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Cecília sat in a hazy room, the entire space feeling insubstantial and yet so real. Deep inside, she knew she was dreaming, yet she couldn’t bring herself to hope to wake up. The richly colored pillows under her joined with the rosy golden light that wrapped around her. She was in their dining room, which was decorated with a mix of the Moorish style Mamãe found so fashionable and the accent pieces Papai had brought back from his trips. Each one had its own story, fantastic enough that Mamãe would shake her head and tell Papai to stop spinning tales when he told them, even while she smiled.
A new warmth moved into her as an arm slid around her waist. She looked next to her, somehow not at all shocked by John’s appearance out of thin air.
She stared in silence for a moment then finally asked, “Why can’t you just have faith sometimes?”
“I have faith,” the dream figure of John answered. “Not your faith.”
“Why?” she whispered.
He simply smiled and ran his thumb over her bottom lip. Warmth rushed through her, and suddenly, all she could focus on was the desire to feel him kiss her again.
“Senhorita Cecília.” A hand clamped on her shoulder, tearing her out of the dream.
She half sat in surprise before she remembered her rib. Hissing, she felt the warmth of the dream dissipate in an instant in the dark barraca. Blinking, she tried to accept the difference.
“Senhorita Cecília,” Senhora Garcia’s voice cut through the darkness. “It’s time for Lauds.”
Cecília released a breath, trying to rid herself of the tension still humming in her body. At least the dark hid her face, which was no doubt red. “Is it dawn already?”
“Nearly,” Senhora Garcia said. “Get up. Prayer will help you with that bad dream.”
Cecília froze. “What?”
“I could hear you tossing. You’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t exorcize those demons soon.”
“Just a dream about my old home was all,” Cecília mumbled as she sat up the rest of the way, checking the wrap around her side.
Senhora Garcia didn’t comment, which was more than fine with Cecília. She had only a few moments to clear her head before she had to leave her little pallet of blankets and start the day. If to sin in thought truly was to sin in deed, she was solidly damned to be buffeted about in Hell with others who sinned in the flesh.
She had yet to confess the actual kiss in the three days she had been sitting in the camp, waiting for John and Tio Aloisio. Perhaps that had been her mistake. The longer she sat with that on her conscience, the more it would fester. Yet for as wrong as they were, Cecília didn’t fully want to give up her dreams. In the bleak camp, their warmth was her only relief, outside of prayer.
“Sálve Regína, máter misericórdiæ: víta, dulcédo, et spes nóstra, sálve.”
Cecília squinted, trying to see Bibiana through the dark. Her sister had finished yet another pass through her rosary, though the slurred mumble said Bibiana was asleep. Cecília crossed herself, trying to keep her mind from turning bitter at the constant presence of the words in the hut. Cecília had been there for three full days, and Bibiana had not stopped, not even to sleep or eat. They struggled to get anything into her stomach past the mumbling.
Please let nothing have happened to John Bates. Cecília shifted up onto her knees as she brushed herself off. Please let Tio Aloisio come today. I will suffer here as much as You ask, but this eternal torment...
She wasn’t certain how to end her prayer, and so she let it trail off. As she had wandered through the campo, looking for Francisco three days before, she hadn’t been fully able to take in just how bad life was for those left in the camp with nowhere to go. She and Bibiana were considered lucky, living with Senhora Garcia with something that could pass for a roof over their heads, although that roof hadn’t stopped water from seeping through. Though it hadn’t rained again, Cecília’s clothing was perpetually damp. She could no longer tell what itching was from the waterlogged linen and what was from the fleas that seemed to multiply by the hour, brought from place to place by the feral dogs that stalked the camp after dark.
“Senhora Garcia.” Francisco’s voice came through the open doorway. “Are you ready?”
“Coming, Father Durante,” Senhora Garcia called.
Finding the shadow that was Bibiana, Cecília kissed her sister’s forehead before heading out for the day. She frowned once again at the clamminess, but even if Bibiana seemed no better, she also seemed no worse. Cecília supposed that was all she could ask for the time being.
Outside the little wooden structure, the shadows of Senhora Garcia and Francisco took more form in the predawn light. Cecília fell into line, following silently as they headed for the emptier space where they held all their prayers.
“Word is, Father Malagrida is going to be in camp today,” Francisco said into the quiet morning air.
“What?” Cecília’s question pushed over Senhora Garcia’s exclamation of delight.
“He’s been traveling around the campos to help the ill, both physically and spiritually. I heard word that he’ll be doing a sermon nearby this afternoon. You should come.”
Senhora Garcia agreed enthusiastically, though Cecília had a feeling the sentence had been directed at her.
