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Cecília tapped the end of her pencil against the paper in front of her, finally throwing the thing down like a child having a tantrum when the numbers just wouldn’t work out.
You’re the one who asked to learn these blasted things, the voice in her head chided as she sat back in the chair with a huff.
Senhor Rocha had been very kind, taking his own time to teach her what the architects were doing, starting with the basics before slowly working up to all the complicated equations they were using to make the new building plans for Lisbon as disaster-proof as modern mathematics would allow. Cecília had proven to have an aptitude for it, at least most of the time. With the way she currently felt, though, she was lucky when one and one turned out to be two on the page.
You need more sleep.
She laughed at that. I would if I could.
For the past half a year, she had done her best to put John as far from her mind as possible, and that hadn’t been easy. Even if she had suspected he wouldn’t return if he left, she had held out some hope for longer than she should have. She had even attempted sending letters. The first one was six months after he’d been gone, addressed to him at the London parish written in Mr. Hobbes’s book, then another in generally passible French, addressed to his sister a few months after that, asking about John’s welfare. It hadn’t been until a full year had passed that she’d decided it was time to put the matter from her mind entirely, accepting it one night as her own sort of Easter service—a resurrection after Lenten suffering—and dedicating herself to her own betterment. And for six months, she had done reasonably well at it.
Then she’d had that blasted dream.
She placed the heels of her palms against her eyes and rubbed, as if that would clear her head. It had taken her long enough to fully accept that John was gone. She didn’t wish to consider what suddenly dreaming about him meant.
Thinking too much about Lisbon?
She tried to convince herself that was the case. She hadn’t been invited on the architects’ final scouting trip before they began work on the first minister’s new Praça do Comércio, the grand commercial square that would replace what had once been the king’s riverside palace, but Senhor Rocha hadn’t attempted to spare her feelings when she’d asked how the city looked. By all accounts, save some new scaffolding in the Baixa, it didn’t look much different than it had the last time she had been there five years before. It was down to the dust, from the state of Senhor Rocha’s clothing, though it was allegedly from all the digging they were doing for the new sewers that were planned to run under the perfectly geometric buildings they would be constructing soon.
Always soon. She sat petulantly in her chair. In the months since she’d begun working with Senhor Rocha, she had seen all the good work the architects had been doing—designing framing that would stand up to another quake, planning water pumps to make it possible to fight fires, using those blasted equations she couldn’t make sense of to ensure all the stonework on the new buildings would fall away from the internal framing rather than on anyone inside, should it crack—but with all the time running numbers and testing models, there hadn’t been time to actually begin rebuilding. I’ll be sixty before I ever see Lisbon again, at this rate.
If Dom José had any real interest in the rebuilding or in ruling in general, Cecília had to imagine Senhor Carvalho would be treading close to the king’s last nerve. But with Dom José happy to leave Lisbon to others, and anyone who would oppose the first minister too dead to object, Senhor Carvalho was free to rebuild the city as he wished, as a modern marvel.
She stood sharply, needing to think about something else. At least, after the Távora Affair—as the entire dreadful experience was being called—court had been quiet enough that the first minister seemed to have forgotten about her. If she could just keep going on as she had been, not thinking about John or death or any of it, she could possibly enjoy the rest of her life.
Or at least be content with it. She moved out into the hallway.
The unfamiliar sight of ecclesiastical robes on that side of the palace made Cecília freeze. With the first minister’s office and all of his supporters down the hall, what priests remained at court rarely strayed from the chapel. The surprise made recognition take a moment. “Father Moreno?”
The middle-aged priest looked at her. “Senhorita Durante. How are you?”
“Very well,” Cecília lied. “Are you visiting?”
“Father Cardona actually requested I return, for the time being.” Father Moreno gave one of his congenial smiles, as though he hadn’t been one of the priests to leave in protest after Father Malagrida had been arrested for his connection to the Távora family two years before. “It seems he could use the help now that Father Delacruz’s health has declined. May the Lord see him healed.”
