The Stars of Heaven

by Jessica Dall

  “By my estimation, I imagine that field hand was more interested in your favor than in doing God’s work.” He ran his fingers to the side slightly before he shook his head. “You can’t run around like this, Cecília.”

  She caught his hand so he would stop prodding, and something in the air turned tense. Another second, and he pulled back, clearing his throat. Cecília swallowed, the new pressure still pushing down on her. “You keep calling me Cecília.”

  He looked up at her. “What?”

  “You’ve been calling me Cecília.”

  He blinked, fumbling his words for a moment before he managed to properly speak. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why—”

  “You may, if you’d like.” She brought her hand back to her side.

  His eyes dropped again. “Did you have someone rewrap that?”

  She hadn’t. Senhora Daun had already seemed less than pleased to have two strangers show up on her stoop unannounced, even if she had the good breeding to hide it behind a kind smile, and Cecília had been on the edge of collapse after making it up the final hill to the Barrio Alto. The memory of the night they had arrived at Tio Aloisio’s, though, suddenly sent a flash of heat through her, embarrassment and something else. A week before, she wouldn’t have known the Englishman from Adam. A week before, everything made sense. But a week before might as well have been lifetimes. Her voice came out low, too soft to be authoritative. “I’m not going back to Belém tomorrow. Or to Loures.”

  Mr. Bates frowned.

  “One of the soldiers said my older brother was ministering on the east side of town. He’s a priest. People will know him. I should be able to find him.”

  Mr. Bates looked her over. “You’re in no shape to go wandering through any of the camps around here.”

  “I have to find him.” She had been sent back to Lisbon for a reason. Whether or not Mr. Bates would believe that, she had to.

  His eyes settled on her face, searching for something there. “You know you can be an infuriatingly stubborn woman?”

  “I’ve been told. Several times.”

  His eyes settled on her mouth for a half a second before he met her gaze. Tension like a thread pulled tight reverberated inside her, then once again, the air in the room shifted. Suddenly, the gap between them had vanished. Cecília hadn’t leaned forward, she hadn’t felt him do so either, and yet their lips brushed. What air she had been able to inhale left her lungs. Her entire body tingled from the sensation, from the suddenness, from the deep, internal knowledge that everything that was happening was wrong. And yet she couldn’t stop it. For the first time in what seemed like lifetimes, she didn’t feel so dreadfully alone.

  From the building desperation between them, he felt it too. The brush turned to steady pressure, Mr. Bates’s hand going around the back of her neck, guiding her mouth against his. Cecília gave herself over to it, little pleasant jolts shooting down through her, fighting off all the awful feelings lingering there.

  His hand moved from her neck, sliding around her as his body began to press her backward. Pain shot up her side. She gasped, a new spasm trying to work through her, and Mr. Bates shot back so quickly he nearly knocked himself off the bench.

  He said something in English then switched back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what...” He stood. “You really should rest—”

  “Please don’t go,” she whispered.

  He hesitated. “What?”

  “You didn’t come after me just because of my uncle, did you?”

  The question sat in the air between them, hovering on top of the earlier thickness. He finally released a breath. “No.” He didn’t elaborate.

  She didn’t want him to. “Then sit with me? I’ll even listen to more about your philosophy, if you like. I just... I can’t think anymore. Not about today. I will if I’m alone.”

  Mr. Bates looked at her for another moment before he moved back to the bench. Ignoring how wrong everything had already gone, Cecília leaned into him. After the slightest hesitation, he slid his arm behind her—not quite holding her but letting his fingers brush against her shoulder. Shutting her eyes, she tried to focus on the touch. As always, everything was different in the dark. And dear Lord, she needed whatever he could offer as long as she was left floating in the night.

  She imagined he did as well.

  “YOU SAW PAPAI?” FOUR-year-old Maria Francisca hovered by Cecília’s legs as one of the Carvalho servants helped rewrap the bandage around Cecília’s ribs. “Is he coming home now?”

