by Jessica Dall
She maneuvered around a man who was sitting and rocking on the ground, seemingly no longer in control of his faculties, then stopped short. Francisco stood in profile, hunched over a pale man on a blanket. He touched the man’s hand and gave a kind, if tense, smile.
“Is that him?” John asked.
She nodded, it taking another moment for reality to set in before she could convince her legs to move. She rushed forward. “Cisco!”
Francisco started, spinning toward her with a frown. She slowed at the confused look on his face. His eyes slid over her as if he wasn’t certain what he was seeing.
“Father?” The man on the blanket looked between them.
Closer, Cecília noticed both of the man’s legs were missing below the knee. Her smile lessened, but even that wasn’t enough to be rid of the elated rush moving through her.
“Ce—” Francis started then motioned her away. “Wait there.”
Cecília took a few steps back to give the injured man privacy, but she kept her eyes on her brother. An angry raised gash ran along the side of his head past his temple, and a few places on his face were spotted yellow-green with healing bruises, but otherwise, he was still her handsome brother, all in one piece. Even if the gash left a scar, Cecília imagined there would still be plenty of women cursing him for taking the cloth, as there had been back in the Baixa. With Papai’s wavy dark hair and Mamãe’s blue eyes, he had always been the most striking of the Durante siblings.
Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain... she tried to remind herself. It was hardly the time for envy.
As Francisco finished with the legless man, Cecília felt John come up behind her and stand, not close enough to touch, though her skin prickled, overly aware of him. She released a slow breath to fight it off then pressed her hand to her side as the pain there caught up to her. The sudden bursts of emotion that let her forget her injuries were going to be the death of her.
Of course, John immediately noticed. “How’s your side?”
“I’ll survive.” Cecília didn’t take her eyes off her brother.
Francisco finished his prayer with the injured man then turned back to Cecília. He stared for a moment, sent a suspicious look at John, then swept up to her. “Cecília, thank the Lord. We thought you had been lost.”
A small spark of hope tried to catch in Cecília’s stomach, not quite finding purchase. “We?”
“Bibiana and I.”
Another rush of elation. “Bibiana? She’s alive? Here?”
Something passed over Francisco’s face that Cecília didn’t know how to interpret. “She was found in the rubble, clutching the reliquary holding blessed Santa Inês’s hair. Not a scratch on her.”
The world spun. Cecília didn’t realize John had caught her arm to steady her until she could focus on Francisco’s face again. With his eyebrows fully furrowed at the Englishman, her brother obviously wasn’t pleased. She caught hold of herself and nudged John back. “Francisco, this is Mr. Bates, Tio Aloisio’s business partner. Mr. Bates, my brother, Father Durante.” She rushed on with, “Tio Aloisio was needed on the other side of town, so Mr. Bates offered to escort me.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Father Durante.” John lowered his head and lifted his hat in enough of a bow to be respectful.
Francisco nodded quickly, though his dark look didn’t drop. He addressed Cecília once again. “You’ve been with Tio Aloisio?”
“He’s on the other side of the city,” she repeated. “Senhor Carvalho, the minister, enlisted his help.”
Francisco’s jaw clenched. “Yes, I know the minister.”
Cecília frowned, uncertain how she should answer her brother’s derision. She let it go. “Where’s Bibiana? Mamãe...?”
Francisco’s jaw didn’t relax, but his eyes softened slightly. “I wasn’t there, but Senhora Santana was the one who brought Bibiana here. They found Tia Ema’s body before the fire reached the street. And Bibiana, of course, miracle of miracles. Mãe, they couldn’t reach...”
The way he trailed off said too much. Cecília squeezed her eyes shut, fighting out the image of people burning, trapped under rubble.
“When they couldn’t find you at all... I have been praying for you along with all the other poor souls this past week. Praise God that He has returned you to us.”
