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It was hardly the first time Cecília had kept the Hours, but it had never felt quite so oppressive. Her entire body ached as she found herself back on her knees for Vespers, and it was only her second day. If things kept going as they were, she would have ended up looking more hunched and hobbled than ninety-year-old, arthritic Senhora Abarca by the end of the week.
“Amen,” Cecília mumbled by rote with the rest of the small congregation and crossed herself as Father Moreno finished the service. Soft shuffling filled the chapel as the handful of courtiers present began to move out of the pews. Cecília remained where she was, blowing out a long breath as she tried to relax her muscles enough to move.
Finally, she managed to get her legs to shift, just in time to notice Father Moreno moving toward her.
Oh, dear Lord. Please, no. She already had been racking her mind for how she could protect Francisco without damning Tio Aloisio and herself. She didn’t need the other priests throwing themselves into the mix as well.
Of course, no one listened to her prayer, and Father Moreno stopped at the end of her pew. “Good evening.”
“Good evening, Father.” Cecília fully straightened and caught her hands in front of her to keep them from fidgeting.
“How are you faring today?” His kind eyes searched her face. “I’ve noticed you’ve been joining us for the Hours.”
Of course you have. “I’ve been praying for my brother.” The first thing she could think of left her mouth, even if it was likely the worst option she could have gone with, save blatantly admitting to what Senhor Carvalho had ordered. She only just caught the grimace before it made it to her face.
“Oh?” Father Moreno’s graying eyebrows rose.
“He’s gone missing.” She was locked into the lie now. “I’m worried about him.”
The interested look fell into obvious disappointment. “You haven’t heard from him, then?”
“No, Father. Have you?” Cecília! She cursed herself, not wanting him to answer.
Father Moreno’s mouth pinched. “I’m sorry to say I haven’t.”
Thank you, Lord.
“I admit, I am worried as well. He should have landed by now.”
“What?” Cecília’s voice squeaked.
Father Moreno studied Cecília’s face again, seeming to realize that she didn’t know something he did. He motioned to the confessionals to the left of the pews. “Would you like to make confession, child?”
“Oh, I already—”
“Please.” He cut off her lie, moving toward the little cabinets.
Gritting her teeth, Cecília followed along, watching his black robe flutter out behind him. Her mind briefly glanced over the one she had been wearing the day everything had started. It had been turned into rags that November, too shredded from when she had crawled out of the rubble to mend. Apparently, real priestly robes didn’t offer as much protection as before, either.
She stepped into her side of the confessional then turned to kneel in front of the grille. Her knees quickly protesting, she sat on the little bench instead. She heard Father Moreno enter the opposite side, and the grille slid open. When he didn’t speak, Cecília asked, “Would you like me to actually make—”
“No. Not unless you wish to, of course. There are simply... many ears about the palace. I thought we should be cautious.”
Moving won’t help you with that. Cecília remained silent, biting the inside of her cheek.
“When was the last time you heard from Father Durante?”
“Months ago.” Cecília interlaced her fingers in front of her, telling herself that it wasn’t technically a lie. She could even say when she was a child was months ago—just many, many months.
“You haven’t heard of his vision, then?”
“Vision?” Cecília repeated, already not liking the sound of where the conversation was headed.
“São João o Apóstolo blessed him in a dream. Told him it was his calling to save Father Malagrida from this shameful case being brought against him.”
Cecília squeezed her eyes shut tightly, the situation so much worse than even the dire possibilities that had been niggling at the back of her skull. “He’s coming to Lisbon?”
“That is what we were told. He should be here by now, though, and no one has heard a word from him. I was rather hoping he had contacted you.”
“Me?”
“As his sister?”
You have the wrong sister for that. “I haven’t heard a word.”
“Oh dear.” Father Moreno sighed. “I will continue to pray for him. I hope nothing happened to his ship.”
Cecília couldn’t have said a shipwreck would have been a worse fate than Senhor Carvalho’s wrath. At least with a wreck, he could wash up on some friendlier shore. Trying to do anything with Father Malagrida in Portugal would likely lead to a much more painful death than what could happen at sea. For him and the rest of them.
