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Cecília opened her window, and the damp heat still hovering around the house hit her like a wave. The three-day storm that had pelted the area had left everything soaked but hadn’t cooled the air. Instead, a warm mist made everything dewy.
What must it be like in the camps? She pressed her lips together. It had been nearly eight months since she had left, and yet none of the news Francisco sent from Lisbon ever seemed to be good. Over half a year, and Lisbon still wasn’t more than ruins. Francisco’s letter had been more than clear in blaming Senhor Carvalho for the edict prohibiting rebuilding while the king decided on a plan for the city. Cecília was glad Francisco hadn’t been there in person, or she might not have been able to refrain from a dark comment about Father Malagrida’s preferring no rebuilding at all. Everyone who mattered seemed to feel the need to stall and pontificate while the rest of them were stuck sitting around, waiting for anything close to a normal life to return.
She glanced at the trunk at the end of her bed and considered pulling out the box she had buried under the clothing her grandmother had purchased to replace everything Cecília had lost. In it, she had placed the misshapen silver statue of São Cristóvão along with the book John had given her and the letter he had sent before he left port. She didn’t need to pull it out to know exactly what was written there, though. Not after she’d seared it into memory:
Dearest Cecília,
I was glad to hear from your uncle that you have been doing well in Loures, and I assume—as you have stayed in one place for over three months—that you will still be there by the time this letter reaches you.
I have finally managed to find passage back to London. Should all go according to plan, I will have pushed off with one of the relief ships by the time you get this, but I wanted to make sure you knew—though I imagine you have not given me much thought since you left Lisbon. I will likely be sailing again, once I get back and find work. Perhaps I will find my way back to Lisbon someday when it has recovered, and I will get to see if you remember me. Until then, do consider writing. I cannot promise I will be the timeliest correspondent, depending on where life takes me, but I will see letters returned.
Your humble and obedient servant,
J. Bates
Of course, for as many times as she had read it, she hadn’t attempted writing a response. Even if she could scare up ink and paper—and trusted herself to write without looking like a child copying letters—she didn’t know what writing him would accomplish. They had been thrown together by chance and let things spiral out of control as the world had done the same. People were doing their best to recover what was left of their old lives, and John had been right. Whatever they had been certainly didn’t fit into that.
You don’t fit into that, the annoying voice at the back of her mind said.
She forced it back down. She had told God she would be good, do as she was told, and be the proper Portuguese lady she was supposed to be if only He would see her and Bibiana safely away from the horrors of Lisbon. He had delivered her prayer. She had to make good on her promise. So, no, she wouldn’t answer that letter, wouldn’t open that wound again. It was best for that entire part of her life to remain locked in that box with the hope that São Cristóvão would watch over John better than he had Papai and João.
Leaving the window open, she walked out of her room and turned into Bibiana’s. The air was stale in the small but richly decorated room wedged between Cecília’s and her grandmother’s. Though Bibiana had finally stopped praying about a month after they had arrived in Loures, she hadn’t spoken a word since.
Cecília moved to the window and pulled back the heavy curtains to let in the light. “The sun’s back out, Bia. Storm’s passed.” She waited for an answer she knew wouldn’t come. In the silence, she unlatched the window and swung it open as well. “How are you feeling?” She turned back toward the bed.
Bibiana didn’t move from where she was sitting, staring at her bedding. She had been changed into a new bed dress, something white with lace that looked far too expensive for a dress that was meant only for inside the house. Even with her matted blond hair and her large dull-blue eyes, she was still being dressed as a miracle.
Voices echoing down the old stone hallway made Cecília frown. Though her Avô Santa Rita and Avó Gouveia had lived at court at one time—decades before, under the late King João’s reign—neither of her grandparents received many visitors. In all honesty, they seemed to prefer keeping their household limited to immediate family and a few servants who had worked for them for longer than Cecília had been alive. From how Mamãe had lived, Cecília had to assume it was a Santa Rita family trait she simply hadn’t inherited. She moved to the doorway and poked her head out.
Her grandfather faltered mid-sentence, as Cecília’s arrival apparently caught him by surprise before he recovered. “Ah, Father, may I introduce one of my granddaughters, Cecília Madelena.”
The unfamiliar priest at Avô Santa Rita’s side stopped and offered Cecília a kind smile. “Not the granddaughter I’m here about, I take it?”
“You’re here for Bibiana?” Cecília’s eyes bounced between the two men in the hall, her grandfather still tall and broad, even into his seventies, and the priest slight and no taller than Cecília was.
“Father Moreno is a Doctor Theologiae,” Avô Santa Rita said. “Your brother thought he might have some insight into her current condition.”
Cecília addressed the priest. “You know Francisco?”