Cecília forced her way back toward her earlier numbness and opened her eyes—focusing on Francisco’s blue ones. Mamãe’s blue ones... “Where’s Bia? Can I see her?”
Francisco opened his mouth to answer then shut it abruptly as he checked over his shoulder. “Let me find someone to see to the rest here.” He motioned to the injured scattered about. “Then I’ll take you to her.”
Cecília nodded, remaining silent as he turned away, the frayed hem of his black robe brushing over the trampled grass and mud.
“Cecília?” John asked, his voice still soft even as Francisco moved away.
A new rush of tears tried to bubble up.
“It wasn’t your candle,” he continued softly. “If anyone could be rescued before the fires reached the house, you didn’t cause—”
“Don’t,” she said then met the pair of concerned hazel eyes. “I need to see Bibiana.”
Bibiana had been saved by the intervention of God and Santa Inês. God had given both of her siblings their lives. He had saved Cecília, even if she was less deserving. She needed to thank Him for His miracle, not question the lives He had taken.
Whether or not John was able to reconcile Bibiana’s miracle with his distant God, he still seemed to understand. Nodding slightly, he took a step back a second before Francisco returned.
“This way.” Francisco motioned, slowly winding his way through the camp farther north. Cries of “Father, Father” went up wherever they passed, everyone seemingly calling out at once for Francisco’s attention. He offered a word here, blessed a child there, but never stopped for more than a second. For all his sorrow and apparent exhaustion, Francisco still made as fine a priest as ever.
Finally, he turned sharply and moved to a grouping of shabby barracas. Not much to look at, made of poorly attached planks of wood stacked high enough for people to walk inside, the huts’ frames at least protected the people inside more than fabric. Cecília hoped it meant Bibiana had been placed somewhere better than one of the little blanket tents.
I can take her with me to Loures. Now that I know, Cecília told herself. She would be there for Bibiana if Mamãe had been called to Heaven. Poor, innocent little Bibiana. She deserved somewhere nice to stay. Cecília would even find it in herself to stay inside all day every day for the rest of her life if her grandparents insisted. She could be a proper Portuguese lady if she needed to be.
“Senhora Garcia?” Francisco called.
A little round woman standing not much higher than Cecília’s bust appeared at the open side of one of the huts, brushing her hands on her dirty skirt. “Father Durante, I didn’t expect you this early.”
Francisco gave the small woman a quick smile then stepped to the side to motion to Cecília. “Senhora Garcia, this is my other sister, Cecília. God has seen that she’s found her way here.”
“The Lord is good.” Senhora Garcia looked genuinely elated at Cecília’s appearance.
“The Lord is good,” Francisco repeated. “She wanted to see Bibiana.”
“Of course, of course.” Senhora Garcia stepped out of the way of the open entrance to the hut.
Cecília stepped through when Francisco motioned, only a few inches separating her head and the wooden plank serving as a roof. She glanced back just long enough to see both John and her brother stooping awkwardly to stand inside the little hut. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark shadows cast around the corners of the shelter, nothing quite sticking out in the lumps of cloth and pillows that had been used to cover the muddy ground. In the darkness, she heard her sister’s voice before she could pinpoint where Bibiana was.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus te
cum.”
Cecília’s eyes finally focused on the mumbling little lump in the far corner. “Bia!”
“Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus,” Bibiana continued to murmur in Latin, her blue eyes focused on the edge of a blanket in front of her as if she hadn’t registered that anyone had entered the barraca.
“Bia?” Cecília slowed her progress across the small space.
“She hasn’t stopped since she was pulled from the rubble.” Francisco didn’t move from his spot by the doorway.
“She’s been praying Hail Marys all week?” Cecília frowned, keeping her eyes on Bibiana as the Latin continued to fall from her sister’s lips.
“Praying the Rosary,” Senhora Garcia said. “Over and over. All in perfect Latin. She is truly a criança milagre.”
“The miracle child?” John repeated from his place just behind Francisco.
