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Cecília’s heart pounded as their carriage rolled through the crowds that lined the streets leading to the Praça do Commércio, slowly enough that she had plenty of time to scan the buildings that made up what they were calling the Pombaline Baixa—after all, the designs, the work, all of it had been led by the long-serving first minister Senhor Carvalho, now the Marquês de Pombal for all of his tireless efforts. Traveling into the city was likely a needless risk. Though it had been fifteen years, she couldn’t trust the first minister’s wrath had lessened any. He had, after all, seen the entire Durante family—save Bibiana—officially exiled even after they had already left the country, and he was not a man known for forgiveness. Still, at the news that Lisbon had finally been rebuilt, Cecília had found it impossible to stay away.
“Is it everything you thought it would be?” John’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
Cecília looked away from the window long enough to meet his eyes. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen everything yet.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up at the slightly snarky reply. “I’m just seeing if you think it was worth the risk of coming.”
“I’m not sure you’re one to lecture me about taking risks right now.”
“You can’t say you aren’t just as interested in what’s happening in Boston.”
“I’m not sure anyone on this side of the Atlantic, save perhaps King George, is as interested in what’s happening as you are, John Bates.”
The amused look turned into a full smile as he turned back to his own window. Cecília shook her head but let the conversation drop. They had already gone through it dozens of times, the compromise that he could get involved in whatever was happening with his old friends in Boston as long as they stopped first in Lisbon. All of it was no doubt asking for trouble, but for everything else that had changed in the past fifteen years, John was no more risk averse at forty-two than he had been at twenty-seven.
She returned to staring out the window, spotting the designs all the architects had been slaving over what felt like three lifetimes ago brought to life. Perfectly symmetrical buildings lined carefully measured roads. Still, even rolling down the street, she could see all the imperfections, every façade that had been erected to cover an incomplete structure. Lisbon might have been “rebuilt” enough for the grand opening, but there was certainly construction still happening.
Finally, the crowd became so thick that the carriage couldn’t move.
John leaned to see farther ahead of them. “We’re going to have to walk if we want to get much closer.”
Cecília nodded, knocking to get the driver’s attention. “Pull off onto one of the side streets,” she said when he leaned down to look through the small window into the carriage. “We’ll walk from here.”
The man frowned. “Are you sure that’s wise, senhora?”
It wasn’t, but that had never stopped her. And it felt oddly fitting, following the masses into Lisbon with John next to her. “We’ll find you when we’re finished.” She swung the door open before he could hop down to do it for her. John quickly joined her, and they filtered into the crowd walking toward the grand arch marking the start of the Praça.
The smell that was Lisbon—sea air, sardines, red sand—hit her strongly enough that it nearly knocked her off her feet. Memories of the life she had once lived, back when the streets had been small and twisted, back when she had snuck her way down to the river while her mother and aunt were speaking inside, washed over her. She took John’s hand, keeping one foot moving in front of the other as they entered the Praça. For all the awful she had seen in her life, there had certainly been good too. If everything hadn’t happened exactly as it had, she never would have met John. She likely would never have left Lisbon. She certainly wouldn’t have had the last happy fifteen years, seeing at least her small part of the world.
Leading John behind a man playing a pipe for coins, Cecília found a spot alongside one of the cheerful yellow buildings that surrounded the Praça. All of those, at least, seemed to be completed, the monuments to neoclassicism Pombal had had designed for their new, enlightened Lisbon.
Settled in place, she scanned the platform that stood in the center of the square, erected for the unveiling of Senhor Carvalho’s statue. She had to imagine there had been more than a few unkind words said about it at court, but opening the new Baixa by dedicating a statue of himself right in the center seemed entirely in character for the man Cecília had once known.
A flash of the Távora executions shot through her mind. She shook her head to clear it. Following Father Malagrida’s execution, the autos-da-fé had been abolished for good. No one else had burned. Even Francisco, wherever he had gotten to, had once again escaped death even if she had heard his name mentioned in any one of a hundred stirrings against Senhor Carvalho over the years. Where he was, though, or even if he was still alive, she supposed was anyone’s guess. Either way, she supposed more speculating would do her no good. If nothing else, she would have to attempt to explain herself in front of Saint Peter, assuming Francisco arrived there before her.
Mind once again clear, she opened her eyes and focused on the platform. Senhor Carvalho stood near the center, looking far older than he did in Cecília’s memory. She gave a light laugh. It has been fifteen years. All but King of Portugal or not, he isn’t immortal.
The crowd fell silent as the speeches began. They clapped and shouted as the statue was unveiled. Though some looked angry, overall, the people Cecília saw seemed happy. The people of Lisbon supported their first minister. Looking at the younger faces around, Cecília had to imagine half of the people standing on the Praça barely remembered the quake that had brought them all there—if they had been alive at all—let alone all the ups and downs that had dominated Cecília’s early adulthood.
Let them never know any of it as more than a story, she sent up as a soft prayer. Let them only know the good that has come from it all. Let that be the legacy all the horror leaves behind.
The men on the platform retreated, moving for one of the doorways on the other side of the Praça, and John turned to Cecília. He studied her face for a moment before asking, “Ready?”
Cecília studied the crowd for a final moment, looking at what her city, her Lisbon, had become. And it looked... strong. No matter how long it took to get there, one day, Lisbon would be fine. It would once again be her beautiful city, one that would survive another one, two, three centuries, God willing.
She nodded, offering John a small smile before he turned to find a way through the masses still in the Praça. Cecília let him lead, giving herself over to her own thoughts. As good and bad as her memories in the city were, she could at least call herself satisfied. And for the moment, that was more than enough.