  “You know Mama said he’s busy.” Teresa, still perched on the bed, rolled her eyes. “He needs to help the king help the hurt people.”

  Cecília offered both little girls a smile, though she wasn’t sure if their inquisitive chattering was better or worse than being alone with her thoughts.

  “Your cross is broken.” Maria Francisca moved out of the way as the servant shifted to tie off the wrapping.

  “It’s not broken. It’s bent,” Teresa corrected.

  Cecília lifted her hand to the poor dented necklace still tied securely in place near the neckline of her camisa.

  “Do you want a new one?” Maria Francisca hopped onto the bed next to her sister.

  Somehow, Cecília’s smile stayed in place. “My papai gave me this one. I can get it fixed later.”

  “Is he helping the king too? Your papai?”

  As little as the four-year-old’s exuberance fit Cecília’s mood, Cecília couldn’t bring herself to dampen it while looking at the girl’s bright, curious eyes. “He’s in Brazil. Have you ever seen one of those big ships they have down at the docks?” Her stomach twisted. Big ships they had down at the docks...

  “When we were coming back from court with Mama.” Teresa nodded.

  “My papai owns one of those. He sails it all around the world.”

  “Papai’s sailed places too.” Maria Francisca’s voice rose, not letting her sister talk over her again. “He lived in Low... Lun...”

  “London,” Teresa supplied.

  “London. Then he met Mama in Österreich.”

  “Austria,” Teresa translated.

  Maria Francisca nodded fervently enough that her dark curls bounced. “She’s from Austria. Just like the old queen.”

  “Dona Maria Ana,” Teresa said with an affected somberness that seemed almost comical on her angular little face, “God rest her exalted soul.”

  Another harried-looking woman appeared in the doorway. “Senhorita Teresa, Senhorita Francisca, why are you still sitting there? Your breakfasts are getting cold. Up, up!”

  Maria Francisca popped off the bed. Teresa huffed but stood to follow her sister and the woman Cecília had to assume was their nurse.

  The servant helping Cecília moved to the rest of the clothing Cecília had taken from her late aunt’s things and began to tie on the petticoats. “That’s not too tight, senhorita?”

  “It’s fine.” Cecília tried not to think about the sharp ache that hadn’t left her side since yesterday. She was still relying on the wrap rather than stays to avoid the boning pressing into the deep bruise, but if she was going to keep going, she needed to find a way to ignore it.

  Of course, she hadn’t yet figured out how she would get Mr. Bates to stop from trying to get her back into bed. Heat rushed into her cheeks as her thoughts swung out from what she had originally meant in her own mind. Even though they hadn’t kissed again, Cecília still couldn’t fight the flush from the mix of that memory and how she had woken before dawn, resting against him.

  “The staff will be up soon, Cecília.” He had stroked her hair lightly to wake her. “You don’t want to be caught down here.” With me, his tone implied.

  She thanked Heaven that the servant girl was too busy tying Cecília’s pockets over the petticoats to see how red Cecília had turned. She would have to ask if the Carvalhos had a confessor. She had gone too long without the familiar structure of Mass, prayer, and confession that had marked her days her entire
life. That was likely driving her as mad as the rest of what she had lost in the past week. Everything that had ever anchored her was gone. At least she could possibly get confession back.

  And before I see Francisco, she hoped. Priest or not, he was still her brother. She couldn’t confess to him. Especially not after what had happened last night.

  The girl finished with Cecília’s gown and took a step back. “Is there anything else you need, senhorita?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Senhora Daun is taking her breakfast downstairs, if you would like to join her.”

  Cecília nodded and watched the girl go before she took as deep a breath as she could, testing the new wrap. For all that had happened the day before, she had to admit she wasn’t in as bad a shape as she would have anticipated. She apparently had held together so far. She could only keep doing what she had to and see how long that remained true. She slipped her hand through the slit in her skirt and into her pocket to feel the slightly deformed São Cristóvão statue. Trying not to think too long, she moved for the stairs.

