The Stars of Heaven

by Jessica Dall

  Is that Your answer? she asked God. Do You not want her to stay? Or am I trying to see what I want because I’m struggling with Your will?

  Without any apparent answers to her questions, she let her mind drift. If she did intend to take Bibiana to Loures, she would first need Tio Aloisio’s cart. Even if by some miracle of her own she found it in her to walk the three leagues to Loures—and Lord was that an if with how badly her body ached—Bibiana didn’t seem like she could do much more than sit.

  Maybe Francisco would listen to Tio Aloisio. She pursed her lips slightly. Tio Aloisio was likely still furious with her, but he would be a stronger advocate for letting Bibiana leave than Cecília could be by herself.

  Movement in the corner of her eye jolted Cecília back to reality, and she realized she had missed the rest of the prayers.

  Not helping my cause, am I? She crossed herself quickly and stood with only a slight wince. A quick look to the front showed that Francisco and Father Juanes were both surrounded by others in the camp, so Cecília turned to face John.

  He straightened at her attention and moved forward before she could think to motion. His eyes glanced to her side.

  “I’m fine,” she answered before he could ask the question that was quickly growing old. “Francisco won’t agree to me taking Bibiana to Loures.”

  John’s eyebrows furrowed. “He can’t want her to stay here.”

  “He agrees that she was sent back to us to pray for the city.”

  “Ah.” John looked as though he had barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

  “Your opinions on that aren’t helpful right now.” Cecília looked over her shoulder. Francisco wasn’t looking at them, at least. She pressed her lips together and turned back to John. “I do need your help, though.”

  John glanced at Francisco. “I don’t think your brother’s going to listen to anything I say.”

  “But he might listen to our uncle. And Tio Aloisio... How upset do you think he is with me?”

  “I imagine he’s more worried than upset,” he said. “At least with you.”

  The realization hit her much too late. “Is he going to be upset with you? Because of me?”

  “It’ll be fine,” he said, but the words were tinged false. “What do you need me to do?”

  Cecília worried her lip, adding guilt over John getting in trouble to the list of things she had to atone for. “Do you think you could bring him back here with you? My uncle?”

  John frowned. “You’re staying?”

  “I need to be with Bibiana.” And she likely couldn’t make the walk back without properly fainting. She rubbed her side lightly. “I’m sorry to ask when you’ve already done so much—”

  “I’m happy to do it,” he said, scanning the camp. “But... you think you’ll be fine here? By yourself?”

  “I’m not by myself.” She looked back at Francisco, who had finished his conversation and was intensely focused on her. She turned back to John quickly. “Please? It’s not going to help, you being here with my brother. I’m so sorry that I’ve caused all these problems for you. I—”

  “Cecília,” he said, “I want to help. You don’t need to apologize.” His arm moved as if he was going to touch her, but then his eyes flicked toward Francisco, and he bowed instead. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. You should be with your grandparents, not out here.”

  Cecília offered a small smile as he turned. The knot in her stomach pulled tighter as he walked away and tighter still when she realized how awful it felt, him leaving at all.

  Chapter Eight

  Cecília sat in a hazy room, the entire space feeling insubstantial and yet so real. Deep inside, she knew she was dreaming, yet she couldn’t bring herself to hope to wake up. The richly colored pillows under her joined with the rosy golden light that wrapped around her. She was in their dining room, which was decorated with a mix of the Moorish style Mamãe found so fashionable and the accent pieces Papai had brought back from his trips. Each one had its own story, fantastic enough that Mamãe would shake her head and tell Papai to stop spinning tales when he told them, even while she smiled.

  A new warmth moved into her as an arm slid around her waist. She looked next to her, somehow not at all shocked by John’s appearance out of thin air.

  She stared in silence for a moment then finally asked, “Why can’t you just have faith sometimes?”

  “I have faith,” the dream figure of John answered. “Not your faith.”

  “Why?” she whispered.

  He simply smiled and ran his thumb over her bottom lip. Warmth rushed through her, and suddenly, all she could focus on was the desire to feel him kiss her again.