“You’ll let me know? If he contacts you?”
“Yes, Father.” Since that possibility seemed about as slim as her ever actually getting on a ship, she didn’t let herself worry about agreeing.
“Thank you, child,” Father Moreno said.
Silence fell over them, and Cecília shifted her weight uncomfortably. “Is that everything, Father?”
“Oh, yes. Yes. Unless you would like to make confession.”
“I did this morning.” That was a lie, but she was going to Hell, anyway. She could certainly have done without confession for another day. There seemed little it would help at that point.
“Go with God, my child.”
“Thank you, Father,” Cecília said in a rush before she stood and left the confessional. She slowed in the hallway outside the chapel, trying to think of somewhere to go or someone she could ask for help. Francisco might have been attempting to sign his own death warrant, but she couldn’t hasten that. He was her brother, no matter how they had left things years before. Her first instinct was to find John, but that would hardly have been fair. Too many people were already at risk. She wouldn’t pull him back less than half a week after she’d warned him away.
Tio Aloisio? The thought made her stop as she mulled it over. Her uncle had been the first minister’s man since before he’d been the first minister. Cecília wasn’t certain whether Senhor Carvalho had friends, but if he did, Tio Aloisio would have been considered one. She couldn’t trust, if she went to her uncle, that he wouldn’t go straight to tell the first minister, as he had about Father Moreno.
But it’s Cisco... Her brother had all but told her that she was damned when she had brought Tio Aloisio to the camp after the quake, and she still would risk her life to save him. She could hope her uncle had at least some familial love left for his only surviving nephew, at least enough not to want to see him hang or worse.
Cecília shivered but started forward once again. She didn’t have to tell Tio Aloisio everything, just enough to see if he would help. She could plan from there.
Tio Aloisio was once again at his desk when she arrived, a lamp lit a little too close to the papers there as he stooped over whatever he was reading.
She hesitated when he didn’t give more than the barest level of greeting, but she wouldn’t have many other options if she lost her nerve. “Do you have a minute, Tio?”
“Could it wait?” He still didn’t look up.
She glanced at the door behind her and moved farther into the room so that no one in the hall could overhear. “People were talking about Francisco.”
That got his attention. “Have you told Senhor Carvalho?”
She pressed her lips into a thin line.
“Cecília.” Tio Aloisio stood, his expression warning enough that she had to assume he knew everything that had happened in her meeting with the first minister.
“They don’t know where he is,” she said quickly. “But he’s trying to come back to Portugal. He had a vision.”
“Or Brazil baked his mind,” Tio Aloisio grumbled. “You need to tell the first minister.”
“Tio... it’s Cisco.”
Enough conflict played over his face that Cecília dared hope he understood, but then Tio Aloisio shook his head. “He made his decision a long time ago, Cilinha. There’s nothing we can do for him.”
“You could watch the docks. He has to be on a ship, don’t you think? If you found him first, we could send him back—”
“And he would turn right back around as soon as he made landfall. You know your brother. If he wants to martyr himself, he will. No good will come from taking ourselves down with him.”
“But—”
“Report this, or I will.” He picked up his papers from the desk and moved back to his room without giving her the chance to reply.
Cecília chewed on the inside of her cheek, running through what other choices she might still have whose names weren’t John. There’s still a shipwreck.
She released a sharp breath, but there truly didn’t seem to be any better options than praying that Francisco found himself anywhere else but Lisbon.
I don’t want him hurt. Just... not here.
And you’re going to Hell, the voice in her head insisted.
Pressing her lips together tightly, Cecília fingered the cross around her neck, not fully able to argue the point. At least she suddenly had a better reason for attending the Hours. Whatever she was or wasn’t going to tell Senhor Carvalho, she genuinely needed to pray for Francisco and for her own soul.
***
“AMEN.” CECÍLIA CROSSED herself, the action automatic as she neared her third week of daily services. As one day dragged into the next, the routine wavered between comforting and dreary, no two services feeling quite the same. As they’d made it through the second week with no news about Francisco, she had finally stopped trying to figure out what she felt about everything, mumbling her way through the responses and continuously shaking her head whenever Father Moreno sent her hopeful glances. If she could just keep things going the same way they had been—going to chapel, giving Senhor Carvalho bland reports that he disliked but accepted about how her brother was still missing but likely trying to make it back to Portugal—she might actually make it through everything with some modicum of sanity.
