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Cecília stood in the middle of Hell. That was what it had to be. Somehow, she had made her way through the skeleton streets to what had been her home. The last lingering sliver of hope that she would find someone there—that things would somehow go back to the way they had been—shattered, and the emptiness knocked the wind from her lungs. Nothing but the stone foundation and ash remained of her home. The smell of charcoal and burnt flesh coated her nose.
“People trapped in the rubble burned alive before anyone could help them.” Mr. Bates’s words echoed around Cecília’s hollow skull. Her throat constricted, gagging her. Without that hope—without any hope—she couldn’t fight off the possibilities. Was Mamãe trapped? Was Bibiana? Cecília remembered the votive she had lit before leaving. Such a little thing. Something she had done a hundred times before. Did that votive topple in the quake? Did I start the fire that burned my family alive? Could God possibly be that cruel?
Her stomach revolted, and her legs gave out. As she hit the ground, a cloud of ash puffed up. Her Hell coated every inch of her. She fought to breathe. When she finally could, she broke down and cried.
By the time she ran out of tears, the sun had sunk to the horizon. She looked back across the shell of her home in the long shadows. There was no way she would be able to get back to Tio Aloisio before dark. She couldn’t bring herself to care. As often as she had sneaked out against Mamãe’s wishes, Cecília had never dared leave home after dark. Being left in her nightmare in the shell of her old life overnight seemed only fitting.
A hazy streak of light cut through the ash, and a glint of metal caught the corner of Cecília’s eye. Forcing her heavy body to move, she dragged herself forward enough to paw through the ash to the glint. Blackened and slightly misshapen, the silver statue of São Cristóvão she had locked under her bed three years ago as punishment for letting Papai and João die broke the surface. Cecília held the small figure in her ash-covered palm. Another sob swept through her chest, no tears left to join it. She squeezed her eyes shut.
What are You telling me?
If the Blessed Virgin showed God’s will for me to go back to Lisbon, what does São Cristóvão, the patron of travelers, mean? She had already traveled too much. After everything else, she wasn’t sure she could go much farther.
“What have you found there, bonitinha?”
Cecília’s hand wrapped around the little statue as she snapped her head to the side.
Three men stood on the street below the cracked stone stairs that led up to the remnants of her scorched home. Wearing ripped clothing coated in ash, they didn’t look much different than any of the other lisboetas she had seen haunting the ruins on her way to the Baixa. Something about the malice on their dirty, scarred faces, however, made Cecília’s heart jump to her throat.
She slipped the statue into her pocket as inconspicuously as possible and stood. Her legs tried to give out again.
“Found some little piece of gold, hmm?” The man at the front moved up the stairs, blocking Cecília’s way back to the street. “Something pretty the rest of us missed?”
Criminals, Cecília had to assume, or at least men who had taken to pilfering in Lisbon’s tragedy. Indignation mixed with her need to flee, strengthening her limbs. She glanced to the side. A blackened chunk of wall closed off the far side of the house. She wouldn’t easily be able to make a run for the alley—if the alley was there anymore. She could jump from the foundation to the road to her left and avoid the stairs. But even if her aching body could take the jolt from the three-foot fall, she wouldn’t likely outrun the men, especially not with one still standing on the street as the second followed the leader into the shell of a home. If it came down to trying or standing there, waiting to see what harm the men would do her, though...
Cecília shot toward the ledge closest to her, praying her body would hold out. The men were too quick. Arms locked under hers before she had a chance to jump and pulled her back.
“Now, now, bonitinha, we’re trying to be friendly.” The leader jerked her around to face him. The sour smell of his breath mixed with the acrid smell of smoke. “You don’t want to go so soon?”
She thrashed, new stabs of pain shooting up her side from her rib with each movement.
He swung her again so her back was pressed to his chest and pinned her arms to her sides. “Check her skirts.”
“Pleasure.” The second man approached.