Cecília mumbled the same, crossing herself quickly, though she had to admit she hadn’t noticed anything wrong with Father Delacruz beyond the fact that the man had to be at least eighty. She had long assumed his continued presence at court was spite more than a calling, as if he dared the forces on the other side of the palace to attempt removing him.
“How is your sister?” Father Moreno asked before Cecília could add anything.
A knot formed in her stomach at the thought of Bibiana, or Sister Maria Inês, as she had become. Though the odd letter still arrived from time to time, generally around Easter or Advent, Bibiana had disappeared from Cecília’s life nearly as completely as the rest of her family. She still forced a smile for the priest. “She is well. Just recently took her vows with the Poor Clares.”
“They are blessed to have her.”
Cecília lowered her head but didn’t otherwise answer. Bibiana would have been miserable at court, and after everything Cecília had experienced, she was glad her sister was nowhere close to the capital, but it would have been nice to have the potential to visit. Of course she would choose a cloistered order.
“I should get my things settled.” Father Moreno didn’t seem at all perturbed by her lack of answer. “I hope I will see you at service, now that I’m back. Are you still keeping the Hours?”
Cecília nearly winced before she caught herself as two-year-old memories fought to join in. “No, Father. But you’ll certainly see me at morning Mass.” At least on Sundays. Even if the state of her soul was rather questionable, she had been certain to attend Mass and confess at least what she could. The rest, she would have to take up with God when the time came for that.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He gave a light blessing as a goodbye then continued the way he had been heading—an odd choice if he intended to head straight to the chapel but also opposite the first minister’s office—so Cecília supposed he could simply be avoiding Senhor Carvalho. She certainly had done so on more than one occasion, taking the longer route on the off chance that the first minister would have been out in the hall.
As it was, she took her chances and followed the most direct route to her rooms. With any luck, Tio Aloisio would be out, and she could crawl back into bed for the rest of the day without needing to explain.
As she opened the door, the sight of her uncle sitting on the settee in the center of their antechamber quashed that hope. He looked up from the pamphlet he was reading before he checked the large clock that had appeared in the room after the Vento de Verão had docked the week before. “To what do we owe the honor, having you back so early?”
“Everyone is still in Lisbon.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t join them.”
“I wasn’t invited.”
Tio Aloisio raised an eyebrow. “When have you found that an impediment?”
With everything else already threatening to bring up memories she’d very happily suppressed, she decided to avoid that familiar line of discussion. “What are you reading?”
He lifted the pamphlet enough to show the title: Candide, ou l’Optimisme.
“Candid, or the Optimist?”
“Candide is the boy’s name in it.” Tio Aloisio didn’t look up from the pamphlet. “Monsieur Voltaire is satirizing Herr Leibniz’s Théodicée, using our earthquake, apparently.”
Yet more about the earthquake. “Have I read Théodicée?”
“It’s there, if you’d like to try.” He motioned to the bookshelf by his desk. “We have the French translation. It is Herr Leibniz’s response to parts of Monsieur Bayle's Dictionnaire Historique et Critique.”
“I’m never going to get through them all if everyone insists on writing a response to everyone else.”
“Spend more time with your French than those geometry problems Senhor Rocha gives you, and you’ll read more quickly.”
Cecília decided that was another line of conversation not worth pursuing. French was likely a more useful subject than geometry, as she was hardly ever going to become an architect, but spending too much time actively learning the language also brought up memories of times she would rather have buried. “I saw Father Moreno today.”
That caught Tio Aloisio’s attention enough for him to finally set the pamphlet down. “Did you?”
She nodded. “Ran into him in the hall. He said Father Cardona asked for him to replace Father Delacruz. Perhaps the Fathers are finally beginning to move on from what happened.”
“I imagine it likely has more to do with what is happening with Father Malagrida.”
Cecília frowned, asking, even though she wasn’t certain she wanted to know the answer, “What is happening with Father Malagrida?”
“The first minister has recalled his brother from abroad. Father Carvalho is to be appointed Inquisitor General.”