“Of course,” she said, already wondering how far she was willing to wander from the little barraca that had become her home in case that was the exact moment Tio Aloisio arrived. She could only hope, if it were the day Tio Aloisio made it to the campo, he would be willing to wait for Cecília’s return.
***
CECÍLIA HADN’T BOTHERED to give more than single-word answers outside of the prayers that punctuated her day every three hours or so. If Senhora Garcia had noticed, she hadn’t seemed to care. The old woman passed Cecília yet another bowl of the bland rice porridge that was the only real sustenance in the camp and turned to Bibiana. Slowly, she forced the girl to eat in between mumbled Hail Marys and Mysteries. Cecília listened as she poked at her own porridge, her appetite entirely gone after days of eating the mush without so much as a spoonful of sugar to improve the taste.
After a few more bites, Cecília couldn’t take it anymore. “I’ll be outside, Senhora Garcia.”
The woman looked up from her work. “Don’t go wandering. Father Malagrida should be here soon.”
“Soon” had been the line through Lauds and Prime and Terce. They were past Sext, marking midday, and “soon” had yet to come. Cecília offered as much of a smile as she could manage. “I just need some fresh air. I’ll be outside the door.”
As she stepped through the empty doorway, Cecília saw that the cloud cover of the morning had dissipated, but it hadn’t done anything to remove the gloom hovering over the camp. She pulled her robe tighter around her then slipped her hand through the opening to feel the dented necklace still pressed to her chest.
“Your cross is broken.” The little voice played in Cecília’s head.
“It’s not broken. It’s bent.”
A battered gold cross, Tia Serafina’s rosary, and the little deformed silver statue of São Cristóvão, beyond the clothes she currently wore, were the three things that made the entirety of Cecília’s earthly possessions. Compared to many, she was lucky. She looked at the men standing near the next row of huts. Though they were sharing a pipe, none looked at one another. Their eyes focused on ground that had been churned into mud.
If we can’t go soon, I will go mad...
A commotion in the other direction grabbed Cecília’s attention. She glanced back at the shabby little barraca then started forward to see what was happening. Even if she didn’t dare take so much as her robe off at night, for fear of robbers or worse, she hadn’t been harassed in the camp. Word had spread quickly enough that she was the sister of both Father Durante and the Miracle Child. Even if she didn’t have either’s divine blessing, the association was obviously enough.
She slowed as the cart came into view, blinking just in case she had gone mad. Tio Aloisio stood off to one side, talking to Francisco as a curious crowd began to circle. She took a step forward then froze as her skin tingled. Looking to the end of the cart, she met John’s eyes. He offered a small smile before bending to straighten whatever he had been unloading.
Cecília caught her own smile, which was far too happy for the grim camp, and schooled it away before she started forward, moving as quickly as she could without breaking into a jog. “Tio Aloisio!”
The dark look her uncle fixed her with said he wasn’t any happier with her. He looked back at Francisco. “I think we need to talk, Cisco.”
Francisco bristled, his face pinched in the way it used to when he was younger. “It’s Father Durante.”
Cecília wasn’t the only one getting Tio Aloisio’s dark looks. He fixed his eyes on Francisco, hard and steady. “Now.”
“You have no authority to—”
“With your father not here, your sisters can use all the help they can get. Where’s Bibiana?”
Francisco’s jaw remained tense, but he spun quickly enough that his black robe flared around his ankles, and he started for Senhora Garcia’s barraca with Tio Aloisio close at heel.
Suddenly alone, Cecília hesitated, knowing that she should go with her brother and uncle. Then again, she needed Tio Aloisio focused on changing Francisco’s mind, not splitting his time glaring between the two of them. Her body lit up as footsteps approached her.
Get ahold of yourself. She tried to force the flush away, fighting her traitorous body. She was too aware of him, and those dreams... none of it was right or even natural. She worked to keep her voice steady. “Thank you for bringing him.”
“You knew it was me?” John took a place beside her.
Cecília released a breath then turned to face him. “I’m glad you’re back. I was worried something had happened to you.”
His cheek twitched in a way that could have been another small smile or a grimace. “A lot has been happening. It took a while to get free again.”
She started to answer then noticed the cloth sling was missing. “Your arm. Is it better?”
“Oh.” John brought his left hand to his right shoulder. “It will be a few more weeks until it’s entirely back to normal, but it’s on its way. I can push through it.” His eyes dropped to her side. “You?”
“I’m fine.” Cecília swallowed. Something snapped, and she threw her arms around his neck. Beyond the ash and sweat, some familiar, comforting smell clung to him.
He froze for a beat before he placed his hands on her hips and pushed her back awkwardly. “Cecília...”