“Let go!” She kicked, trying to hit the man in front of her, the one behind her. It didn’t matter. She needed to break free. She needed—
Her heel connected with the shin of the man holding her. He jerked in surprise, releasing his grip enough for Cecília to wrench loose. Panic pounding in her ears, she ran. Pain, nearly strong enough to dull her vision, shot through her body as she jumped to the ground. Ash flew up around her as she scrambled through the rubble. Her side burned in agony, her breaths coming shorter and shorter as her body tried to give out. Still, she could hear the men behind her, their footsteps getting closer and closer.
She rounded a corner and skidded to a stop at a group of soldiers standing at the other end of the street. She tried to call out for help but found she couldn’t draw the breath to speak. Their eyes lifted all the same, some hitting her as others looked over her shoulder. The footsteps behind her slid to a stop.
“Soldados!” one of the thieves shouted, and the feet turned away.
“After them!” a soldier at the front ordered some of his men.
Cecília tried to catch herself on a jagged wall as her body slumped. She couldn’t manage to lift her arm. Her knees hit the ground again, and she clutched her side, trying to breathe.
A shot rang out somewhere behind her. Then another. The soldier at the front moved up to her. “Senhorita, are you hurt?”
She still couldn’t draw enough air to speak.
The man set his musket aside to help her to her feet. “Senhorita?”
She took another gasped breath and finally managed, “Those men... I was at my house”—what used to be my house—“and they came. Tried to take—”
The sound of pounding hooves cut her off.
Cecília kept one hand on his arm for balance as she watched a man approach on a horse. Likely around Tio Aloisio’s age, he was as ash-coated as everyone else in the Baixa, but the air he gave off said he was someone important.
“What the Devil were those shots?” He looked over the soldiers on the street.
“Three looters, Minister,” the soldier standing next to Cecília answered. “They attacked this woman. I sent Almeida and Mendes after them.”
“See them on the scaffolding by the river. Obviously, we don’t have enough hanging there to get our point across,” the horseman said before he looked at Cecília, his piercing eyes studying her from a long, wizened face that was still quite handsome despite his age. “This is a dangerous place to be, senhorita. Especially after dark.”
Cecília could only manage to nod.
“I believe she’s injured,” the soldier supplied.
How the man on the horse had been addressed suddenly registered in Cecília’s mind. “Minister.”
The man cut off whatever he had been about to say.
“Are you Senhor Carvalho? The king’s minister?”
He lifted his eyebrows. “I am.”
“You sent for my uncle,” she said in a rush.
Senhor Carvalho tilted his head slightly. “And who is your uncle?”
“Ti... Durante. Senhor Aloisio Silva Durante. He brought wine and rice from his vineyard today.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Your uncle is a good man,” Senhor Carvalho said gallantly then glanced around. “I trust he didn’t leave you here alone?”
Cecília swallowed.
“Cecília!”
She jumped, the motion only making her knees buckle again. She clutched the soldier’s arm to remain upright and blinked to convince herself that she really was seeing Mr. Bates down the road. She recovered, starting the introduction before he made it to the group of men. “Senhor Carvalho, this is one of my uncle’s business partners, Mr. Bates. Mr. Bates, Senhor Carvalho, the king’s minister.”
Mr. Bates’s stride broke for a split second before he continued toward the group. He lowered his head enough to be respectful as he faced Senhor Carvalho. “An honor to meet you, Minister. I was... helping Senhorita Durante look for her mother. Before we got separated.”
Cecília didn’t contradict Mr. Bates’s telling of events, even as she could feel how harshly the soldiers standing around were suddenly judging him.
Senhor Carvalho looked between them. “Is Senhor Durante nearby?”
“He’s back toward Belém.” Mr. Bates pointed.
Senhor Carvalho nodded once. He shifted his gaze to one of the other soldiers. “Vargas, take Senhorita Durante and Senhor Bates to my house. Carry her, if need be.” He looked back to Cecília. “My house survived the destruction, praise be. You can stay there until daybreak. I’ve done my best to rid the street of looters, but I wouldn’t suggest walking through town after dark. I believe you’ve seen why.”
“You’re too generous,” Cecília managed.