  “Senhorita Cecília.” A hand clamped on her shoulder, tearing her out of the dream.

  She half sat in surprise before she remembered her rib. Hissing, she felt the warmth of the dream dissipate in an instant in the dark barraca. Blinking, she tried to accept the difference.

  “Senhorita Cecília,” Senhora Garcia’s voice cut through the darkness. “It’s time for Lauds.”

  Cecília released a breath, trying to rid herself of the tension still humming in her body. At least the dark hid her face, which was no doubt red. “Is it dawn already?”

  “Nearly,” Senhora Garcia said. “Get up. Prayer will help you with that bad dream.”

  Cecília froze. “What?”

  “I could hear you tossing. You’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t exorcize those demons soon.”

  “Just a dream about my old home was all,” Cecília mumbled as she sat up the rest of the way, checking the wrap around her side.

  Senhora Garcia didn’t comment, which was more than fine with Cecília. She had only a few moments to clear her head before she had to leave her little pallet of blankets and start the day. If to sin in thought truly was to sin in deed, she was solidly damned to be buffeted about in Hell with others who sinned in the flesh.

  She had yet to confess the actual kiss in the three days she had been sitting in the camp, waiting for John and Tio Aloisio. Perhaps that had been her mistake. The longer she sat with that on her conscience, the more it would fester. Yet for as wrong as they were, Cecília didn’t fully want to give up her dreams. In the bleak camp, their warmth was her only relief, outside of prayer.

  “Sálve Regína, máter misericórdiæ: víta, dulcédo, et spes nóstra, sálve.”

  Cecília squinted, trying to see Bibiana through the dark. Her sister had finished yet another pass through her rosary, though the slurred mumble said Bibiana was asleep. Cecília crossed herself, trying to keep her mind from turning bitter at the constant presence of the words in the hut. Cecília had been there for three full days, and Bibiana had not stopped, not even to sleep or eat. They struggled to get anything into her stomach past the mumbling.

  Please let nothing have happened to John Bates. Cecília shifted up onto her knees as she brushed herself off. Please let Tio Aloisio come today. I will suffer here as much as You ask, but this eternal torment...

  She wasn’t certain how to end her prayer, and so she let it trail off. As she had wandered through the campo, looking for Francisco three days before, she hadn’t been fully able to take in just how bad life was for those left in the camp with nowhere to go. She and Bibiana were considered lucky, living with Senhora Garcia with something that could pass for a roof over their heads, although that roof hadn’t stopped water from seeping through. Though it hadn’t rained again, Cecília’s clothing was perpetually damp. She could no longer tell what itching was from the waterlogged linen and what was from the fleas that seemed to multiply by the hour, brought from place to place by the feral dogs that stalked the camp after dark.

  “Senhora Garcia.” Francisco’s voice came through the open doorway. “Are you ready?”

  “Coming, Father Durante,” Senhora Garcia called.

  Finding the shadow that was Bibiana, Cecília kissed her sister’s forehead before heading out for the day. She frowned once agai
n at the clamminess, but even if Bibiana seemed no better, she also seemed no worse. Cecília supposed that was all she could ask for the time being.

  Outside the little wooden structure, the shadows of Senhora Garcia and Francisco took more form in the predawn light. Cecília fell into line, following silently as they headed for the emptier space where they held all their prayers.

  “Word is, Father Malagrida is going to be in camp today,” Francisco said into the quiet morning air.

  “What?” Cecília’s question pushed over Senhora Garcia’s exclamation of delight.

  “He’s been traveling around the campos to help the ill, both physically and spiritually. I heard word that he’ll be doing a sermon nearby this afternoon. You should come.”

  Senhora Garcia agreed enthusiastically, though Cecília had a feeling the sentence had been directed at her.

  “Of course,” she said, already wondering how far she was willing to wander from the little barraca that had become her home in case that was the exact moment Tio Aloisio arrived. She could only hope, if it were the day Tio Aloisio made it to the campo, he would be willing to wait for Cecília’s return.