She came to her senses and stepped away, a flush moving up her neck. “I’m sorry.” She glanced behind her to see if anyone had noticed then placed the smell. She turned back to John. “Were you sailing?”
He cut off whatever he had been about to say as his eyebrows rose. “What?”
“You smell like salt. What were you doing?”
He glanced around again as if someone was going to catch them speaking then looked back at her. “Minister Carvalho asked for those with ships to help bury bodies at sea. Your uncle needed help, and I certainly know my way around rigging.”
“You were helping... toss people into the ocean?”
“We had a priest with us. Approved by the Cardinal Patriarch, even, I was told. You don’t have to worry for their souls.”
“What about people’s families? If they’re still looking, they won’t know—”
“The last thing this city needs right now is a plague.” John shook his head. “The minister’s wise to clear the streets.”
She pressed her lips together.
He obviously took her expression as hesitation. “I know I’d prefer a burial at sea to being left rotting in the street, attracting mongrels. I’ve known good men who have had the same, and I have no doubt they are now in Heaven.”
She fought off the urge to embrace him again. “You’re well, though?”
“Never better.” He didn’t attempt something more convincing. “You? You’ve been well here?”
She didn’t call him on the obvious lie. “Tired. It’s hard to sleep here, but I’ve been more worried than anything.”
“Worried about me?”
“And everything else.”
His eyes flicked down to her mouth, not lingering but not quickly enough to be hidden. The sound of happy, awed voices rose from deeper into the camp. Cecília frowned, the lightness in the air the first break in the misery she had felt since she had arrived.
She held out a hand to stop a woman who was rushing forward. “What’s happening?”
She barely broke her stride, calling back, “Father Malagrida is here!”
“Father Malagrida?” John repeated.
“Francisco said he was coming today. He’s famous. Some say a living saint.”
“I’ve heard of him.” John nodded. “Last I heard, Minister Carvalho had prohibited his sermonizing.”
Cecília blinked a little too quickly. “Prohibited?”
“Malagrida and any other priest whose sermons increase anxiety amongst the populace. People need to focus on rebuilding the capital, not fret about the impending end of the world.”
“He has no right to censor holy men.”
“Whether or not he has the right, you have to admit he has a point.”
She met his eyes. “Please don’t do this right now, John.”
His eyes couldn’t seem to find a place to settle on her face. “Do what?”
“We need our faith as much as we need our homes. Don’t try to take that.”
His gaze settled on her mouth once again, and he wasn’t as quick to remove it this time. Her breath caught.
“Cecília.” Francisco’s voice shattered the moment.
Cecília didn’t know whether to be thankful or disappointed. She angled to see him.
“Come.” He motioned, turning after the crowd.
John frowned. “Does he always call you like a hound?”
Cecília hesitated, looking at Francisco’s back then John. “Can you find out what’s happening with Tio Aloisio?”
His cheek twitched in another smile-grimace, and he nodded. “I’ll try.”
Cecília squeezed his hand quickly, not entirely able to resist touching him a final time even given how tense their conversation had grown. Silently, she turned after Francisco, still feeling John’s eyes on her as she walked away.
***
CECÍLIA STOOD TO ONE side in the mass of humanity that had gathered around Father Malagrida, heart pounding as the rest of the crowd remained so silent that she had no doubt even those a hundred bodies back could hear the priest’s stern voice.
“Learn, oh Lisbon, that the destroyers of our houses, palaces, churches, and convents, the cause of the death of so many people and of the flame that devoured such vast treasures, are your abominable sins.” The priest’s piercing blue eyes scanned the crowd, moving as though he were looking into the soul of every person there, one by one. “Tragic Lisbon is now a mound of ruins. Unrestorable, abandoned. As for the dead, what a great harvest of sinful souls such a disaster has sent to Hell! Holy people prophesied the earthquake’s coming, yet the city continued in its sinful ways without a care for the future. Now, indeed, Lisbon is desperate.”
Red blotches began to stain the man’s face, visible over his stark-white beard even at a distance. Cecília couldn’t help but think of the portraits of Old Testament prophets she’d seen emblazoned in stained glass. She pressed her fist into her stomach, trying to keep her breathing steady.
“It is scandalous to pretend the earthquake was solely a natural event, though some may wish it to be so, for if that be true, there is no need to repent and avoid the wrath of God. Believe me, Lisbon, not even the Devil himself could invent a false idea more likely to lead us to irreparable ruin.
“Now, it is necessary to devote all our strength and purpose to the task of repentance. Do you think being billeted in the country, outside the city, put us outside the jurisdiction of God?” He pointed skyward. “God undoubtedly desires to exercise His love and mercy, but be sure, wherever we are, He is watching us, scourge in hand. See to your sins before He next sends your souls to Hell.”
