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The next morning, Cecília barely had the chance to step out of bed and into something decent before Father Moreno arrived to see Bibiana. Cecília wasn’t certain why she was surprised—Avô Santa Rita had no doubt been in contact with the priest, and it was why they had come back to Lisbon, after all—but something about seeing Father Moreno while still drowsy from not having arrived home until after midnight the night before left her uncomfortable.
You didn’t do anything wrong, Cecília told herself as she ate a quick breakfast, listening to the sound of movement on the floor above them as Father Moreno did whatever he needed to try to help Bibiana. Beyond less than a minute of eavesdropping and the tiny lie about being tired the night before, which wasn’t even really a lie, based on how quickly Cecília had drifted off once they’d made it back, she hadn’t done a thing she even had to confess before attending Mass. She still crossed herself quickly, just to be safe, before returning to check on Father Moreno’s progress in the room she and Bibiana had been given.
Pausing at the threshold, she surveyed the scene. Bibiana was as unmoving as ever as Father Moreno knelt by the side of the bed, a rosary between his hands and an old book open on the edge of the mattress. His mouth was moving, and she could almost make out what he was saying if she strained. It was Latin with the cadence of a prayer, though not one she recognized.
After a few more minutes, he went silent, offered an amen, then opened his eyes. Cecília shifted her weight, not certain if she should announce herself or hold her peace. He saved her the trouble of deciding, offering a smile as he spotted her. “Ah, Senhorita Durante.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt, Father.” She caught her hands in front of her.
“You didn’t. I was just praying for guidance.” He motioned to the book on the bed. “I found an account from an old convent in Italy about a girl who was very much like your sister. She apparently brought great prosperity to the sisters there despite not speaking a word that wasn’t prayer for several years.”
Cecília pressed her lips together tightly before asking, “Does that mean she started speaking again eventually?”
“After a visit from São Boaventura, by the accounts.” Father Moreno nodded. “I have begun to review São Boaventura’s works, in case there is any more insight in them, but of course, we are first and foremost looking to follow God’s will in this, as in all things.”
“Of course,” Cecília said, though she had to admit she hoped they wouldn’t need a saint to visit before Bibiana started to speak once again. Then again, people said Father Malagrida was a living saint. Maybe we should have let him see her before we left Lisbon... The thought crossed her mind even as the idea of seeing the formidable priest, with all his talk of sin and retribution, made her stomach churn.
“Was there something I could do for you?” Father Moreno asked when Cecília didn’t continue.
She shook her head quickly. “No, Father. I just wanted to see how Bibiana was.”
“Always feel free to let me know if I can ever assist you as well.” Father Moreno smiled. “I will be here as long as necessary with your sister, but I can do more than one thing at once.”
“Thank you, Father.” Cecília sent a last look at Bibiana before backing away, as much to escape the feeling that the priest was silently judging her, likely for something Francisco had told him, as to give him room to work.
She could hear Senhor Romão’s voice before she had made it back to the main floor. “It isn’t a bad trip. If we leave within the hour, we’ll be at court before midday.”
Cecília slowed. He was talking loudly enough that it obviously wasn’t a private conversation, which meant she technically wasn’t eavesdropping, just overhearing.
“You’re certain we should go to court rather than back to Senhor Mendonça’s?” Avô Santa Rita asked.
“The first minister may have the king’s ear, but you’ll find the rest of court is much more sympathetic to us landowners. Trust there’s no reason to avoid court.”
The first minister again... Cecília tried to call up her memory of Senhor Carvalho, though the day she had run across him and his men in the Baixa was all muddled up with a hundred other things that had left much stronger impressions. He hadn’t seemed all that important with everything else happening. But she couldn’t say she knew anything about court politics.
“And you could bring Cecília,” Senhor Romão continued. “It seems she made a very positive impression last night, from what I heard. I’m sure she would be just as welcomed at court.”