As she stood, she felt Father Moreno’s eyes on her. Cecília looked up to shake her head once again, answering the unasked question, but the priest was making his way down the aisle toward her.
Meu Deus... Cecília vaguely wondered if she had cursed herself, daring to think things might actually be fine.
“You wished to make confession, child?” Father Moreno asked, voice light as he glanced at the other courtiers still lingering in the chapel.
Cecília almost groaned, as the overly casual way he was attempting to stand, paired with the glancing, made him look far more suspicious than if he had simply stood there. She sent up a quick prayer that he wanted to see what she knew about Francisco, but instinct told her there was something else, something new. Heaven save us all.
Knowing it was pointless to attempt avoiding it, she silently turned for the confessional and stepped into her side of the cabinet. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned...
Father Moreno didn’t hesitate, speaking nearly as soon as he had shut the cabinet on his side. “I’ve heard from Father Durante.”
Of course you have. Cecília squeezed her eyes shut. She tried not to sound as anxious as she felt. “Oh?”
“He is in Lisbon, staying with some friends.”
Cecília didn’t dare ask what friends.
“You have been to Junqueira Prison before, I believe?”
That memory slammed into Cecília’s chest, surprising her enough that she lost her breath for a second. She didn’t need to think about Luís when she was already dealing with whatever Francisco was attempting.
“Years ago?” Father Moreno prompted at her silence.
“Yes, Father,” Cecília managed, forcing herself to draw a proper breath.
“The first minister gave you a letter of passage?”
She certainly didn’t like where the conversation was headed. Hesitantly, she said, “He did.”
“Do you still have it?”
Honestly, she couldn’t remember what she had done after she had visited Luís. That entire evening—the entire rest of that week—was one large blur leading up to that singular, ungodly clear memory of the scaffolding, Luís’s stubbornly determined look, and the nausea... She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m not sure. It was two years—”
“Could you look?” Father Moreno’s question came out too rushed.
“Why?”
“It would greatly aid your brother. He needs to make it into the prison if he is to complete his divine mission.”
“And he wants my letter?” She had to imagine he would attempt to scratch out the original information, but Senhor Carvalho would know in an instant where he had gotten it if—or perhaps when—Francisco was caught, and then Cecília would be up on the scaffolding along with him.
“He was hesitant about bringing you into it,” Father Moreno said. “I’m certain he doesn’t want to put you in any danger.”
Or more rightfully, he’s suspicious of me.
“But I told him how devoutly you have been praying for his safety. Certainly you wish to see him successful?”
Cecília avoided the question. “I don’t even know if I still have that letter, Father.”
“Will you look and tell me at None? If you can find it, we can get it to Father Durante tonight.”
“Tonight?” Surprise made her voice squeak.
“He was so delayed arriving, there really is no time to waste. The new inquisitor general”—Father Moreno’s tone turned darker at the mention of Father Carvalho—“does not intend to wait, it seems.”
Cecília’s mind turned over, trying to work out a plan even as she spoke. “Can I see him? Francisco?”
Father Moreno hesitated for the first time since they had reached the confessional. “That likely isn’t wise, my child.”
She couldn’t debate that, but if she couldn’t see him, she didn’t have any chance to try to stop him, and that would leave implicating herself in the plot to try to keep him from being caught or turning him over to the mercy of Senhor Carvalho, and neither option was anything close to acceptable. “I won’t give the letter to anyone but him.”
“Child—”
“I won’t,” she said, leaving no room for argument.
Father Moreno released a weary breath but said, “I will see if that can be engineered. We will speak at None?”