  She could hear Mr. Bates’s voice before she reached the bottom. In a light and congenial tone, he was speaking German, which said he was with Senhora Daun. As tired as Cecília was of not understanding anything that was happening around her, his being able to speak to Senhora Daun in her native language had been the only thing that had truly made the woman smile when they had showed up on the Carvalho doorstep, so Cecília supposed she couldn’t complain too much. She moved into the doorway and waited for the pair to notice her.

  Mr. Bates looked up first, and he trailed off mid-word before he recovered and finished whatever he’d been saying to Senhora Daun.

  Cecília didn’t bother trying to pick out any of the words, simply waiting where she was until Senhora Daun looked at her as well.

  “Good morning, Senhorita Durante.”

  “Good morning, Senhora Daun.” Cecília performed as much of a curtsey as she could.

  “Please join us.” The woman motioned across the low table.

  Cecília lowered her head and moved to where Senhora Daun had gestured. The intensity with which Mr. Bates was watching her made heat start to tingle into her cheeks again, though he likely was trying to size up how much pain she was still in more than anything else. To distract herself, she focused on hiding her stiffness.

  “Did you sleep well?” Senhora Daun focused on her plate, the earlier laughter in her voice replaced by something formal and stiff.

  “Yes, thank you,” Cecília lied. She shifted her head slightly so a few loose dark curls of her hair would hang forward enough to block Mr. Bates from view. “I was wondering, though, do you happen to have a confessor?”

  Senhora Daun’s dark eyes lifted to meet Cecília’s, giving Cecília a good idea where little Teresa had gotten her sharply pointed features. “We do, but he is helping my husband at the moment.”

  “Of course,” Cecília said as a servant set a plate in front of her. She tried to think if she should say something else. Another servant appeared in the doorway, saving her from needing to come up with anything.

  “A messenger for you, senhora.”

  Senhora Daun nodded and pushed herself up to standing. “Excuse me.”

  Mr. Bates rose slightly as well. He waited until Senhora Daun had exited before sitting again.

  Cecília watched him out of the corner of her eye through the shield of tight curls.

  “You want a confessor?” he asked after a beat.

  She looked at him.

  “Because of...?”

  “Because I’m still Catholic.”

  He looked down at his own plate, apparently willing to leave there the discussion of the night before. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Better.” She pushed her hair behind her ear, not certain if her discomfort was brought simply being in a room with him again or because of the knowledge that they were in a stranger’s home, sharing breakfast with the daughter of an Austrian count, with servants circling behind them. The normalcy of a formal meal certainly seemed wrong after what Cecília had seen. “I was hoping to see a confessor then look for my brother today.”

  The careful treading shattered, and Mr. Bates sent her an incredulous look. “Today? You can’t be serious.”

  “He’s likely the only family I have left at this point.”

  “You have your uncle.”

  Cecília released a breath through her nose and made herself meet his eyes. “My mother had eight children, you know. My sister Ana Margarida died last year, trying to bring her own son into the world. João died at sea with my father. Gabriel and José passed as infants before I was ever born, and Isabela didn’t see her fifth birthday. If Bibiana is gone, it’s only Francisco and me. You expect me to go off and wait for Heaven knows how long to actually see he’s alive?”

  “You’re injured. You need to rest.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Saying you are isn’t going to heal your rib any more quickly.”

  “Do you honestly think you can stop me if I’ve already made up my mind, Mr. Bates?”

  Mr. Bates fixed her with an annoyed, if resigned, look but finally sighed. “If I agree, will you at least allow me to come with you this time rather than running off?”

  “You don’t need to go back to Belém?”

  Mr. Bates shook his head, looking down at his plate. “In for a penny, in for a pound.” He met her eyes again. “At least wait until we can send word that you’re well back to your uncle?”

  Cecília studied him, trying to determine if he was attempting to pull some other trick to stop her going before she nodded. “Fine.”