“Inquisitor...” Cecília trailed off as the implications hit her straight in the chest. With the king supporting every move Senhor Carvalho made and the court brought in line, the only problem the first minister could even possibly have had was Father Malagrida. Though the old priest had been implicated in the Távora affair, he was still locked in Junqueira Prison—not from any clemency on the first minister’s count, of course, but because even with as much power as Senhor Carvalho had, he couldn’t execute a priest.
He couldn’t, but if the Church found Father Malagrida guilty of heresy... “The Inquisition already cleared Father Malagrida. He’s not a heretic, just a mad old man in a cell.”
“He had his new ravings made into pamphlets, spouting prophecies and Lord knows what else. Father Carvalho will be leading the new inquest.”
And I wonder what the verdict will be with the first minister’s brother in charge. Cecília’s body went cold, the smell of ash and flesh a little too recent in her memory for comfort. “You believe Father Moreno is here because of that?”
“Do you believe the timing to be coincidental?”
“It could be.”
Tio Aloisio fixed her with a look that said he didn’t believe even she thought that. “We may have to start limiting your time in the architects’ office, if it is turning you that naïve.”
She huffed but moved on. “What would even happen, if”—when—“the Inquisition finds Father Malagrida heretical? Senhor Carvalho has outlawed autos-da-fé. He called them barbaric. Is he willing to slide back his own progress simply to settle some old score he’s already won? What threat is Father Malagrida to him now?”
“When he is still attempting to stir up panic in the populous?”
“He’s mad! Who would listen?”
“More people than one would hope.” Tio Aloisio grabbed his hat by the door. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Cecília frowned. It had perhaps been overly optimistic to believe that Father Moreno’s arrival meant something good, but she still sent up a prayer that nothing was starting again.
Was that the dream? She glanced skyward. John had always arrived partnered with some sort of disaster. Perhaps seeing him in a dream was meant to be a harbinger, if he wasn’t returning in person. She turned for her room. Even if the men of court insisted on pushing things that had no business being pushed forward, she would have no part of it. She was done with that part of her life, and she had no intention of ever going back to it.
***
“WE AREN’T BEGINNING a day too soon, let me tell you.” Senhor Rocha sat back in his chair, looking around the rest of the architect’s office as Cecília worked. “They had to chase out a good half-dozen curs and nearly twice as many vagabonds for us to even get a proper look at the cleared space. What those men think they’re doing, living in in cracked foundations...”
“I imagine they don’t have many better options, if they’ve resorted to that.” Cecília did her best not to think about the homeless still in Lisbon. Most who had filled the campos five years before had found somewhere to go by then, but that didn’t make thinking about those still out on the street any easier. She picked up the paper and held it toward Senhor Rocha. “Like this?”
He scanned the page. “Very good. I’m going to run out of things to teach you, at this rate.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe, senhor?” She pulled the paper back to look over the mess of equations.
“Even if I do, though, I suppose I could always hand your tutelage over to Senhor Ventura.”
Cecília sent him a questioning look.
“It seems he’s outlasted the rest of the office once again.” Senhor Rocha nodded across the room with a smirk.
She glanced where he motioned just in time to see one of the younger architects, Senhor Ventura, look away from her and Senhor Rocha and turn back to his work. She rolled her eyes and sent Senhor Rocha an unamused look. “Are you going to attempt to foist me on yet another young man in this office?”
“I don’t believe Senhor Ventura would find it an unhappy proposition, from the way he keeps staring at us.”
“Well, I am perfectly happy with my current education, thank you.” Cecília turned back to the desk. “What now?”
Senhor Rocha watched her for another moment before he stretched theatrically. “If you aren’t interested in Senhor Ventura’s help, it may be time for us to say it’s a day. It’s growing late.”
She looked out the window. Facing west, the architect’s office kept enough light to work late into the evening, but the sun was sinking toward the horizon. She nodded, catching Senhor Ventura glancing over once again before she turned to pack up her things. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“I will look forward to it, my dear.” Senhor Rocha flashed her a smile as he stood as well.
