by Jessica Dall
“Learn, oh Lisbon, that the destroyers of our houses, palaces, churches, and convents, the cause of the death of so many people and of the flame that devoured such vast treasures, are your abominable sins.” The priest’s piercing blue eyes scanned the crowd, moving as though he were looking into the soul of every person there, one by one. “Tragic Lisbon is now a mound of ruins. Unrestorable, abandoned. As for the dead, what a great harvest of sinful souls such a disaster has sent to Hell! Holy people prophesied the earthquake’s coming, yet the city continued in its sinful ways without a care for the future. Now, indeed, Lisbon is desperate.”
Red blotches began to stain the man’s face, visible over his stark-white beard even at a distance. Cecília couldn’t help but think of the portraits of Old Testament prophets she’d seen emblazoned in stained glass. She pressed her fist into her stomach, trying to keep her breathing steady.
“It is scandalous to pretend the earthquake was solely a natural event, though some may wish it to be so, for if that be true, there is no need to repent and avoid the wrath of God. Believe me, Lisbon, not even the Devil himself could invent a false idea more likely to lead us to irreparable ruin.
“Now, it is necessary to devote all our strength and purpose to the task of repentance. Do you think being billeted in the country, outside the city, put us outside the jurisdiction of God?” He pointed skyward. “God undoubtedly desires to exercise His love and mercy, but be sure, wherever we are, He is watching us, scourge in hand. See to your sins before He next sends your souls to Hell.”
Cecília’s hands trembled. A low panic she hadn’t felt in days coursed through her. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them, then shut them again, but she couldn’t fully gain control of herself.
Father Malagrida finished his sermon, his voice rising through the end, growing loud enough that it rattled inside Cecília’s head, and she felt hellfire licking her feet. The silence after he finished stretched for what seemed like an eternity. Then it shattered, the crowd shifting as one as Father Malagrida turned to prepare the Eucharist.
Francisco looked at Cecília from his place next to her, his face just as hard as Tio Aloisio’s had been earlier. “You understand why Bibiana must remain here now? If you wish to go off with Aloisio and his English friends you seem to like so much, good riddance. I will pray for your soul, but don’t try to drag us to Hell with you. Certainly not by calling Aloisio to roar his heresies at me.”
“Cis—” she started, but Francisco had already stormed away, making his way to the front of the crowd as it parted before him like the Red Sea.
Cecília looked at their priest-prophet then at the line already starting, waiting to receive communion from a man who had performed miracles.
She hadn’t taken communion since she had arrived in camp. Then again, she could hardly say she was in a state of grace—she hadn’t confessed the kiss. She hadn’t confessed her dreams. She hadn’t confessed all the doubts that had been circling in her head in the past ten days or the guilt that wouldn’t leave her be. She turned away from the priest. She couldn’t say where she was going, but she couldn’t stay there.
“CECÍLIA?” JOHN’S VOICE called from somewhere far away.
Cecília didn’t unfurl from her spot wedged against the cart wheel, mostly hidden from view as the shadows lengthened.
“And once again,” she mumbled. Of course he was the one looking for her—no one else had for weeks. She and John Bates, thrown together as though he were her own Purgatory, leaving her to play out her punishment as she fought to purify her soul. Or maybe it was Hell. At least Purgatory offered a chance of escape.
His footsteps approached then stopped as he apparently spotted her. “Cecília! We’ve been looking for you for over an hour. It’s getting dark.”
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” she said weakly, not sure if she had spoken loudly enough to be heard by anyone but herself.
John hesitated then took a seat next to her. “What do you mean?”
“Do you think my mother was a sinner? Sent to Hell?”
“Are you quoting Malagrida’s sermon?”
“Not quoting.” She pulled her knees tighter to her chest, her rib not hurting quite as much as before. “I just... I used to know what to think. I sinned. Lord knows I did. But I knew what those sins were. I knew how I needed to repent. At least I thought I did. But all of this... Mamãe suffered so much in this life and bore it all... She was the most devout woman I know. And Bibiana... I know Cisco’s a priest. I know I shouldn’t question whether what he has said is right. He must know God’s will better than I ever could, but as much as I try to accept it or pray to understand, I can’t bear the thought of leaving Bibiana here. Not with her suffering so.”
John nodded slowly as he seemed to consider his words carefully. “Someone being a priest doesn’t necessarily mean he’s always right.”
She looked at him, wanting to believe him, not certain if it was because he was right or because she couldn’t face her own failings anymore.
“You’re struggling.” He brought his hand to her cheek, brushing it gently. “That’s fine. Questioning is an essential part of being human.”
“So says your philosophy?”
“So says everything I believe.”
She dropped her eyes to the ground.
“Cecília.” He tilted her face so she’d look at him again. “You are an amazing woman. Stubborn, infuriating sometimes, but amazing all the same. You fall, you struggle, but you keep going. And after all that, I would trust whatever your conscience tells you over empty words, no matter who is speaking them.”
Cecília let her eyes drift closed, focusing on how his hand on her felt. With so much she still had to repent for, another instance of comfort barely seemed worth fighting. “Kiss me?” He didn’t answer, so she opened her eyes again. “Please?”