“Yes, Father.” Cecília opened the cabinet door and slipped away. Attempting to carefully measure her steps, she moved toward the door of the chapel. Still, with each inch she put between herself and the confessional, her heart began to beat faster. She already knew she couldn’t tell Senhor Carvalho what she had heard, even if it would likely be enough to free her from reporting—it was proof that Father Malagrida was attempting to avoid the Inquisition, that he knew he was a heretic. She wouldn’t take thirty pieces of silver for her brother’s life. But even if she could convince Francisco to see her, Heavens knew what she would be able to say to convince him to abandon his plans altogether. She hadn’t seen Francisco in years, but she couldn’t imagine Brazil had softened his convictions, not if he was already willing to risk death for what he believed was a divine mission.
Who says it isn’t? You?
Cecília froze, considering when she had decided that she didn’t believe Francisco was being divinely guided. The idea certainly shouldn’t have been absurd. He was a priest. He had given his life in service to the Church. If God did wish for someone to save Father Malagrida, there was no reason He wouldn’t have called on Francisco.
But something inside Cecília wouldn’t let her believe it. Perhaps she couldn’t believe God cared so little that everything was some natural law He’d sparked off, but at some point in the past years, she had unthinkingly chosen her side. She had chosen doubt over faith. She crossed herself, halfheartedly asking for any forgiveness she might need, but if she was wrong, she was already damned. There seemed to be little reason to let her brother die on the off chance that he was right.
Of course, that didn’t solve the problem of getting Francisco to agree to return to Brazil. Cecília certainly wouldn’t have been able argue him out of anything. She would have been lucky if he let her get another word out after he learned she wasn’t giving him the letter, and she couldn’t force him to listen to her. She wouldn’t exactly be able to overpower him, after all. And she couldn’t imagine many people would be willing to help her physically drag him off and tie him up somewhere until she had more of a plan. He was still a priest. That would still mean something, at least to anyone at court who wouldn’t run immediately to Senhor Carvalho and report on her.
Except... She was back to John. She had been careful to keep a wide berth from him, even when their speaking would look innocuous, but she had to believe his offer to help was still good. She had certainly felt him watching her at the full-court dinners as though he was attempting to divine what was happening, even if she’d made a point not to look back. And if there ever was a time when having a Protestant for a friend would come in handy, it had to be when planning to physically attack a priest.
She bunched up the fabric of her skirt in her fists hard enough that the silk brocade would no doubt be puckered once she released them. She would still never forgive herself if something happened to him, but in her sea of awful possible outcomes, John was likely the only option she had left. Anyway, he worked for the diplomatic corps. Even as much power as the first minister had, he couldn’t execute a British citizen with simply the snap of his fingers.
He couldn’t execute a priest, either, but he’s found a way around that. It will be Luís all over again.
She locked her jaw, but in more ways than one, John wasn’t Luís. Tio Aloisio had been derisive about how John had gotten through life, but anyone would have to say that John was a survivor. She couldn’t see him willingly martyring himself purely off principle or judging her for doing what she needed to survive—at least no more than she already was judging herself.
You’d still be putting him at risk.
From what he had said, he wouldn’t care, which somehow made it worse. He would help simply because she’d requested it, no questions asked, no idea what he was actually facing.
Unless you tell him the truth. The full truth.
As simple as the idea was, it hit her like an epiphany. She could stop trying to do everything by herself, tell John exactly what was happening, and let him decide what to do. It wouldn’t make anything less dire, but if he still decided to help, he would be going in with eyes wide open.
Her mind made up, she turned toward the diplomatic corps’ hallway. John had only given her a vague description of where his room was the last time she had seen him. And with the sun just down, there was no saying whether he was even in his room at all rather than finishing up work for the day or off playing cards or whatever the other English diplomats did with their time. She would just have to hope he was dressing for dinner or already retired for the night.
Only a handful of men were in the halls, and none gave her a second glance as she strode past as though she belonged there. The much demurer black gown likely helped. Finally, she found what she prayed was the correct door—third from the end on the left—and knocked.
The door opened quickly, as though John had been expecting someone, before surprise flashed over his face. “Cecília.”
If someone else was coming, being found inside would no doubt look compromising, but standing out in the hall for anyone to see seemed the worse of the two options. “May I come in?”
His eyebrows furrowed, but he stepped back to leave the doorway open.
She moved inside, her eyes sweeping the room. It was one of the smallest she had seen at the Real Barraca and sparsely furnished with a simple wood-framed bed, a square trunk sitting at the end of it, and two small desks with chairs.
