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Junqueira Prison rose as imposingly as ever, even if it was just a shadow against the blue-black sky. Cecília slowed next to John as they made it through the final streets, her legs already tingling unpleasantly from the long walk after so much sitting around.
“We should hurry,” John said, his voice just loud enough for her to hear. “Things aren’t going to get any safer.”
Cecília nodded, suddenly not feeling able to speak as her stomach went into knots.
The guard at the front door stiffened as John and Cecília approached, shifting the musket in his hands. “Halt. State your business.”
John pulled the doctored letter from his jacket. “We need to speak with a prisoner here.”
“No visiting at night.” The guard made no move to take it. “Come back in the morning.”
“This letter is from the first minister.” John kept the letter out for the guard. “Would you like me to contact him and see if he wishes to wait?”
A flash of apprehension moved over the guard’s face before he snatched the letter and looked it over. After a beat, he called over his shoulder for another guard from inside and pressed the letter into the second man’s hands. “Take them in.”
The second guard glanced down at the paper then nodded. “With me.”
If anything, the halls of the prison felt smaller at night, the distance between the lanterns along the hall leaving long splotches of darkness to walk through. Cecília tried not to breathe through her nose, as the smell was even worse than she remembered—especially with the guard leading them down into the bowels of Junqueira Prison rather than up. Cecília could only be glad there were no awful cries.
They reached the bottom of the stairs, and an odd thumping sound started.
“What’s that?” Cecília asked before she caught herself.
The guard snorted. “The mad priest. Between his ravings, he throws himself into things. Here.” He moved up to one of the doors and pulled the panel open.
The hollow thumping grew louder, and perverse curiosity drew Cecília forward. With his long white hair fanned out in a ratty mane around his head, the man inside looked every bit the lunatic Cecília had been told Father Malagrida had become. Gone was the imposing figure who had enraptured crowds in the campos outside Lisbon. The poor broken man sitting inside, beating his head against the rough stone wall, didn’t look as though he would have been able to draw a mosquito’s attention, let alone a crowd’s. She had to wonder if Senhor Carvalho had actually seen the priest in the past few years. If he had, she couldn’t imagine what the first minister expected to gain from sending the Inquisition after him. Setting Father Malagrida loose to wander the streets as a crazed beggar would likely do more to drive away what followers he still had than convicting him of heresy.
“If you don’t mind, we’re in a hurry.” John’s voice brought her back to the present.
“Right.” The guard let the flap close again and moved down a different cramped hallway. “This is who you’re here to see?”
As the man pulled the next flap out of the way, Cecília caught a glimpse of her brother, looking nearly as haggard as Father Malagrida but thankfully much saner. “Ye—” she started to answer before the guard jerked, and she realized John had his arm locked around the guard’s neck as he had Francisco’s before. Quickly enough, the guard went limp as well, and John let him slide to the floor.
“It didn’t seem the time for a fair fight,” John answered her wide eyes before quickly binding the man’s hands.
“It is a little disconcerting how adept you are at that.”
“I told you, docks aren’t always the safest places.” John finished with the length of rope and started to pat down the guard’s clothes. He came up with a key. “Ready?”
Cecília couldn’t say she was, but they were in much too far to hesitate.
Francisco’s head jerked up as the door opened, surprise making him look more like the brother she remembered for a split second before his eyes narrowed. “You.”
She supposed she shouldn’t have expected any more of a welcome. “We’ve come to save you.”
“I’m not the one who needs saving.” His eyes flicked between John and Cecília, not looking the least bit happier with either of them.
You’re going to die. Cecília didn’t bother to make the obvious argument. It had gone nowhere before. It didn’t seem there’d be any reason for Francisco to listen to it now.
“I have more rope,” John murmured, “though carrying him would slow us down.”
“You stay away from me.” Somehow Francisco made just that you sound like an insult.
A sound in the hall said the guard was coming back around. We don’t have time for this... A new thought that just might work popped to mind. “Father Malagrida is down the hall.”
Francisco finally paused long enough for her to continue.
“You wanted to get inside here, didn’t you? To find Father Malagrida? The guard just showed us where he is, right down the hall.”
Francisco stood. “You can’t pretend you intended this.”
“Are you going to question God’s ways?”
He kept his eyes narrowed, but he moved for the door. “Where is he?”
“Cecília,” John said in a warning tone.
“Trust me,” she hissed before motioning Francisco forward to the cell they had just left. If anything, the thumping had only intensified. She pulled the flap back and moved far enough back to let Francisco see. “That’s Father Malagrida.”
Francisco stepped up to the door, alarm cracking the disdain visible on his face.
“He’s mad. You bring him out of this prison, he’s as likely to walk straight into the Tagus and drown himself as change anything.”
Francisco shook his head slightly. “That can’t be him.”
“If I know it is, you must.” Cecília glanced down the hall to see John once again wrestling down the guard. He sent her a look, so she hurried as much as she could. “He can’t be saved. Not even if you get him out of here.”
Conflict played across his face as he seemed to be trying to work out what to do as quickly as Cecília had.