John’s eyes focused on her mouth, but he shook his head. “No.”
“Oh...” Cecília pulled back from him as a stab of rejection tore into her.
“No, Cecília”—he caught her arm to keep her from entirely twisting away from him—“I want to. Dear Lord, believe I want to. But I can’t. Not like this.”
“Like this?”
“I’m going back to England.”
The words sputtered in her mind, not fully making sense. She fought to find her voice again, feeling as though she’d been slapped. “What?”
“While I was gone, we went to your uncle’s house by the river. Where his house was. Everything’s gone. Sucked out to sea or already looted. Save the purse I had on me, I’m penniless.”
“So am I,” Cecília said, emotions tumbling over one another so quickly she couldn’t get a hold on any one.
“You have your uncle to take care of you. And your grandparents. I have nothing. Your uncle has offered to pay for my passage back home. I have to go put my life back together.”
“You’re leaving us here? Me here?”
“What else am I supposed to do?”
“Not leave me?” Cecília knew she was whining. She couldn’t bring herself to care after everything else she had felt that day.
John brought his hand back to her cheek then ran his thumb along her bottom lip. “I’m not Catholic, Cecília. I’m never going to be. And even if I were, I have ten shillings to my name. Any other place, any other time, we never would have so much as spoken. The world is upside down for the moment, but it will right itself. There’s no place for us there.”
“You can’t go.” Her voice broke. She couldn’t take losing one more person—losing him.
“I have to. And if I kiss you, I won’t.”
The lump in Cecília’s throat threatened to keep her from speaking as tears began to sting her eyes. Tucked against the cart, with the long shadows merging into solid darkness as the sun set, they were turning into outlines—features disappearing, cloaked in twilight. She swallowed, fighting to keep some part of herself together. “Will you at least hold me? Just for
a little while.”
John hesitated then nodded, shifting to move his arm around her. As he held her, she rested her head against his chest and let everything she had been trying not to feel wash over her in a single wave of pain and ecstasy.
CECÍLIA STOOD AT THE end of the cart, folded into herself as though she would disappear if she only grew small enough. Her final moments with John had been cut too short, interrupted by more men calling her name as they joined the search.
He’d told her to go first. Cecília had assumed that John was attempting to stave off more trouble by not having both of them return together, but even well into morning, he hadn’t reappeared. She stood with the cart, head down, while Tio Aloisio and Francisco snapped at one another over Bibiana.
The shouting rose as Tio Aloisio appeared outside the little barraca, carrying Bibiana in his arms. Francisco followed with a distressed Senhora Garcia, everyone talking at once.
“He knows if he doesn’t get your sister, you’re going to sneak away again.”
Cecília started and looked to her side. She blinked, wondering how John had appeared so quickly out of nowhere.
“You won’t leave here without her.”
Cecília pulled her arms tighter around her, pressing her side as if the spark of pain would help anchor her to the world. “I thought you’d gone.”
She could hear his frown even if she didn’t look at him. “Did you want me to?”
“I just hadn’t seen you...”
“I was getting something.” He opened his coat and pulled a small book out of his pocket.
Cecília frowned as he held it out to her. “What’s that?”
“Since you aren’t going to have me talking at you about philosophy every night now, I thought I could at least give you this.”
Cecília took it cautiously as though the little book were going to bite her. Printed in black ink, the words stared up at her: Leviathan, sive De materia, forma, et potestate civitatis ecclesiasticae et civilis.
“I prefer Locke to Hobbes, and I certainly don’t expect you to agree with all of it, but it’s in Latin, so I figured you’d have a better chance of reading it than anything in English.”
“Where did you get this?” Cecília looked at him.
“I saw that a few of the merchants saved some books when we were looking for your brother. The difficult part was convincing them to part with one.” He didn’t meet her eyes, instead opening the cover to show something written in pencil inside: St. Matthias, Parish of Poplar, London. “And here. One of my sisters lives in London. Attends St. Matthias. It’s where I go when I’m in town. If you ever wish to write a letter, it’s the safest place to send it. It’ll get to me one way or another.”
“I...” She struggled with words. “I don’t know how to write very well.”
“All the same. If you would like the practice, perhaps.”
Something deep in Cecília’s stomach twisted, and she found she couldn’t manage more than, “John...”
Tio Aloisio strode forward, still carrying Bibiana in his arms. “Get in the cart, Cecília.”
John took a step away from her and gave a respectful bow. “It’s been my honor to know you, Senhorita Durante. I hope I’ll hear from you.”
“Cecília,” Tio Aloisio snapped, lifting Bibiana over the side of the low cart and covering her partially with a blanket as she continued to blankly mumble her prayers.
Cecília moved back until her thighs hit the lip of the cart. Not knowing what else to say, she let another of Tio Aloisio’s friends help her over the edge.
Tio Aloisio finished with Bibiana and moved in front of Cecília. “Mr. Quigley is doing me a large favor, bringing both of you girls to Loures on his way out of town. If you cause so much as one lick of trouble for him—”
“I won’t,” Cecília said softly. “I just wanted to find Francisco and Bibiana.”