“Your uncle has been a great help to me,” he said. “It is the least I can do.”
Cecília opened her mouth to answer, but the minister had already turned, issuing the rest of his orders before riding away. Holding her side, Cecília forced herself forward, determined not to be reduced to being carried through the streets. Her muscles fought against her, feeling nearly as sore as they had on the day everything had happened.
The soldier next to the one she’d been using as a crutch stepped with her. “Senhorita Durante?”
She looked at him.
“Are you related to Father Durante? From São Vincente?”
Something fluttered in her stomach, dangerously close to nausea. “My brother.”
“I can’t say what’s happened to him now, but he was ministering to the ill in one of the campos on the east side of town. If you’re looking for your family.”
A lump formed in Cecília’s throat that she had to fight to dislodge. Perhaps she was too late to save Mamãe and Bibiana, but it was possible she wasn’t entirely alone. “Thank you.”
The soldier lowered his head in a quick bow, shouldered his musket, and moved off with the rest of his fellows, ready to face whatever else was stirring on Lisbon’s streets.
***
CECÍLIA STARED AT THE ceiling of the little bedroom, trying not to think. The nine-year-old—whom Senhor Carvalho’s wife, Senhora Daun, had quickly introduced as her daughter Teresa Violante—lying on the bed next to Cecília turned over in her sleep. The slight bounce was enough to shoot a new pain up Cecília’s side. A flash of the men grabbing her, followed by the burnt shell of a house, the fires, and the quake crashed through her mind. She suddenly couldn’t breathe. Whether her rib had finally been driven through her lung and she was dying, or if the weight of what was happening was suffocating her as readily as that crucifix, she didn’t know. She sat up, trying to stop her mind from racing.
It was no use, not in the dark. Doing her best not to wake Teresa or the Carvalhos’ four-year-old daughter, whose name Cecília couldn’t remember, she climbed out of the large shared bed and moved for the hallway. As a guest in the fine house, especially a guest foisted upon an unwitting hostess late at night, Cecília knew she shouldn’t go wandering. But she couldn’t stay in that room with those beautiful little girls with the awful thoughts of what had likely happened to Bibiana so fresh. Less than a mile from her home in the Baixa, Senhor Carvalho’s house in the Barrio Alto looked practically untouched. It didn’t feel fair. It certainly wasn’t fair. Too much tried to press down on her at once—memories, pain, horror. She made it as far down the stairs as the first landing before she collapsed. A sob broke free before she bit it down. The last thing she needed was to wake the entire house.
She gripped her injured side with one hand, holding her knees to her chest with the other. She felt too much hurt to deal with it. She had no choice but to find Francisco. He was the family she had left. He was a priest. Maybe, just maybe, he would know what everything meant. Because it had to mean something. It had to. To think of everything as some twist of fate set in motion by an uncaring God... some natural process...
“Senhorita Durante?”
She squeezed her eyes tightly. Of course he would show up. For the past week, when had there been a moment of weakness where Mr. Bates hadn’t appeared? Whether he was helping or hurting, she didn’t know. She got control of her breathing enough to talk. “Leave me alone.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I said leave me alone.” She looked up at him, raising her voice as much as she dared. “What are you even doing here?”
The mix of hurt and anger she had seen since she had left him in the camp—which he had been veiling while dealing with Senhor Carvalho and his family—flickered back to life on his face. “I was worried you were going to try sneaking out again. You seem to have real trouble remaining in place.”
“And that’s your business?”
“Your uncle told me to watch you. Though I think I’ve gone rather above and beyond after you tried to get me killed this afternoon.”
“You wouldn’t have been killed,” Cecília mumbled into her knees.
“You know why so many members of the British Factory weren’t hurt in the quake?” Mr. Bates’s voice tipped up with a hard edge. “Because they left the city to avoid trouble with your lot on All Saints’ Day. Don’t think we aren’t aware of what could happen to us being here.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t be here,” Cecília snapped, hardening herself to stand once again. “Leave me alone.” She made it half to straightening before her side spasmed.