“She was saved by Santa Inês, the protector of young girls and chastity.” Senhora Garcia nodded. “The little one is a beacon to us all.”
Bibiana finished her first prayer and barely took a breath before starting into the next. “Glória Patri et Fílio et Spirítui Sancto...”
“Does she not sleep?” Cecília turned to look between the senhora and her brother.
“In spurts,” Senhora Garcia said, “though she speaks it then as well. The Lord has sent her back to us to pray for all our sins.”
Cecília couldn’t muster the same enthusiasm as Senhora Garcia over Bibiana’s state, but she crossed herself all the same.
“Has she always known Latin?” John asked.
“What?” Francisco looked at him.
“Has she always known how to speak Latin, or is that new?”
Briefly considering lying to prevent his discounting the miraculous, Cecília admitted, “We learned our prayers.”
John nodded, wisely keeping whatever thoughts he had on the subject to himself.
Francisco took a step so he had the room to turn to face John, though the awkward stoop still undercut the authority in his tone. “Mr. Bates, I thank you for bringing my sister here. I wouldn’t wish to waste any more of your time.”
John’s eyebrows rose slightly at the less-than-subtle dismissal, and he looked to Cecília.
“Tio Aloisio has a cart.” Cecília tried to break the tension in the little hut. “He was going to send me to Loures. If Mr. Bates could get him to bring it here, I could take Bibi—”
“You can’t take her from the city.” Senhora Garcia’s eyes widened. “A criança milagre was given back to pray for the sinful souls still being punished in Lisbon!”
John failed at remaining silent. “You think that’s a fair responsibility to impress upon a young girl?”
“Santa Inês was a martyr by twelve.”
He snorted. “And that’s something to which we should all—”
“Mr. Bates.” Cecília fixed him with a hard stare. “Thank you for your opinion, but could I speak with my brother a moment?”
John held her eyes for a second then lowered his head. “I’ll be outside.”
“You’re free to take your leave,” Francisco said.
John looked at Francisco then back to Cecília, repeating resolutely, “I’ll be outside.”
Cecília stifled a low groan at the tension she could see in Francisco’s jaw even after John stepped out of the barraca. She looked at the stout little woman, who was still puffed up from John’s questioning. “Senhora Garcia, if you wouldn’t mind?”
She looked at Cecília.
“I need to speak with my brother.”
“If you try to take that child—”
“Senhora Garcia.” Francisco lifted a hand. “I will handle things.”
Senhora Garcia’s lips remained pursed, but she bobbed a short curtsy. “Of course, Father.”
Cecília waited for the little woman to leave before she pressed a hand into her side and slowly lowered herself to the ground beside Bibiana. The smell of dirt, ash, and old sweat hovered so low to the ground inside the little hovel. Cecília did her best to ignore it. At least she didn’t feel more fleas biting.
As quiet as her voice was, Bibiana hadn’t stopped her mumbling. From what Cecília could hear, Bibiana was done with her Glory Be and on to announcing the Agony in the Garden. So she was praying the Sorrowful Mysteries. Cecília supposed it was fitting.
“Bates,” Francisco finally said.
Cecília looked back up.
“He’s English?”
Cecília nodded, trying to work out the quickest way to take the conversation away from that topic. “Tio Aloisio has a lot of associates in the British Factory, since he trades with them.”
“He should have better sense than to send you wandering alone with a man like that.”
“Mr. Bates has been nothing but helpful.” Cecília left it at that. She touched Bibiana’s face. The cheek felt unnaturally clammy, more as if Bibiana were a statue coated in dew than a living, breathing person. “Bia? Can you hear me? It’s Cecília.”
“Pater noster, qui es in cælis...” Bibiana didn’t even seem to register that she had been touched, moving straight to her Our Father.
Francisco released a breath and seemed to ignore his anger at least for the moment as his voice softened again. “She doesn’t speak, Ceci. Not more than her prayers.”