  CECÍLIA HADN’T BOTHERED to give more than single-word answers outside of the prayers that punctuated her day every three hours or so. If Senhora Garcia had noticed, she hadn’t seemed to care. The old woman passed Cecília yet another bowl of the bland rice porridge that was the only real sustenance in the camp and turned to Bibiana. Slowly, she forced the girl to eat in between mumbled Hail Marys and Mysteries. Cecília listened as she poked at her own porridge, her appetite entirely gone after days of eating the mush without so much as a spoonful of sugar to improve the taste.

  After a few more bites, Cecília couldn’t take it anymore. “I’ll be outside, Senhora Garcia.”

  The woman looked up from her work. “Don’t go wandering. Father Malagrida should be here soon.”

  “Soon” had been the line through Lauds and Prime and Terce. They were past Sext, marking midday, and “soon” had yet to come. Cecília offered as much of a smile as she could manage. “I just need some fresh air. I’ll be outside the door.”

  As she stepped through the empty doorway, Cecília saw that the cloud cover of the morning had dissipated, but it hadn’t done anything to remove the gloom hovering over the camp. She pulled her robe tighter around her then slipped her hand through the opening to feel the dented necklace still pressed to her chest.

  “Your cross is broken.” The little voice played in Cecília’s head.

  “It’s not broken. It’s bent.”

  A battered gold cross, Tia Serafina’s rosary, and the little deformed silver statue of São Cristóvão, beyond the clothes she currently wore, were the three things that made the entirety of Cecília’s earthly possessions. Compared to many, she was lucky. She looked at the men standing near the next row of huts. Though they were sharing a pipe, none looked at one another. Their eyes focused on ground that had been churned into mud.

  If we can’t go soon, I will go mad...

  A commotion in the other direction grabbed Cecília’s attention. She glanced back at the shabby little barraca then started forward to see what was happening. Even if she didn’t dare take so much as her robe off at night, for fear of robbers or worse, she hadn’t been harassed in the camp. Word had spread quickly enough that she was the sister of both Father Durante and the Miracle Child. Even if she didn’t have either’s divine blessing, the association was obviously enough.

  She slowed as the cart came into view, blinking just in case she had gone mad. Tio Aloisio stood off to one side, talking to Francisco as a curious crowd began to circle. She took a step forward then froze as her skin tingled. Looking to the end of the cart, she met John’s eyes. He offered a small smile before bending to straighten whatever he had been unloading.

  Cecília caught her own smile, which was far too happy for the grim camp, and schooled it away before she started forward, moving as quickly as she could without breaking into a jog. “Tio Aloisio!”

  The dark look her uncle fixed her with said he wasn’t any happier with her. He looked back at Francisco. “I think we need to talk, Cisco.”

  Francisco bristled, his face pinched in the way it used to when he was younger. “It’s Father Durante.”

  Cecília wasn’t the only one getting Tio Aloisio’s dark looks. He fixed his eyes on Francisco, hard and steady. “Now.”

  “You have no authority to—”

  “With your father not here, your sisters can use all the help they can get. Where’s Bibiana?”

  Francisco’s jaw remained tense, but he spun quickly enough that his black robe flared around his ankles, and he started for Senhora Garcia’s barraca with Tio Aloisio close at heel.

  Suddenly alone, Cecília hesitated, knowing that she should go with her brother and uncle. Then again, she needed Tio Aloisio focused on changing Francisco’s mind, not splitting his time glaring between the two of them. Her body lit up as footsteps approached her.

  Get ahold of yourself. She tried to force the flush away, fighting her traitorous body. She was too aware of him, and those dreams... none of it was right or even natural. She worked to keep her voice steady. “Thank you for bringing him.”

  “You knew it was me?” John took a place beside her.

  Cecília released a breath then turned to face him. “I’m glad you’re back. I was worried something had happened to you.”

  His cheek twitched in a way that could have been another small smile or a grimace. “A lot has been happening. It took a while to get free again.”