Cecília’s hands trembled. A low panic she hadn’t felt in days coursed through her. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them, then shut them again, but she couldn’t fully gain control of herself.
Father Malagrida finished his sermon, his voice rising through the end, growing loud enough that it rattled inside Cecília’s head, and she felt hellfire licking her feet. The silence after he finished stretched for what seemed like an eternity. Then it shattered, the crowd shifting as one as Father Malagrida turned to prepare the Eucharist.
Francisco looked at Cecília from his place next to her, his face just as hard as Tio Aloisio’s had been earlier. “You understand why Bibiana must remain here now? If you wish to go off with Aloisio and his English friends you seem to like so much, good riddance. I will pray for your soul, but don’t try to drag us to Hell with you. Certainly not by calling Aloisio to roar his heresies at me.”
“Cis—” she started, but Francisco had already stormed away, making his way to the front of the crowd as it parted before him like the Red Sea.
Cecília looked at their priest-prophet then at the line already starting, waiting to receive communion from a man who had performed miracles.
She hadn’t taken communion since she had arrived in camp. Then again, she could hardly say she was in a state of grace—she hadn’t confessed the kiss. She hadn’t confessed her dreams. She hadn’t confessed all the doubts that had been circling in her head in the past ten days or the guilt that wouldn’t leave her be. She turned away from the priest. She couldn’t say where she was going, but she couldn’t stay there.
***
“CECÍLIA?” JOHN’S VOICE called from somewhere far away.
Cecília didn’t unfurl from her spot wedged against the cart wheel, mostly hidden from view as the shadows lengthened.
“And once again,” she mumbled. Of course he was the one looking for her—no one else had for weeks. She and John Bates, thrown together as though he were her own Purgatory, leaving her to play out her punishment as she fought to purify her soul. Or maybe it was Hell. At least Purgatory offered a chance of escape.
His footsteps approached then stopped as he apparently spotted her. “Cecília! We’ve been looking for you for over an hour. It’s getting dark.”
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” she said weakly, not sure if she had spoken loudly enough to be heard by anyone but herself.
John hesitated then took a seat next to her. “What do you mean?”
“Do you think my mother was a sinner? Sent to Hell?”
“Are you quoting Malagrida’s sermon?”
“Not quoting.” She pulled her knees tighter to her chest, her rib not hurting quite as much as before. “I just... I used to know what to think. I sinned. Lord knows I did. But I knew what those sins were. I knew how I needed to repent. At least I thought I did. But all of this... Mamãe suffered so much in this life and bore it all... She was the most devout woman I know. And Bibiana... I know Cisco’s a priest. I know I shouldn’t question whether what he has said is right. He must know God’s will better than I ever could, but as much as I try to accept it or pray to understand, I can’t bear the thought of leaving Bibiana here. Not with her suffering so.”
John nodded slowly as he seemed to consider his words carefully. “Someone being a priest doesn’t necessarily mean he’s always right.”
She looked at him, wanting to believe him, not certain if it was because he was right or because she couldn’t face her own failings anymore.
“You’re struggling.” He brought his hand to her cheek, brushing it gently. “That’s fine. Questioning is an essential part of being human.”
“So says your philosophy?”
“So says everything I believe.”
She dropped her eyes to the ground.
“Cecília.” He tilted her face so she’d look at him again. “You are an amazing woman. Stubborn, infuriating sometimes, but amazing all the same. You fall, you struggle, but you keep going. And after all that, I would trust whatever your conscience tells you over empty words, no matter who is speaking them.”
Cecília let her eyes drift closed, focusing on how his hand on her felt. With so much she still had to repent for, another instance of comfort barely seemed worth fighting. “Kiss me?” He didn’t answer, so she opened her eyes again. “Please?”
John’s eyes focused on her mouth, but he shook his head. “No.”
“Oh...” Cecília pulled back from him as a stab of rejection tore into her.
“No, Cecília”—he caught her arm to keep her from entirely twisting away from him—“I want to. Dear Lord, believe I want to. But I can’t. Not like this.”
“Like this?”
“I’m going back to England.”
The words sputtered in her mind, not fully making sense. She fought to find her voice again, feeling as though she’d been slapped. “What?”
“While I was gone, we went to your uncle’s house by the river. Where his house was. Everything’s gone. Sucked out to sea or already looted. Save the purse I had on me, I’m penniless.”
“So am I,” Cecília said, emotions tumbling over one another so quickly she couldn’t get a hold on any one.