Cecília lifted her eyebrows, not certain who would be singing her praises after the cold reception she’d had at Senhor Mendonça’s, but it was certainly better than something going around that would get her sent back to Loures.
There was a long pause before Avô Santa Rita answered, “I’ll check if Father Moreno needs us. If not...”
“I’ll see the carriage ready.” A chair scraped against the floor as Senhor Romão apparently decided that her grandfather’s answer had been “yes.” With Father Moreno set up for a long day, she imagined the man was right. They had plenty of time to go to court.
Cecília just wished she could tell if the fluttering in her stomach was excitement or a sign that she shouldn’t want to go at all.
***
CECÍLIA WASN’T CERTAIN what she had been expecting from the new royal shack, but the Real Barraca certainly hadn’t been it. Situated at the very top of Ajuda Hill, slightly inland from the original palace in Belém, the impressive wooden structure stretched out in front of them. One long, single-story building dominated the landscape, overlooking the wide stretch of the Tagus to the south. Though it had to be hundreds of rooms from the look of it, only one pointed roof on the far side had a second level.
No one could be crushed under that, the more morose part of Cecília’s mind supplied. The king had succeeded on that count.
She briefly wondered if Father Malagrida would approve. It was rebuilding, not praying, but as grand as the wooden palace was, it was certainly rebuilt with the thought of what God had already wrought.
Or what some subterranean vapors hath wrought... She forced that thought away, accepting a servant’s hand to step down after her grandfather and Senhor Romão.
“This way.” Senhor Romão didn’t wait for any direction before passing the wide wooden doorway, so Cecília didn’t, either, instead following closely at her grandfather’s heels.
Before the disaster, she had never been invited to court to know what life had been like at the Paço da Ribeira or the old palace at Belém, but the feeling that hovered inside the Real Barraca left her with the impression that things were not quite normal. The way the finely dressed men and women stood near the squared-off windows and tapestry-covered walls felt somehow off.
Or you let everyone from last night get to you. Cecília had to admit, excitement of court or not, everything she had heard the previous night had left her feeling more cautious than she had been as she’d rolled up to Senhor Mendonça’s party.
Senhor Romão stopped outside an open doorway and motioned toward it. “If you’d like to wait here, senhorita? I just need to take your grandfather down the hall, and then we can get you settled.”
“Oh...” Surprise made her trip over her words before she could put together a sentence.
“We won’t be far,” Avô Santa Rita said before she could answer, nodding for her to move into the new room before letting Senhor Romão whisk him away.
Unlike the wide hallways, with their smattering of courtiers, the side room was empty. Cecília moved to the window and glanced over the people milling about outside, in between the hedges of a well-manicured garden, before the gray-purple clouds on the horizon caught her attention. It looked like a storm was coming, even though the sun was still streaming over them on Ajuda Hill.
That’ll be out at sea, if that’s west. She wrapped her arms around her middle, briefly wondering if there were any ships under those clouds. Tio Aloisio obviously hadn’t begun sailing again, so she didn’t have him to worry about, but there were plenty of men who passed off the coast, heading to Africa, the Orient, or even just past the strait and toward Marseille or Venice. Any of them could be in the midst of a storm while it was still sunny on shore.
Stop thinking about him, her mind admonished before she consciously thought of John by name. He isn’t yours to worry about.
Maybe it’s just in my blood, she argued with herself. I can’t worry about Papai or João or Tio Aloisio. Who else am I going to worry about out there?
She was from a sailing family. If she couldn’t sail herself, she needed someone to travel with in her mind.
Familiar voices caught her attention, and Cecília turned back toward the doorway. They moved closer, and she could make out Tio Aloisio. Stepping back into the doorway, she peeked around the corner. Tio Aloisio was walking down the hall, speaking in sharp sentences to a man who was trailing a few steps behind him, carrying a large crate. With Avô Santa Rita and Senhor Romão out of sight and no one else around to take issue with her speaking to her uncle, she called his name.