  She started to answer then noticed the cloth sling was missing. “Your arm. Is it better?”

  “Oh.” John brought his left hand to his right shoulder. “It will be a few more weeks until it’s entirely back to normal, but it’s on its way. I can push through it.” His eyes dropped to her side. “You?”

  “I’m fine.” Cecília swallowed. Something snapped, and she threw her arms around his neck. Beyond the ash and sweat, some familiar, comforting smell clung to him.

  He froze for a beat before he placed his hands on her hips and pushed her back awkwardly. “Cecília...”

  She came to her senses and stepped away, a flush moving up her neck. “I’m sorry.” She glanced behind her to see if anyone had noticed then placed the smell. She turned back to John. “Were you sailing?”

  He cut off whatever he had been about to say as his eyebrows rose. “What?”

  “You smell like salt. What were you doing?”

  He glanced around again as if someone was going to catch them speaking then looked back at her. “Minister Carvalho asked for those with ships to help bury bodies at sea. Your uncle needed help, and I certainly know my way around rigging.”

  “You were helping... toss people into the ocean?”

  “We had a priest with us. Approved by the Cardinal Patriarch, even, I was told. You don’t have to worry for their souls.”

  “What about people’s families? If they’re still looking, they won’t know—”

  “The last thing this city needs right now is a plague.” John shook his head. “The minister’s wise to clear the streets.”

  She pressed her lips together.

  He obviously took her expression as hesitation. “I know I’d prefer a burial at sea to being left rotting in the street, attracting mongrels. I’ve known good men who have had the same, and I have no doubt they are now in Heaven.”

  She fought off the urge to embrace him again. “You’re well, though?”

  “Never better.” He didn’t attempt something more convincing. “You? You’ve been well here?”

  She didn’t call him on the obvious lie. “Tired. It’s hard to sleep here, but I’ve been more worried than anything.”

  “Worried about me?”

  “And everything else.”

  His eyes flicked down to her mouth, not lingering but not quickly enough to be hidden. The sound of happy, awed voices rose from deeper i
nto the camp. Cecília frowned, the lightness in the air the first break in the misery she had felt since she had arrived.

  She held out a hand to stop a woman who was rushing forward. “What’s happening?”

  She barely broke her stride, calling back, “Father Malagrida is here!”

  “Father Malagrida?” John repeated.

  “Francisco said he was coming today. He’s famous. Some say a living saint.”

  “I’ve heard of him.” John nodded. “Last I heard, Minister Carvalho had prohibited his sermonizing.”

  Cecília blinked a little too quickly. “Prohibited?”

  “Malagrida and any other priest whose sermons increase anxiety amongst the populace. People need to focus on rebuilding the capital, not fret about the impending end of the world.”

  “He has no right to censor holy men.”

  “Whether or not he has the right, you have to admit he has a point.”

  She met his eyes. “Please don’t do this right now, John.”

  His eyes couldn’t seem to find a place to settle on her face. “Do what?”

  “We need our faith as much as we need our homes. Don’t try to take that.”

  His gaze settled on her mouth once again, and he wasn’t as quick to remove it this time. Her breath caught.

  “Cecília.” Francisco’s voice shattered the moment.

  Cecília didn’t know whether to be thankful or disappointed. She angled to see him.

  “Come.” He motioned, turning after the crowd.

  John frowned. “Does he always call you like a hound?”

  Cecília hesitated, looking at Francisco’s back then John. “Can you find out what’s happening with Tio Aloisio?”

  His cheek twitched in another smile-grimace, and he nodded. “I’ll try.”

  Cecília squeezed his hand quickly, not entirely able to resist touching him a final time even given how tense their conversation had grown. Silently, she turned after Francisco, still feeling John’s eyes on her as she walked away.

  CECÍLIA STOOD TO ONE side in the mass of humanity that had gathered around Father Malagrida, heart pounding as the rest of the crowd remained so silent that she had no doubt even those a hundred bodies back could hear the priest’s stern voice.