“You are hurt.” The anger in Mr. Bates’s tone leached out in an instant as he moved up the final step to her side.
She remained half hunched. “I’ll be fine. I just aggravated it.”
He moved around her so his good arm was closest to her. “You should be lying down.”
“I’m fine,” she lied, even though she knew her pain had to be evident on her face as every muscle tried to clench at once. “I don’t need your help.”
“You can barely stand.”
She flinched as he tried to touch her. “I can’t go back in there.”
“In where?”
“With those girls.” She dropped her voice as the anger she had been clinging to faltered under the new wave of grief.
“The Carvalho girls?” The frown came through his voice even if Cecília couldn’t bring herself to look at him. “Have they done something?”
“It’s my fault,” Cecília barely whispered. “It’s all my fault.”
Mr. Bates started to speak then straightened as he looked around. “Please. You need to sit at least.”
Cecília didn’t fight him anymore. Accepting his hold around her hip below her injured side, she let him lead her down the rest of the flight and to a low bench in the Carvalhos’ salon.
Once she was settled, Mr. Bates lowered himself to kneel in front of her. “Now, what’s happened?”
“They’re dead.” She kept her eyes on her hands, doing her best not to start crying again. Her side wouldn’t take it, and for as much as Mr. Bates had thrust himself into her life over the past week, she couldn’t be that open with her grief with it so fresh.
“The girls...?” he started in alarm before he apparently realized what she meant. “You found something? At your house?”
“They would have been there.” It had been too early for the Palmeiro’s service, and Mamãe certainly wouldn’t have left the house for any other reason. “And I left a candle burning...” Her throat tried to close up. She forced the lump down. “That fire... If they’d been trapped... If they were alive...” The image of that horror washed through her, and all semblance of control broke. She doubled, accepting the pain as her rightful punishment. If she did die, if her rib did pierce her through, perhaps that would be her final act of atonement and, she could hope, her promise of salvation—marked like Jesus, pierced by the Holy Lance.
“Did you see anything that said they were there?” Mr. Bates’s voice broke back through. “Cecília.” He forced her chin up slightly so she would have to look at him.
“Everything’s turned to ash,” she said softly.
“So nothing. No bones? No jewelry they were wearing?”
She shook her head as much as she could.
“Then you don’t know they were there.”
She opened her mouth, but he didn’t let her get a word out.
“And even if they were, God forbid, fires broke out in hundreds of places all over the city. You can’t blame any single candle for that. It would be like blaming a single locust for blighting a year’s crops.”
Cecília held Mr. Bates’s eyes, studying them in the mostly dark room. “Why are you trying to make me feel better?”
His eyebrows furrowed slightly.
“You were angry with me a minute ago.”
He hesitated. “Just because I’m upset doesn’t mean I want you to blame yourself for deaths that aren’t your fault and possibly never even happened.”
“You said people burned—”
“I was upset. Worried. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Worried?” She suddenly realized how close he was, his face only a hand’s width from her with how she had leaned forward.
“It’s dangerous here,” he said. “You’re lucky nothing unspeakable happened to you before those soldiers came.”
She swallowed. “How did you even find me?”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I asked how to get to the Baixa—since that seemed where you were most likely to go—then followed any commotion I heard. I imagined I’d find you at the heart of one of them.”
“Seems like a lot of trouble to go to.”
“Your uncle told me to watch you.”
“And you traipsed all over Lisbon to do that?”
He paused then finally said, “It seems so.”
Cecília studied him for another moment before she straightened. A pained hiss escaped, and her hand went to her side.
“You’ve done too much today.” Mr. Bates moved next to her on the bench, his hand hovering above hers without touching it.
“Do you still believe God didn’t do this, Mr. Bates? After seeing all this?”
“Do you still believe He’s so cruel?”
She pressed her lips together. “I prayed for guidance this morning. Jorge showed up just then with that letter. You don’t believe that is divine intervention?”
“Fortuitous timing, perhaps.” He gently shifted her hand out of the way so he could check her side. “Though I’d imagine mortal infatuation played more into that then divine interference, if you asked him to go for you.”