“Do I need to leave before your bedfellow returns?” she asked.
“What?”
“Two desks?”
“Oh, it’s just me for the moment. Though I was about to leave to meet some friends.”
Less than a month, and he already has friends. Cecília kept herself from shaking her head. Four years at court, and she wasn’t sure there was anyone she would have called more than a casual acquaintance. She tried to release some of the tension in her shoulders, all the same. “I won’t stay long.”
“I can certainly reschedule, if you’d like.”
“No, I shouldn’t stay long anyway. Just...”
He waited for her to find something to say.
She finally settled on, “I am in trouble. At least I could be.”
John’s expression remained serious, but there was no hint of surprise. “Would you like to sit?”
“It won’t take long to explain.” Well, it would have taken too long to fully explain. She decided just to explain one part. “I need your help, if you’re still willing to give it.”
“Gladly. With what?”
“Kidnapping a priest?” Her voice tipped up uncertainly.
He blinked for a few seconds, seeming to need a minute to fully comprehend what she’d said before he shook his head. “How could I refuse a proposition like that? Any particular priest?”
“My brother. Francisco. You remember him?”
“Oh, I remember him.” His tone of voice said they were not particularly fond memories.
With an unsteady breath, Cecília launched into the full explanation—or at least everything she could fit into the short time they had. Everything she had been keeping to herself came pouring out at once: the spying, Father Malagrida, the Inquisition, Francisco’s supposed vision. To his credit, John listened to it all without commentary. “So I don’t have anyone else to ask, and Cisco isn’t going to listen to me. The only way I can keep him from getting himself killed is if I can force him somewhere and keep him there long enough to get through to him.”
“Hence the kidnapping.”
She nodded.
“What time do you need me?”
Cecília hesitated, the completely casual way he asked throwing her. “You’d possibly be risking your life, helping me.”
“More likely my job,” he said. “And it if comes down to that or you, I’m more than willing to chance it.”
“John—”
“I already said I would help, Cecília,” he said, his voice certain in a way she wished she could feel. “Now, what do you need me to do?”
***
CECÍLIA SCARCELY DARED to breathe until she made it back to her own hall and into her rooms. John had been more than agreeable to her entire crazy plan, even if she had come up with most of it on the spot, but there was still more to do before she saw Francisco. By some divine providence, Tio Aloisio was out, letting her pass the antechamber without having to pretend nothing had happened. Blowing out a breath, she rested against the door of her bedroom, trying to keep her mind steady. She had willing help, but she still needed to keep herself together. Everything would be lost if she dissolved, and she would have to be back in the chapel far too soon.
In the years she had been at court, she had managed to collect an odd assortment of effects, mostly things Tio Aloisio either hadn’t managed to sell or had gifted to her from his cargo trades. She couldn’t remember where he had gotten the dark-stained wooden furniture that filled out the space, but she moved to the little vanity sitting near the window and started riffling through the drawers. An assortment of jars and knickknacks that should have been cleared out long ago cluttered the space. She didn’t pause until she found an old stack of papers. Buried among the mess was what she was looking for, the letter she had no doubt thrown in that drawer and done her best to forget after that awful day when she had visited Luís. It was all coming back to haunt her.
Her first instinct told her to burn the damned thing. She could tell Father Moreno it had been lost over the years, and they could come up with some other crazy plan to get themselves killed. Instead, she carefully folded it once again and slipped it into the middle of the papers. She obviously couldn’t give it to Francisco, but she couldn’t bring herself to destroy it, either, just in case. Of course, she couldn’t show up empty-handed. She picked up a blank piece of stationary, steadied the slight tremor in her hands, and folded it carefully into thirds. It wouldn’t fool anyone for long, but it also meant that no one would be able to say she was attempting to help Francisco with any sort of coded message or whatever else the first minister’s men might say if everything went wrong and they were all captured.
Querido Santo Judeu, she sent up a quick prayer to the patron of desperate cases and lost causes, just on the off chance that someone was still listening to her. Please help us all get out of this alive. Please.
And as always, the silence that answered sounded deafening.