“You likely remember his sermons better than he does at this point,” she pressed on. “Do you think that’s what your vision could have meant? That you need to save him by bringing his words to the people? You joined the Church to help people, Cisco. If you get yourself killed along with him, how will that help? Everything you know will die right along with Father Malagrida.”
A rise of voices on the floor above them made Cecília look up.
“Time’s up.” John fingered the rope he still had. “We need to get out of here.”
“Please, Cisco,” she said, making a final attempt.
Francisco took a few steps back, conflict still washing over his face though he slowly started to nod.
“Great.” John grabbed Cecília’s hand. “Which way?”
Cecília looked around, trying to place where they were versus the plans. “We need to get back up the staircase. Then the far side of the prison is still damaged. We can get out that way.”
“Off we go, then.” John started forward.
The grumble of voices grew clearer as they move toward the stairs.
“You let them in?”
“They had a letter from the first minister. What was I supposed to do?”
“It must have been a fake. You better get them before Senhor Carvalho arrives, or you’re going to be in one of those cells before morning.”
Cecília’s stomach clenched at the idea of Senhor Carvalho himself making the trip to the prison. If they were facing that level of wrath, a simple hanging would likely be too good for them. Maneuvering around John, she led the way, slipping through the door at the top of the stairs and around a corner just ahead of the guards. In the cramped hallways, the reverberation of their voices and footsteps made it impossible to tell if it was three men or thirty.
Using the long patches of darkness to remain out of sight, Cecília found the next tight staircase they needed—the one she had taken to see Luís, if the recognition that hit her stomach said anything—and led them out of the belly of the prison.
As they left the echoing guards below, the prison went eerily quiet—no angry voices or mad thumping. There had to be men locked up behind at least some of the wooden doors they passed, but there wasn’t so much as a cough. The silence only grated on Cecília’s frayed nerves. She did her best to focus on logical things and work out where they were versus the plans she’d reviewed.
The hall they were in came to a T, and Cecília headed right.
“Are you certain you know where you’re going?” Francisco whispered behind her.
I certainly hope so. “I have the rebuilding plans.” She made a left turn that should have brought them to the back of the building.
The hall suddenly came to a dead end.
“We can turn around—” John started as voices began to filter through the distance. More guards were being roused. There was shouting and footsteps.
“Now we’re trapped,” Francisco snapped.
Heart beating too quickly at the encroaching panic, Cecília swallowed, trying to work out where she had made a mistake. She had followed the plans to where rebuilding was marked to start. There was something she was missing. The hall shouldn’t have ended so suddenly. There should have been an opening of some sort in that hall. Suddenly, it registered. The wall was oddly pitched and brick, not stone like the rest of the prison.
“No, we’re not.” She moved to the last door on the slanted wall. Pulling back the flap, she smelled a gust of blessedly clean fresh air. “Here! They must have bricked over where the hall cracked. The cells on the other side are still open!” She tried the handle. The wooden door wouldn’t budge. “John. That key?”
He jumped as though he hadn’t thought of it and patted down his pockets.
“Please tell me you brought it.” She glanced down the darkness-mottled hallway. She still couldn’t see anyone, but the voices were growing closer and clearer.
“Yes!” John found the key he’d taken from the guard. “Just pray it works.”
“I will,” Francisco murmured a little more pointedly than the situation called for.
Thankfully, John ignored him, working to fit the key into the lock.
Footsteps neared. The guards couldn’t have been more than a turn or two away.
“John...” Cecília glanced between him and the hall.
“It fits. It’s just... rusty.”
Voices echoed around the stone, sounding dark, nearly demonic.
“John.”
“It’s going. Just a second.”
“Hey!” The shout went out as a man rounded the corner.
“Got it!” John rammed his shoulder into the old door, and it swung open with an unholy creak.
A gunshot went off, a musket ball hitting stone somewhere close enough for Cecília to hear the ricochet.
“Run!” John grabbed her hand again, and she grabbed Francisco’s, moving them as a chain out into the dark night.
Cecília panted, the burning in her legs back in full force as she struggled to keep up with the men’s longer strides. She didn’t dare stop as more and more gunshots went off behind them. John made a wide swing, heading first away from the river before doubling back. She didn’t have the breath to question him.
As they neared the docks, he skidded to a stop, nearly sending Cecília straight into his back. She dropped both men’s hands to steady herself. “What—” she started to ask before she saw what he did. “Tio?”
Tio Aloisio stood in front of them, a bag over his shoulder, seeming to have appeared out of nowhere like a phantom. He shook his head. “I knew there would be trouble, having both of you together again. I didn’t imagine it would be to this level.”
“Tio Aloisio, I couldn’t—”
“I thought that might be the case.” Tio Aloisio held his hand up to cut her off before checking the street behind him.