“You have your uncle to take care of you. And your grandparents. I have nothing. Your uncle has offered to pay for my passage back home. I have to go put my life back together.”
“You’re leaving us here? Me here?”
“What else am I supposed to do?”
“Not leave me?” Cecília knew she was whining. She couldn’t bring herself to care after everything else she had felt that day.
John brought his hand back to her cheek then ran his thumb along her bottom lip. “I’m not Catholic, Cecília. I’m never going to be. And even if I were, I have ten shillings to my name. Any other place, any other time, we never would have so much as spoken. The world is upside down for the moment, but it will right itself. There’s no place for us there.”
“You can’t go.” Her voice broke. She couldn’t take losing one more person—losing him.
“I have to. And if I kiss you, I won’t.”
The lump in Cecília’s throat threatened to keep her from speaking as tears began to sting her eyes. Tucked against the cart, with the long shadows merging into solid darkness as the sun set, they were turning into outlines—features disappearing, cloaked in twilight. She swallowed, fighting to keep some part of herself together. “Will you at least hold me? Just for a little while.”
John hesitated then nodded, shifting to move his arm around her. As he held her, she rested her head against his chest and let everything she had been trying not to feel wash over her in a single wave of pain and ecstasy.
***
CECÍLIA STOOD AT THE end of the cart, folded into herself as though she would disappear if she only grew small enough. Her final moments with John had been cut too short, interrupted by more men calling her name as they joined the search.
He’d told her to go first. Cecília had assumed that John was attempting to stave off more trouble by not having both of them return together, but even well into morning, he hadn’t reappeared. She stood with the cart, head down, while Tio Aloisio and Francisco snapped at one another over Bibiana.
The shouting rose as Tio Aloisio appeared outside the little barraca, carrying Bibiana in his arms. Francisco followed with a distressed Senhora Garcia, everyone talking at once.
“He knows if he doesn’t get your sister, you’re going to sneak away again.”
Cecília started and looked to her side. She blinked, wondering how John had appeared so quickly out of nowhere.
“You won’t leave here without her.”
Cecília pulled her arms tighter around her, pressing her side as if the spark of pain would help anchor her to the world. “I thought you’d gone.”
She could hear his frown even if she didn’t look at him. “Did you want me to?”
“I just hadn’t seen you...”
“I was getting something.” He opened his coat and pulled a small book out of his pocket.
Cecília frowned as he held it out to her. “What’s that?”
“Since you aren’t going to have me talking at you about philosophy every night now, I thought I could at least give you this.”
Cecília took it cautiously as though the little book were going to bite her. Printed in black ink, the words stared up at her: Leviathan, sive De materia, forma, et potestate civitatis ecclesiasticae et civilis.
“I prefer Locke to Hobbes, and I certainly don’t expect you to agree with all of it, but it’s in Latin, so I figured you’d have a better chance of reading it than anything in English.”
“Where did you get this?” Cecília looked at him.
“I saw that a few of the merchants saved some books when we were looking for your brother. The difficult part was convincing them to part with one.” He didn’t meet her eyes, instead opening the cover to show something written in pencil inside: St. Matthias, Parish of Poplar, London. “And here. One of my sisters lives in London. Attends St. Matthias. It’s where I go when I’m in town. If you ever wish to write a letter, it’s the safest place to send it. It’ll get to me one way or another.”
“I...” She struggled with words. “I don’t know how to write very well.”
“All the same. If you would like the practice, perhaps.”
Something deep in Cecília’s stomach twisted, and she found she couldn’t manage more than, “John...”
Tio Aloisio strode forward, still carrying Bibiana in his arms. “Get in the cart, Cecília.”
John took a step away from her and gave a respectful bow. “It’s been my honor to know you, Senhorita Durante. I hope I’ll hear from you.”
“Cecília,” Tio Aloisio snapped, lifting Bibiana over the side of the low cart and covering her partially with a blanket as she continued to blankly mumble her prayers.
Cecília moved back until her thighs hit the lip of the cart. Not knowing what else to say, she let another of Tio Aloisio’s friends help her over the edge.
Tio Aloisio finished with Bibiana and moved in front of Cecília. “Mr. Quigley is doing me a large favor, bringing both of you girls to Loures on his way out of town. If you cause so much as one lick of trouble for him—”
“I won’t,” Cecília said softly. “I just wanted to find Francisco and Bibiana.”
Tio Aloisio’s face didn’t lighten, but he nodded to someone behind her, and the cart lurched forward.
Cecília glanced down at the book then back up to where John was still watching. He lifted a hand in a weak parting. Cecília couldn’t bring herself to do even that as the cart wheels creaked on their way out of town.