In case Senhor Ventura intended to attempt catching her, Cecília didn’t bother with more of a goodbye. No doubt he, like all the young men Senhor Rocha tried to bring into their lessons, was a perfectly fine man, but even if she was forcing herself to move on from everything in the past, no good ever seemed to come from her romantic entanglements.
She would be twenty-three on her next birthday, and had life not changed, she didn’t doubt that people would have been starting to whisper about her approaching spinsterhood. But the world had turned on its head five years before. Nothing was the way it would have been, and Tio Aloisio didn’t seem to be in any rush to be rid of her. With her uncle newly into his sixties, Cecília felt safe in saying the man had no intention of ever marrying, which left her his only possible heir. Exactly who would take control of running it all if she didn’t marry was a question, but the way things were going, people would perhaps accept an educated woman supervising her own affairs. If she wanted, she could spend the rest of her life as she was, taking over Tio Aloisio’s vineyard and everything else once he passed on then letting the family die out altogether once she did. The entire line seemed cursed, anyway, filled with living saints, desperate sinners, and nothing in between.
Caught up in her own thoughts, she noticed the first minister a beat too late.
“Ah, Senhorita Durante.” His piercing blue eyes caught her. “A pleasure to see you.”
Some good sense still working in her head made her curtsy deeply and return the pleasantry.
“Perhaps I could have a moment?” He opened the door to his office, motioning gallantly, and Cecília could as much say no to the question as she could say no to breathing. She gave another short curtsy and crossed the threshold, doing her best to hide the tension ratcheting up her back.
The first minister’s office had been redone since the last time Cecília had been inside, no doubt to match his new status as the Conde de Oeiras, a true noble since all the old dukedoms and counties had been redistributed. In fact, given how rich the fabric was on the chairs, curtains, and tapestries, she would daresay that the offices were fit for a king. Having to sit in the smaller chair across the desk from Senhor Carvalho’s near throne only made the situation more intimidating, and Senhor Carvalho had never needed help being intimidating.
“Senhorita Durante, how have you been?” Senhor Carvalho took a seat in his chair, his voice light even as his blue eyes continued to pin her in place. The soft wrinkles that had formed on his face over the past few years did nothing to mute the feeling that those eyes could see right into her thoughts.
“Very well, Minister,” Cecília said, trying to match his tone, though she couldn’t entirely hide her apprehension. “Thank you for asking.”
“And how is the rebuilding going? We are breaking ground on the Praça do Comércio soon, I believe?”
“The office seems very pleased with how things are progressing.” Cecília squeezed one hand with the other to stop from giving in to the urge to fidget under his scrutiny, the small talk doing nothing to settle her nerves. “Senhor Rocha has been very kind in finding time to explain everything they are doing. When he isn’t busy with his work, of course.”
“And you’re finding you understand everything he’s teaching you?”
“Most of it,” she said.
“I can’t say I’m surprised.” He steepled his fingers. “You always have had a quick mind.”
She almost slipped and frowned at the unexpected compliment but said, “Thank you, senhor” and waited for the first minister to continue.
“I trust it hasn’t eaten into your religious devotions?”
And there it was. With as little as Senhor Carvalho had ever seemed worried over the state of her or anyone else’s soul, she couldn’t imagine him directing the conversation toward the priests for any other reason than what Tio Aloisio had said was happening. She swallowed, treading carefully. “I attend Mass every Sunday.”
“Only Sundays?”
“And Holy Days of Obligation, of course,” she said, pretending she didn’t know what he was truly driving at with that question.
Those piercing eyes said he didn’t believe she’d misunderstood him for an instant. He still moved on. “And I believe an old family friend of yours has recently returned to court. Father Moreno, is it?”
Cecília gripped her hands tighter. “I don’t know if I would call him a friend, senhor, but he did work with my sister years ago. Before the king’s physician was able to diagnose hysteria and correct it.”
Senhor Carvalho took his time responding, and Cecília had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from squirming. “Did he mention why he had returned to court, when you spoke?”
“He was asked to replace Father Delacruz.” At least that was an easy answer.
“He didn’t mention any other reason?”
“Should he have?”