John frowned. “How did you—”
“Senhor Ventura isn’t the best secret keeper, it seems.” Tio Aloisio glanced at John before addressing Cecília once again. “He let it slip he had seen you while out in the hall and, when brought to the first minister, that you had taken his plans for the prison. From there, it wasn’t too difficult to put together what you were attempting to do. There are a fair number of soldiers out in the streets around here looking for you. My first stop after I heard was to the diplomatic corps, and when I heard someone was set to ship out in the morning, I was willing to venture where you might be headed after the prison.”
Cecília’s entire body tensed. “Are you planning to stop us?”
“Hardly.” Tio Aloisio heaved a sigh. “I had a suspicion you wouldn’t take well to being locked in, so I’ve been in contact with a friend I have in France. Outside Paris. I was originally going to suggest it for you, but after this fiasco, I imagine we’re all better off out of the country.”
“All of...” Cecília looked toward Francisco, only to find empty air. “Cisco?”
“He slipped away as soon as he saw me,” Tio Aloisio said. “I thought it best to let him go.”
“He’s wanted!” Her voice rose a little more than was prudent.
“And he’s aware. You’ve freed him, which is more than he could have expected. What he does with that freedom is going to be up to him. You know your brother. There’s nothing we could possibly say that will change his mind. There are people who are willing to question their faith and come to a stronger understanding of it through those trials, and those who gain their strength from believing there are no questions to ask. Your brother has always been the latter.”
And you think I’m the former. After everything that had happened, Cecília couldn’t fully disagree with him.
“Now, the Vento de Verão is in port, ready to cast off as soon as I give word,” Tio Aloisio continued. “I would highly suggest we all be aboard it before the first minister thinks to block off the docks. Unless you wish to catch your own ship, Bates?”
Cecília looked at him in time to see John and her uncle share some other silent conversation in a look before he offered her a small smile. “I’ve never made it as far inland as Paris. I’m told it’s a city to see.”
“Then might I recommend we go?” Tio Aloisio turned, obviously meaning his question to be rhetorical.
Cecília still lingered, sending a last look after where Francisco had been.
“You saved him from prison and put him off Malagrida,” John said. “That could be enough to save his life. Even if he stays here.”
Could be. Cecília wished there was more certainty than that, but with Francisco, she supposed that would have to be enough. Tio Aloisio was right. They all had their own versions of faith. She couldn’t change his any more than he could change what hers had become. With a certain nod, she turned back to follow her uncle. John took her hand once again and gave it a gentle squeeze.
As they moved away from the prison, the streets became quiet, nearly ominously so. But it seemed the soldiers Senhor Carvalho had sent were still searching closer to the breakout, not the docks. They came around a line of wooden buildings, no doubt temporary structures to replace what had once been there, and her breath caught. Though the moon wasn’t more than a small crescent, the light had managed to catch the Tagus, making the entire wide band of water glint silvery-blue behind the masts of the ships at dock.
“This way,” Tio Aloisio said, and Cecília noticed she’d stopped. She started after him again then saw it: Tio Aloisio’s ship, Papai’s ship, her ship. She picked up her pace, jogging the last few steps past the men to look up at it.
“Are we climbing aboard?” John asked behind her.
Tio Aloisio gave a low whistle in response, and a gangplank appeared over the side. “As I said, I was prepared.” He motioned for Cecília to go ahead of him, and out of everything else she had felt that night, that year, a heady buzz began as she walked up the plank and onto the deck.
Tio Aloisio followed close behind her, handing his bag to one of the handful of men on deck. “Get that into the captain’s quarters. Bates, I trust you still know your way around rigging? I thought it best to let as few men as possible know what was happening.”
“Aye, sir.” John touched Cecília’s arm lightly before slipping into the activity on the deck as though born to it.
Tio Aloisio remained beside her. “You aren’t choosing an easy life, you know, Cilinha.”
She nodded, the nickname not feeling as grating anymore. “I’m not sure if I would know what to do with myself at this point, if things were suddenly easy.”
Tio Aloisio shook his head, but she could almost see the hint of a smile in the moonlight, as if being on the ship made him feel lighter as well.
A man finished pulling the gangplank and faced Tio Aloisio. “Are you taking the helm, sir?”
“I suppose I should. It’s certainly been a while,” he said then looked at Cecília. “Would you care to join me? It was your father’s ship, after all.”
Cecília blinked in surprise. “Really?”
He took a step back and held his hand out toward the large wheel near the end of the deck. Not giving her uncle the chance to change his mind, Cecília headed where directed.
“Hoist the mast!” Tio Aloisio called. The order echoed through the sparse crew as he took a place behind the helm. “I’ll steer us through the mouth of the river, then we’ll see if you can have a go.” He glanced at Cecília. “As long as you don’t wreck us on the coast, it’s hard to hit something out at sea.”
Butterflies stirred in Cecília’s stomach, and she nodded, not trusting her voice as the ship slowly began to pull away from the dock. The deck under her feet rocked slightly. Wind began to blow her hair, carrying the intoxicating smell of salt and spray up from the water. She breathed it all in, watching the silvery-blue water pass underneath them. And for the first time in months—for the first time in years, perhaps—she felt entirely at peace. Maybe, just maybe, everything would finally go right.