Tio Aloisio’s face didn’t lighten, but he nodded to someone behind her, and the cart lurched forward.
Cecília glanced down at the book then back up to where John was still watching. He lifted a hand in a weak parting. Cecília couldn’t bring herself to do even that as the cart wheels creaked on their way out of town.
Part Two: 1756
Chapter Nine
Cecília opened her window, and the damp heat still hovering around the house hit her like a wave. The three-day storm that had pelted the area had left everything soaked but hadn’t cooled the air. Instead, a warm mist made everything dewy.
What must it be like in the camps? She pressed her lips together. It had been nearly eight months since she had left, and yet none of the news Francisco sent from Lisbon ever seemed to be good. Over half a year, and Lisbon still wasn’t more than ruins. Francisco’s letter had been more than clear in blaming Senhor Carvalho for the edict prohibiting rebuilding while the king decided on a plan for the city. Cecília was glad Francisco hadn’t been there in person, or she might not have been able to refrain from a dark comment about Father Malagrida’s preferring no rebuilding at all. Everyone who mattered seemed to feel the need to stall and pontificate while the rest of them were stuck sitting around, waiting for anything close to a normal life to return.
She glanced at the trunk at the end of her bed and considered pulling out the box she had buried under the clothing her grandmother had purchased to replace everything Cecília had lost. In it, she had placed the misshapen silver statue of São Cristóvão along with the book John had given her and the letter he had sent before he left port. She didn’t need to pull it out to know exactly what was written there, though. Not after she’d seared it into memory:
Dearest Cecília,
I was glad to hear from your uncle that you have been doing well in Loures, and I assume—as you have stayed in one place for over three months—that you will still be there by the time this letter reaches you.
I have finally managed to find passage back to London. Should all go according to plan, I will have pushed off with one of the relief ships by the time you get this, but I wanted to make sure you knew—though I imagine you have not given me much thought since you left Lisbon. I will likely be sailing again, once I get back and find work. Perhaps I will find my way back to Lisbon someday when it has recovered, and I will get to see if you remember me. Until then, do consider writing. I cannot promise I will be the timeliest correspondent, depending on where life takes me, but I will see letters returned.
Your humble and obedient servant,
J. Bates
Of course, for as many times as she had read it, she hadn’t attempted writing a response. Even if she could scare up ink and paper—and trusted herself to write without looking like a child copying letters—she didn’t know what writing him would accomplish. They had been thrown together by chance and let things spiral out of control as the world had done the same. People were doing their best to recover what was left of their old lives, and John had been right. Whatever they had been certainly didn’t fit into that.
You don’t fit into that, the annoying voice at the back of her mind said.
She forced it back down. She had told God she would be good, do as she was told, and be the proper Portuguese lady she was supposed to be if only He would see her and Bibiana safely away from the horrors of Lisbon. He had delivered her prayer. She had to make good on her promise. So, no, she wouldn’t answer that letter, wouldn’t open that wound again. It was best for that entire part of her life to remain locked in that box with the hope that São Cristóvão would watch over John better than he had Papai and João.
Leaving the window open, she walked out of her room and turned into Bibiana’s. The air was stale in the small but richly decorated room wedged between Cecília’s and her grandmother’s. Though Bibiana had finally stopped praying about a month after they had arrived in Loures, she hadn’t spoken a word since.
Cecília moved to the window and pulled back the heavy curtains to let in the light. “The sun’s back out, Bia. Storm’s passed.”
She waited for an answer she knew wouldn’t come. In the silence, she unlatched the window and swung it open as well. “How are you feeling?” She turned back toward the bed.
Bibiana didn’t move from where she was sitting, staring at her bedding. She had been changed into a new bed dress, something white with lace that looked far too expensive for a dress that was meant only for inside the house. Even with her matted blond hair and her large dull-blue eyes, she was still being dressed as a miracle.
Voices echoing down the old stone hallway made Cecília frown. Though her Avô Santa Rita and Avó Gouveia had lived at court at one time—decades before, under the late King João’s reign—neither of her grandparents received many visitors. In all honesty, they seemed to prefer keeping their household limited to immediate family and a few servants who had worked for them for longer than Cecília had been alive. From how Mamãe had lived, Cecília had to assume it was a Santa Rita family trait she simply hadn’t inherited. She moved to the doorway and poked her head out.
Her grandfather faltered mid-sentence, as Cecília’s arrival apparently caught him by surprise before he recovered. “Ah, Father, may I introduce one of my granddaughters, Cecília Madelena.”
The unfamiliar priest at Avô Santa Rita’s side stopped and offered Cecília a kind smile. “Not the granddaughter I’m here about, I take it?”
“You’re here for Bibiana?” Cecília’s eyes bounced between the two men in the hall, her grandfather still tall and broad, even into his seventies, and the priest slight and no taller than Cecília was.
“Father Moreno is a Doctor Theologiae,” Avô Santa Rita said. “Your brother thought he might have some insight into her current condition.”
Cecília addressed the priest. “You know Francisco?”