“Very well.” Father Moreno lowered his head, his expression still good-natured enough that Cecília had to assume Francisco hadn’t spent much time telling the man about her.
Though everything in Lisbon had kept Francisco too busy to visit over the past eight months, he had sent a letter every week, telling Avô Santa Rita the news and checking on Bibiana. From the way he had almost pointedly avoided speaking about Cecília, she had to assume her brother hadn’t yet forgiven her for how things had transpired. Then again, for all his godly traits, forgiveness had never been one of Francisco’s strengths.
“I’ve been fascinated by your sister’s story since I heard it. Your grandfather was very kind to allow me to visit, now that I’ve managed to find the time.”
Something about the way he said fascinated didn’t sit well with Cecília. She pressed her arms tightly against her stomach. “Do you think you can help her?”
“You believe she needs help?” The priest’s tone remained kind, his gentle, round face making him look quite young, even if the gray at his temples said he was likely two decades older than Cecília.
“She doesn’t speak.”
“I heard she prayed the rosary?”
“She stopped months ago.”
Father Moreno nodded contemplatively before motioning toward the room. “If I may?”
Cecília stepped back to allow the priest and her grandfather into the room before slinking back into one of the corners to watch. Some of her grandparents’ neighbors had come to pray with Bibiana when they had first arrived, wanting to share the grace of the miracle child. One particularly forward woman tried to cut off a lock of hair to take with her before Cecília had spotted it. But like Bibiana’s mumbling, those visitors had trickled off some months before. Cecília wasn’t certain how long it had been since a stranger had been in Bibiana’s room, let alone a Biblical scholar.
For as much as Bibiana reacted, though, the man might as well have been a speck of dust. As he studied her, her blue eyes remained glassy, focused on nothing particular off in the distance, as though she were a life-sized doll.
Father Moreno inspected her for a moment before he gently placed one of his thin hands on hers and closed his eyes. “Shall we pray?”
By rote, Cecília crossed herself and closed her eyes as well. The familiar Latin washed over her as she sent up her own prayer that Father Moreno would be able to do something. Even if it meant that Francisco had been right all along, she would gladly humble herself and beg forgiveness if one of the priests could make Bibiana right again. But when Cecília opened her eyes at the end of the prayer, nothing had changed. Bibiana still sat silently in the middle of the bed, but with a priest on one side and Avô Santa Rita on the other.
Father Moreno removed his hand but looked as calmly good-natured as ever as he addressed Avô Santa Rita. “Would you be willing to consider moving her?”
“Moving her?” Alarm shot through Cecília strongly enough to shake her mouth loose.
Father Moreno didn’t seem bothered by her outburst. “I have already done some reading related to your sister’s case, but my books are all back in Belém, and I have my duties to the royal family to attend to. They have enough of their own troubles to deal with as they wait for the Real Barraca to be completed.”
“Real Barraca?” Cecília repeated. “They’re waiting for a... royal shack?”
“Calling it a barraca is a misnomer, in all honesty.” Father Moreno smiled. “It is being built as a grand palace, but the king prefers to live inside wooden walls to stone ones, after what happened.” He turned back to Avô Santa Rita. “If you were willing to move your granddaughter toward Belém, I would be able to keep up on her case while performing my other work. Father Durante thought you might still have a house in the area. If not, I can easily secure a place for her with the Carmelite sisters. They are in temporary lodgings at the moment, but they are comfortable, from what I have seen.”
Cecília’s heart raced. Bibiana leaving. Going to a convent. Not even a convent. Some building or shack they had put together like in the campos. The possibility left the room spinning.
“I can see what accommodations we have available.” Avô Santa Rita nodded, not seeming at all alarmed by the idea of sending his youngest granddaughter off for Heaven knew how long.
“Can I go?” Cecília asked before she could consider the words.
Her grandfather’s blue eyes hit her. “I’m sure Father Moreno doesn’t need you underfoot.”
“But Bia needs me.”
“I’m not certain if the sisters would have room, but if you have somewhere else to stay, it wouldn’t be a trouble to me,” Father Moreno said. “I believe wishing to stay together is entirely understandable, after everything that has happened.”
Avô Santa Rita pursed his lips slightly. “We’ll discuss it. When do you need her in Belém?”
“As soon as is reasonable is fine.” Father Moreno caught his hands in front of him. “I can stay in touch by messenger as you work out the arrangements.”
Avô Santa Rita nodded, motioning for Father Moreno to precede him out of the room.
Cecília sent another look at her sister on the bed before turning out of the room as well. She had agreed to stay in Loures to keep Bibiana safe. If Bibiana was no longer there, there was no use in her being locked away in the country. That would be a brand-new punishment to face. From God or Francisco, though, she wasn’t quite certain.