Cecília winced as his fingers found the worst of her bruise. “Infatuation?”
“By my estimation, I imagine that field hand was more interested in your favor than in doing God’s work.” He ran his fingers to the side slightly before he shook his head. “You can’t run around like this, Cecília.”
She caught his hand so he would stop prodding, and something in the air turned tense. Another second, and he pulled back, clearing his throat. Cecília swallowed, the new pressure still pushing down on her. “You keep calling me Cecília.”
He looked up at her. “What?”
“You’ve been calling me Cecília.”
He blinked, fumbling his words for a moment before he managed to properly speak. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why—”
“You may, if you’d like.” She brought her hand back to her side.
His eyes dropped again. “Did you have someone rewrap that?”
She hadn’t. Senhora Daun had already seemed less than pleased to have two strangers show up on her stoop unannounced, even if she had the good breeding to hide it behind a kind smile, and Cecília had been on the edge of collapse after making it up the final hill to the Barrio Alto. The memory of the night they had arrived at Tio Aloisio’s, though, suddenly sent a flash of heat through her, embarrassment and something else. A week before, she wouldn’t have known the Englishman from Adam. A week before, everything made sense. But a week before might as well have been lifetimes. Her voice came out low, too soft to be authoritative. “I’m not going back to Belém tomorrow. Or to Loures.”
Mr. Bates frowned.
“One of the soldiers said my older brother was ministering on the east side of town. He’s a priest. People will know him. I should be able to find him.”
Mr. Bates looked her over. “You’re in no shape to go wandering through any of the camps around here.”
“I have to find him.” She had been sent back to Lisbon for a reason. Whether or not Mr. Bates would believe that, she had to.
His eyes settled on her face, searching for something there. “You know you can be an infuriatingly stubborn woman?”
“I’ve been told. Several times.”
His eyes settled on her mouth for a half a second before he met her gaze. Tension like a thread pulled tight reverberated inside her, then once again, the air in the room shifted. Suddenly, the gap between them had vanished. Cecília hadn’t leaned forward, she hadn’t felt him do so either, and yet their lips brushed. What air she had been able to inhale left her lungs. Her entire body tingled from the sensation, from the suddenness, from the deep, internal knowledge that everything that was happening was wrong. And yet she couldn’t stop it. For the first time in what seemed like lifetimes, she didn’t feel so dreadfully alone.
From the building desperation between them, he felt it too. The brush turned to steady pressure, Mr. Bates’s hand going around the back of her neck, guiding her mouth against his. Cecília gave herself over to it, little pleasant jolts shooting down through her, fighting off all the awful feelings lingering there.
His hand moved from her neck, sliding around her as his body began to press her backward. Pain shot up her side. She gasped, a new spasm trying to work through her, and Mr. Bates shot back so quickly he nearly knocked himself off the bench.
He said something in English then switched back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what...” He stood. “You really should rest—”
“Please don’t go,” she whispered.
He hesitated. “What?”
“You didn’t come after me just because of my uncle, did you?”
The question sat in the air between them, hovering on top of the earlier thickness. He finally released a breath. “No.” He didn’t elaborate.
She didn’t want him to. “Then sit with me? I’ll even listen to more about your philosophy, if you like. I just... I can’t think anymore. Not about today. I will if I’m alone.”
Mr. Bates looked at her for another moment before he moved back to the bench. Ignoring how wrong everything had already gone, Cecília leaned into him. After the slightest hesitation, he slid his arm behind her—not quite holding her but letting his fingers brush against her shoulder. Shutting her eyes, she tried to focus on the touch. As always, everything was different in the dark. And dear Lord, she needed whatever he could offer as long as she was left floating in the night.
She imagined he did as well.
***
“YOU SAW PAPAI?” FOUR-year-old Maria Francisca hovered by Cecília’s legs as one of the Carvalho servants helped rewrap the bandage around Cecília’s ribs. “Is he coming home now?”
“You know Mama said he’s busy.” Teresa, still perched on the bed, rolled her eyes. “He needs to help the king help the hurt people.”