The slight narrowing of the first minister’s eyes said she had pushed too far, playing dumb. He sat back in his chair-slash-throne. “I believe it may be time for you to attend daily Mass, Senhorita Durante.”
She fought to keep her thoughts together. “Oh?”
“I’m sure you have heard that His Holiness the Pope has appointed my brother, Father Carvalho, to be Inquisitor General?” Though the sentence tipped up at the end like a question, he didn’t wait for a response before continuing, “I’m afraid some at our chapel may be questioning His Holiness’s wisdom. If that is the case, I would like to know about it.”
Cecília took as deep a breath as she could manage, attempting to get the right words out. It’s now or never. “I’d rather not, senhor.”
Senhor Carvalho’s face didn’t change in the slightest as he stared at her, and yet it felt as though the temperature in the room had plummeted. “Come again?”
She shifted in the chair, beginning to lose her battle against fidgeting under such scrutiny. “I-I fully appreciate everything you have done for us, Senhor Carvalho.” The words came out in a rush. “But I can’t in good conscience spy on holy men.”
After what felt like eons, he finally leaned forward, resting his elbows on the solid wood desk. “Do you believe His Holiness has made a mistake, Senhorita Durante?”
“Of course not, senhor.”
“Then you must agree that anyone speaking against the inquisitor general is not a holy man?”
Cecília floundered. “Senhor, truly, you don’t need me. No one would dare move against you after two years ago.”
“You’re certain of that?”
After you literally salted the earth under where the Távoras were burned so nothing will ever grow there again? “Your word is as good as the king’s.”
Senhor Carvalho stood and moved to the side of the desk—not directly over her but a towering figure, all the same. “And what do you believe would happen, should—Lord forbid—the king no longer be the king? I trust you remember what else happened two years ago?”
Cecília dropped her eyes.
“Your uncle asked that you be given time to reconcile what the world demands with whatever you had in your head. You were very sheltered, I know, before everything happened. Do I need to regret not having put a stop to you bothering my architects these past months?”
“No, senhor. It’s just—”
“Because I would hate to think I’d have to begin questioning your loyalty to what this country is attempting to do.”
“No, you have my full support—”
“Or perhaps it’s you don’t wish to attend services? Perhaps something my brother should consider?”
Her head jerked up at the implied threat of the Inquisition—the idea of the severely weakened Holy Office doing anything had been such a small possibility it hadn’t been worth considering in the past few years. “What?”
“What has been happening with those architects? Or with your uncle, perhaps? I believe he has quite a collection of books he allows you to read?”
Half you gave him! She barely caught the accusation before it flew out of her mouth. “Senhor—”
“Is that something that needs to be investigated, Senhorita Durante? You avoiding Mass and reading questionable books?”
“I haven’t been avoiding Mass!”
“You didn’t just tell me you wouldn’t go?”
Cecília gaped, trying to catch up to where the conversation had gone, even though Senhor Carvalho had gotten so many steps ahead of her, there was no chance she would be able to untangle herself from the net he’d woven around her.
“Or perhaps I misunderstood you.” He lifted an eyebrow. “So you are intending to attend daily Mass?”
She grasped for anything she could find in her mind that would get her out of the situation as she felt the walls closing in around her. She couldn’t manage anything but a weak “Yes, senhor.”
“Good.” He turned back to his chair, releasing her from his piercing glare. “I’m glad we cleared that up. I’m sure we’ll speak again soon, when I’m not interrupting your devotions, of course.”
Cecília nodded, her mouth refusing to move again. How many times am I going to have to say yes?
He took a seat and began to shuffle through the papers on his desk. “A pleasure speaking with you, senhorita. So glad you could stop in.”
Cecília mumbled some equally falsely polite response then stood, beating a quick retreat out into the hallway.
You should have known better, the taunting voice in her head said as she turned for her room. You can’t escape the first minister.
She slipped through the door into the blessedly empty antechamber and rested against the wall as she attempted to stop the room from spinning.
You chose this.
She couldn’t debate that, as much as she wanted to ignore the voice. She just wished she had known then, when she had first said “yes” four years before, what it would mean.