  Mr. Bates still looked less than pleased, but he set down his slice of bread and picked up the teacup by his plate instead, as if he needed to signal he had concluded his argument. He paused before he fully lifted the cup to his lips. “You are welcome to call me John, if you like. After everything?”

  The heat rushed back into Cecília’s face before she could fight it, and she turned to her own plate, letting her hair fall back down to hide her.

  Chapter Seven

  The ache had once again turned to stabbing pain by the time Cecília made it up the slope leading into the campos on the east side of the city. She did her best to hide it. Mr. Bates—John? she tried the name out in her mind—had been watching her ever since they had left Senhor Carvalho’s house. If she started wheezing, she had no doubt he would stop hovering and swoop in to make her rest. He had already been carefully mapping their route, obviously trying to steer her away from the most objectionable areas of town. Though Cecília had to wonder how he knew where those places were, she couldn’t complain, not when they had already passed two sets of newly erected gallows, both with decaying corpses swinging at the ends of nooses.

  “Looters,” John had offered as explanation before shepherding her toward another street.

  Somehow, though, even as they walked through the shell of the city, the deep sorrow that had all but crippled her the day before had turned numb. Hope had finally died, and in that despair, she had found a way to keep moving. Because moving was her only option. As long as she kept walking, focusing on finding Francisco, she could ignore the destruction around her and ignore everything she had lost.

  The same sorry-looking tents and barracas started to appear as they left the last of the hollow shell of Lisbon, yet another tent city built up in what were normally empty fields outside the city. Cecília scanned the expanse, a knot pulling uncomfortably at the numbness she had so recently managed to claim. There had always been homeless in Lisbon. Now Lisbon itself was homeless. She was homeless. She had simply been fortunate enough not to have to consider that fact.

  “Your brother’s name is Francisco?” John looked over the crowd in front of them.

  “Yes, Francisco.” Cecília forced her mind back to more pressing matters. “Father Durante. He was at São Vincente, if you find anyone from that parish.”


  John glanced up to check where the sun sat, already high in the sky, made a face, then nodded. “We’d better start asking around.”

  Even if he had been surly with her all morning, Cecília offered as much of a smile as she could manage. He was unenthusiastic help, perhaps, but having someone else along did make the entire undertaking less daunting. As they worked their way through the mix of people sitting around, she also found it made for an easier time with John being able to talk to the scattering of foreigners mixed in with the lisboetas.

  The sun was nearing its zenith by the time Cecília found someone who recognized Francisco’s name. The girl, likely a few years younger than Cecília, looked up from wrangling her siblings in front of their sheet-tent. “Father Durante? He took confession for us two nights ago.”

  Cecília lost her breath for a moment. She swallowed to recover, hearing John talking in English somewhere behind her past the ringing in her ears. “Was he here?”

  “That way.” The girl pointed before reaching out to stop the littlest of the children running about from wandering off.

  “Thank you,” Cecília said. “Thank you so much.”

  The girl nodded and turned to yell at two boys wrestling near what Cecília hoped was a mud puddle.

  Cecília angled to talk to John just in time to see the woman to whom he was speaking snap something that didn’t seem kind and turn away. Cecília lifted an eyebrow when he met her gaze. “Friend of yours?”

  “Irish,” he said as though that explained everything, rubbing his temple. Something about his expression made him look younger than she remembered. “Any luck?”

  “Yes, actually.” Cecília’s voice lifted, the joy sounding slightly obscene in current circumstances. “That girl said Francisco took confession for her a couple of nights ago.”

  “So he is ali...” He trailed off. “He’s here, then.”

  Cecília nodded and pointed. “That way, supposedly.”

  He motioned for her to lead.

  Cecília walked the way the girl had directed, knocking her ankles into each other as she felt a flea bite. She wrinkled her nose but kept herself from complaining, even in her head. Her brother was alive. She could deal with a few bites if it meant finding him.