Cecília offered both little girls a smile, though she wasn’t sure if their inquisitive chattering was better or worse than being alone with her thoughts.
“Your cross is broken.” Maria Francisca moved out of the way as the servant shifted to tie off the wrapping.
“It’s not broken. It’s bent,” Teresa corrected.
Cecília lifted her hand to the poor dented necklace still tied securely in place near the neckline of her camisa.
“Do you want a new one?” Maria Francisca hopped onto the bed next to her sister.
Somehow, Cecília’s smile stayed in place. “My papai gave me this one. I can get it fixed later.”
“Is he helping the king too? Your papai?”
As little as the four-year-old’s exuberance fit Cecília’s mood, Cecília couldn’t bring herself to dampen it while looking at the girl’s bright, curious eyes. “He’s in Brazil. Have you ever seen one of those big ships they have down at the docks?” Her stomach twisted. Big ships they had down at the docks...
“When we were coming back from court with Mama.” Teresa nodded.
“My papai owns one of those. He sails it all around the world.”
“Papai’s sailed places too.” Maria Francisca’s voice rose, not letting her sister talk over her again. “He lived in Low... Lun...”
“London,” Teresa supplied.
“London. Then he met Mama in Österreich.”
“Austria,” Teresa translated.
Maria Francisca nodded fervently enough that her dark curls bounced. “She’s from Austria. Just like the old queen.”
“Dona Maria Ana,” Teresa said with an affected somberness that seemed almost comical on her angular little face, “God rest her exalted soul.”
Another harried-looking woman appeared in the doorway. “Senhorita Teresa, Senhorita Francisca, why are you still sitting there? Your breakfasts are getting cold. Up, up!”
Maria Francisca popped off the bed. Teresa huffed but stood to follow her sister and the woman Cecília had to assume was their nurse.
The servant helping Cecília moved to the rest of the clothing Cecília had taken from her late aunt’s things and began to tie on the petticoats. “That’s not too tight, senhorita?”
“It’s fine.” Cecília tried not to think about the sharp ache that hadn’t left her side since yesterday. She was still relying on the wrap rather than stays to avoid the boning pressing into the deep bruise, but if she was going to keep going, she needed to find a way to ignore it.
Of course, she hadn’t yet figured out how she would get Mr. Bates to stop from trying to get her back into bed. Heat rushed into her cheeks as her thoughts swung out from what she had originally meant in her own mind. Even though they hadn’t kissed again, Cecília still couldn’t fight the flush from the mix of that memory and how she had woken before dawn, resting against him.
“The staff will be up soon, Cecília.” He had stroked her hair lightly to wake her. “You don’t want to be caught down here.” With me, his tone implied.
She thanked Heaven that the servant girl was too busy tying Cecília’s pockets over the petticoats to see how red Cecília had turned. She would have to ask if the Carvalhos had a confessor. She had gone too long without the familiar structure of Mass, prayer, and confession that had marked her days her entire life. That was likely driving her as mad as the rest of what she had lost in the past week. Everything that had ever anchored her was gone. At least she could possibly get confession back.
And before I see Francisco, she hoped. Priest or not, he was still her brother. She couldn’t confess to him. Especially not after what had happened last night.
The girl finished with Cecília’s gown and took a step back. “Is there anything else you need, senhorita?”
“No, thank you.”
“Senhora Daun is taking her breakfast downstairs, if you would like to join her.”
Cecília nodded and watched the girl go before she took as deep a breath as she could, testing the new wrap. For all that had happened the day before, she had to admit she wasn’t in as bad a shape as she would have anticipated. She apparently had held together so far. She could only keep doing what she had to and see how long that remained true. She slipped her hand through the slit in her skirt and into her pocket to feel the slightly deformed São Cristóvão statue. Trying not to think too long, she moved for the stairs.