Tio Aloisio nearly tripped over his own feet, his head snapping in her direction. “Cecília. What—”
“Avô Santa Rita is meeting someone,” Cecília supplied before Tio Aloisio could accuse her of sneaking somewhere she didn’t belong. “He brought me along.”
Tio Aloisio hesitated for a moment. “Your grandfather is here?”
She nodded. “One of Francisco’s friends, Father Moreno, asked us to bring Bibiana closer to court so he could work with her. They’re at Senhor Romão’s right now.”
Tio Aloisio opened his mouth then closed it without saying anything, some rush of thoughts Cecília couldn’t begin to interpret flashing over his expression.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything...
The man with the crate shifted it with an unhappy grunt as they stood there.
The loud clinking of glasses snapped Tio Aloisio back to the moment. “Careful with that. We already lost two to that storm.”
“Sorry, senhor,” the man said with another grunt, shifting the crate a little more carefully that time.
Cecília looked between the box and her uncle as it registered. “Have you been sailing again?”
“I haven’t, but we still need trade, and the Vento de Verão miraculously survived with everything in working order. I hired a new captain to see her off.”
Cecília barely caught herself before recoiling, the idea of some stranger captaining her father’s ship feeling like a slap to the face. The crate slipped before she could respond, landing on the ground with a thud and crash.
“Idiota!” Tio Aloisio let loose a string of insults as the man apologized, bending to recover the crate.
Though the wood had survived in one piece, the tinkle of glass said something inside it had broken, and a warm, sweet smell filtered out between the planks. Something in Cecília’s chest clenched as the odor triggered a memory of home—her old home. “Is that perfume?”
“It was.” Tio Aloisio sent the man a dark look.
“I think that’s what Mamãe used to wear. From Venice.”
His eyes returned to her, a flash of surprise passing through them. “Good nose.” He looked at the man. “Get that to my room—by the window, for Heaven’s sake—and open. We can hope some of it is salvageable.”
“Yes, senhor.” The man hefted the crate up and hurried deeper into the Real Barraca, obviously more than happy to escape the situation.
Tio Aloisio waited for the man to disappear around a corner before turning back to Cecília. “Do you know how long your grandfather intends to be here?”
Certain she’d stepped into some other politics she didn’t understand, Cecília treaded carefully. “At court or in Lisbon?”
“Either.”
“Not long at court, I don’t think, but I don’t know how long Father Moreno wants us in Lisbon.”
“Durante.” A familiar face moved down the hall from the opposite direction.
“Senhor Carvalho.” The name left Cecília’s mouth before she could consider it.
The man slowed, no sense of recognition coming to his eyes. Cecília had to imagine she looked much different, properly dressed for court rather than coated in soot with red-rimmed eyes. Senhor Carvalho, however, looked much the same—his face set and determined and somehow seeming just as tall off his horse as he had on it.
“My niece”—Tio Aloisio made the reintroduction—“Cecília Durante.”
“Of course.” Senhor Carvalho lowered his head in a clipped bow. “Forgive me. I hadn’t realized you’d come to court, Senhorita Durante.”
A mix of female voices came down the hall, and Cecília tensed, having to imagine that being spotted standing there, talking to her uncle and the first minister, wouldn’t make any future parties at Senhor Mendonça’s more comfortable for her.
Luckily, it didn’t seem as though Senhor Carvalho expected an answer from her, anyway. He addressed Tio Aloisio. “A moment?”
“Of course, Minister.” Tio Aloisio gave a short bow before glancing at Cecília. “Your grandfather knows where you are?”
She bristled slightly at the tone behind the question, but she supposed it was fair after the last time he had seen her. “Yes, Tio.”
Senhor Carvalho had already turned away, apparently expecting her uncle to follow, so Tio Aloisio gave a quick “Stay out of trouble” before he moved off as well.
With more people beginning to mill about, Cecília slid back into the room to wait for Senhor Romão. She could certainly do her best to stay out of trouble. It would just be helpful if she actually knew what all the trouble was.