It had been years since Francisco had called her by a nickname. Five years older than her, he had either considered himself too mature or had been too serious for shortening names for most of their lives. She had always been Cecília, Bibiana never Bia, and instead of Mamãe, he used the more mature Mãe. The unexpected familiarity didn’t make her feel any better. She touched Bibiana’s folded hands. As cold as the rest of her, they didn’t move other than her fingers slightly twitching as if she were touching invisible rosary beads while she prayed.
“Bia...” Cecília murmured softly before she turned back to Francisco. “I need to take her to Loures with me. She isn’t well.”
“No one in this city is well,” Francisco said. “Spiritually, Bibiana is likely the healthiest of us all. Father Malagrida himself has stopped here to pray with her.”
The name registered somewhere in Cecília’s memory. Father Malagrida was the Jesuit priest whom Mamãe had regarded as a living saint. They had all heard tell of the miracles he had performed abroad. Supposedly, he had even known the exact minute Dona Maria Ana had passed, nowhere near the palace. Still, whether or not Bibiana had been blessed by the man, Cecília couldn’t reconcile the thought of leaving her little sister to the misery of the camp.
“She’s freezing cold, and it’s only going to get colder with winter. It can’t possibly be good for her health, sitting here with the damp and fleas—”
“God does not show his favor through comfort, Cecília. Those most blessed often suffer the worst in their mortal coil. You should know that.”
“You certainly can’t wish for her to truly be martyred?”
“I would not wish it, from my own love for both of my sisters, but it is not my, your, or anyone else’s right to decide what God has planned for our lives.”
Cecília tried to imagine her sister as a living saint. Bibiana had always seemed blessed. But if that meant Bibiana would have to suffer like Santa Inês, dragged naked through the street and beheaded, Cecília wasn’t certain she would be able to accept her sister’s fate with any kind of grace. She reached out and touched Bibiana’s cold arm again, stomach squirming.
“Do you need to give confession?”
“To you?” She turned her head.
“Do you have something worth confessing you don’t wish me to know about?”
“No,” Cecília lied, adding it to the list of things she would have to confess. “You’re just... my brother.”
Francisco shook his head, but he didn’t press her. He moved far enough into the space to lay a hand on Bibiana’s head and mumbled a quick prayer himself before his eyes hit Cecília again.
“It’s almost time for Sext. Come pray with us, and I’ll see if Father Juanes has the time to sit with you instead.”
Cecília nodded and sent a final look to Bibiana as the girl continued to mumble her own prayers. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of, Bia. While you pray for us, I’ll take care of you.
OUTSIDE OF OBLIGING herself through Lent the previous year, Cecília had rarely followed the Liturgy of the Hours when left to her own devices. Too often, time got away from her, and it would already be time for Vespers before she would realize she’d missed None three hours earlier. She couldn’t deny, however, that kneeling with the rest of the crowd that had gathered in the camp and listening to the familiar psalms left her feeling calmer and more normal than she had in days.
Still, she could feel John’s eyes on her, burning into the back of her skull. He had kept a respectful distance, standing back by the wooden barracas, not commenting or interfering as they had begun. That hadn’t changed the fact that Cecília felt him as distinctly as if he had touched her.
The unwelcome flush moved through her again, and she bowed her head lower, pressing her clasped hands to her chest more tightly as she fought to focus on the prayers.
Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me.
She would need John’s help, though, to get Bibiana out of camp, at least if Francisco remained insistent about keeping her in Lisbon. Cecília supposed she didn’t have the right to question Francisco about the will of God. He was a priest. He had been studying the Bible and works from great theologians, books that gave her headaches merely from looking at the covers, for as long as she could remember. It would be a sin of pride to believe she knew better than he did. Yet every time she tried to accept the thought of Bibiana staying in that dark little hovel, cold and rocking, a new push of drive radiated from Cecília’s chest and all the way to her fingertips.