She could hear Mr. Bates’s voice before she reached the bottom. In a light and congenial tone, he was speaking German, which said he was with Senhora Daun. As tired as Cecília was of not understanding anything that was happening around her, his being able to speak to Senhora Daun in her native language had been the only thing that had truly made the woman smile when they had showed up on the Carvalho doorstep, so Cecília supposed she couldn’t complain too much. She moved into the doorway and waited for the pair to notice her.
Mr. Bates looked up first, and he trailed off mid-word before he recovered and finished whatever he’d been saying to Senhora Daun.
Cecília didn’t bother trying to pick out any of the words, simply waiting where she was until Senhora Daun looked at her as well.
“Good morning, Senhorita Durante.”
“Good morning, Senhora Daun.” Cecília performed as much of a curtsey as she could.
“Please join us.” The woman motioned across the low table.
Cecília lowered her head and moved to where Senhora Daun had gestured. The intensity with which Mr. Bates was watching her made heat start to tingle into her cheeks again, though he likely was trying to size up how much pain she was still in more than anything else. To distract herself, she focused on hiding her stiffness.
“Did you sleep well?” Senhora Daun focused on her plate, the earlier laughter in her voice replaced by something formal and stiff.
“Yes, thank you,” Cecília lied. She shifted her head slightly so a few loose dark curls of her hair would hang forward enough to block Mr. Bates from view. “I was wondering, though, do you happen to have a confessor?”
Senhora Daun’s dark eyes lifted to meet Cecília’s, giving Cecília a good idea where little Teresa had gotten her sharply pointed features. “We do, but he is helping my husband at the moment.”
“Of course,” Cecília said as a servant set a plate in front of her. She tried to think if she should say something else. Another servant appeared in the doorway, saving her from needing to come up with anything.
“A messenger for you, senhora.”
Senhora Daun nodded and pushed herself up to standing. “Excuse me.”
Mr. Bates rose slightly as well. He waited until Senhora Daun had exited before sitting again.
Cecília watched him out of the corner of her eye through the shield of tight curls.
“You want a confessor?” he asked after a beat.
She looked at him.
“Because of...?”
“Because I’m still Catholic.”
He looked down at his own plate, apparently willing to leave there the discussion of the night before. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Better.” She pushed her hair behind her ear, not certain if her discomfort was brought simply being in a room with him again or because of the knowledge that they were in a stranger’s home, sharing breakfast with the daughter of an Austrian count, with servants circling behind them. The normalcy of a formal meal certainly seemed wrong after what Cecília had seen. “I was hoping to see a confessor then look for my brother today.”
The careful treading shattered, and Mr. Bates sent her an incredulous look. “Today? You can’t be serious.”
“He’s likely the only family I have left at this point.”
“You have your uncle.”
Cecília released a breath through her nose and made herself meet his eyes. “My mother had eight children, you know. My sister Ana Margarida died last year, trying to bring her own son into the world. João died at sea with my father. Gabriel and José passed as infants before I was ever born, and Isabela didn’t see her fifth birthday. If Bibiana is gone, it’s only Francisco and me. You expect me to go off and wait for Heaven knows how long to actually see he’s alive?”
“You’re injured. You need to rest.”
“I’m fine.”
“Saying you are isn’t going to heal your rib any more quickly.”
“Do you honestly think you can stop me if I’ve already made up my mind, Mr. Bates?”
Mr. Bates fixed her with an annoyed, if resigned, look but finally sighed. “If I agree, will you at least allow me to come with you this time rather than running off?”
“You don’t need to go back to Belém?”
Mr. Bates shook his head, looking down at his plate. “In for a penny, in for a pound.” He met her eyes again. “At least wait until we can send word that you’re well back to your uncle?”
Cecília studied him, trying to determine if he was attempting to pull some other trick to stop her going before she nodded. “Fine.”
Mr. Bates still looked less than pleased, but he set down his slice of bread and picked up the teacup by his plate instead, as if he needed to signal he had concluded his argument. He paused before he fully lifted the cup to his lips. “You are welcome to call me John, if you like. After everything?”
The heat rushed back into Cecília’s face before she could fight it, and she turned to her own plate, letting her hair fall back down to hide her.