here as we speak. And even if the worst happened, your uncle is a good man. A great man, some would say. It would be a very cruel God who would damn him for eternity just for being willing to listen to modern ideas.”
You don’t think He can be cruel? “Have you worked out what you believe yesterday was, then? If not His divine displeasure?”
“I actually found an interesting work by Aristotle in your uncle’s library today while you were resting. He postulated that there are vapors underground that need to be vented at times. Like a tea kettle whistling when the steam builds up.”
“And so all of that was... vapors venting?”
“It makes logical sense, I would argue. Volcanos show there is fire under the earth, and even the Church would agree with that, assuming that is where Hell is. It seems quite plausible that fire could lead to steam that would thus become trapped and cause tremors.”
Cecília shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bates, but I don’t believe we’re going to find agreement on that.”
“I can’t say I expected us to, Senhorita Durante.”
Cecília studied his face, most of his profile in shadow from where he’d placed the candle. “Do you ever wish you’d become a scholar rather than a sailor, Mr. Bates?”
“Never would have had the money,” he said. “Anyway, I’m sure I’ve learned much more traveling than I would have at Oxford. And it doesn’t pay especially well, being a deckhand, but you at least make money, learning on a ship.”
Cecília nodded, not having any good response to that. As silence settled over them, she ran her fingers over the silver cross at the bottom of the rosary. The small figure of Jesus hung there, face entirely placid for all of His suffering. Her fingers stilled.
“Were you scared?” she finally asked in a small voice. “Yesterday?”
“Terrified,” he said. “You?”
“I still am,” she admitted.
Mr. Bates nodded slightly, his face showing understanding even if he didn’t answer. In the quiet, he placed his hand over hers and squeezed gently. Even if she should have, she didn’t pull away, accepting the comfort in the little island of light they’d created on the back steps.