by Jessica Dall
No one could be crushed under that, the more morose part of Cecília’s mind supplied. The king had succeeded on that count.
She briefly wondered if Father Malagrida would approve. It was rebuilding, not praying, but as grand as the wooden palace was, it was certainly rebuilt with the thought of what God had already wrought.
Or what some subterranean vapors hath wrought... She forced that thought away, accepting a servant’s hand to step down after her grandfather and Senhor Romão.
“This way.” Senhor Romão didn’t wait for any direction before passing the wide wooden doorway, so Cecília didn’t, either, instead following closely at her grandfather’s heels.
Before the disaster, she had never been invited to court to know what life had been like at the Paço da Ribeira or the old palace at Belém, but the feeling that hovered inside the Real Barraca left her with the impression that things were not quite normal. The way the finely dressed men and women stood near the squared-off windows and tapestry-covered walls felt somehow off.
Or you let everyone from last night get to you. Cecília had to admit, excitement of court or not, everything she had heard the previous night had left her feeling more cautious than she had been as she’d rolled up to Senhor Mendonça’s party.
Senhor Romão stopped outside an open doorway and motioned toward it. “If you’d like to wait here, senhorita? I just need to take your grandfather down the hall, and then we can get you settled.”
“Oh...” Surprise made her trip over her words before she could put together a sentence.
“We won’t be far,” Avô Santa Rita said before she could answer, nodding for her to move into the new room before letting Senhor Romão whisk him away.
Unlike the wide hallways, with their smattering of courtiers, the side room was empty. Cecília moved to the window and glanced over the people milling about outside, in between the hedges of a well-manicured garden, before the gray-purple clouds on the horizon caught her attention. It looked like a storm was coming, even though the sun was still streaming over them on Ajuda Hill.
That’ll be out at sea, if that’s west. She wrapped her arms around her middle, briefly wondering if there were any ships under those clouds. Tio Aloisio obviously hadn’t begun sailing again, so she didn’t have him to worry about, but there were plenty of men who passed off the coast, heading to Africa, the Orient, or even just past the strait and toward Marseille or Venice. Any of them could be in the midst of a storm while it was still sunny on shore.
Stop thinking about him, her mind admonished before she consciously thought of John by name. He isn’t yours to worry about.
Maybe it’s just in my blood, she argued with herself. I can’t worry about Papai or João or Tio Aloisio. Who else am I going to worry about out there?
She was from a sailing family. If she couldn’t sail herself, she needed someone to travel with in her mind.
Familiar voices caught her attention, and Cecília turned back toward the doorway. They moved closer, and she could make out Tio Aloisio. Stepping back into the doorway, she peeked around the corner. Tio Aloisio was walking down the hall, speaking in sharp sentences to a man who was trailing a few steps behind him, carrying a large crate. With Avô Santa Rita and Senhor Romão out of sight and no one else around to take issue with her speaking to her uncle, she called his name.
Tio Aloisio nearly tripped over his own feet, his head snapping in her direction. “Cecília. What—”
“Avô Santa Rita is meeting someone,” Cecília supplied before Tio Aloisio could accuse her of sneaking somewhere she didn’t belong. “He brought me along.”
Tio Aloisio hesitated for a moment. “Your grandfather is here?”
She nodded. “One of Francisco’s friends, Father Moreno, asked us to bring Bibiana closer to court so he could work with her. They’re at Senhor Romão’s right now.”
Tio Aloisio opened his mouth then closed it without saying anything, some rush of thoughts Cecília couldn’t begin to interpret flashing over his expression.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything...
The man with the crate shifted it with an unhappy grunt as they stood there.
The loud clinking of glasses snapped Tio Aloisio back to the moment. “Careful with that. We already lost two to that storm.”
“Sorry, senhor,” the man said with another grunt, shifting the crate a little more carefully that time.
Cecília looked between the box and her uncle as it registered. “Have you been sailing again?”
“I haven’t, but we still need trade, and the Vento de Verão miraculously survived with everything in working order. I hired a new captain to see her off.”
Cecília barely caught herself before recoiling, the idea of some stranger captaining her father’s ship feeling like a slap to the face. The crate slipped before she could respond, landing on the ground with a thud and crash.
“Idiota!” Tio Aloisio let loose a string of insults as the man apologized, bending to recover the crate.
Though the wood had survived in one piece, the tinkle of glass said something inside it had broken, and a warm, sweet smell filtered out between the planks. Something in Cecília’s chest clenched as the odor triggered a memory of home—her old home. “Is that perfume?”
“It was.” Tio Aloisio sent the man a dark look.
“I think that’s what Mamãe used to wear. From Venice.”
His eyes returned to her, a flash of surprise passing through them. “Good nose.” He looked at the man. “Get that to my room—by the window, for Heaven’s sake—and open. We can hope some of it is salvageable.”
“Yes, senhor.” The man hefted the crate up and hurried deeper into the Real Barraca, obviously more than happy to escape the situation.
Tio Aloisio waited for the man to disappear around a corner before turning back to Cecília. “Do you know how long your grandfather intends to be here?”
Certain she’d stepped into some other politics she didn’t understand, Cecília treaded carefully. “At court or in Lisbon?”
“Either.”
“Not long at court, I don’t think, but I don’t know how long Father Moreno wants us in Lisbon.”
“Durante.” A familiar face moved down the hall from the opposite direction.
“Senhor Carvalho.” The name left Cecília’s mouth before she could consider it.
The man slowed, no sense of recognition coming to his eyes. Cecília had to imagine she looked much different, properly dressed for court rather than coated in soot with red-rimmed eyes. Senhor Carvalho, however, looked much the same—his face set and determined and somehow seeming just as tall off his horse as he had on it.
“My niece”—Tio Aloisio made the reintroduction—“Cecília Durante.”
“Of course.” Senhor Carvalho lowered his head in a clipped bow. “Forgive me. I hadn’t realized you’d come to court, Senhorita Durante.”
A mix of female voices came down the hall, and Cecília tensed, having to imagine that being spotted standing there, talking to her uncle and the first minister, wouldn’t make any future parties at Senhor Mendonça’s more comfortable for her.
Luckily, it didn’t seem as though Senhor Carvalho expected an answer from her, anyway. He addressed Tio Aloisio. “A moment?”
“Of course, Minister.” Tio Aloisio gave a short bow before glancing at Cecília. “Your grandfather knows where you are?”
She bristled slightly at the tone behind the question, but she supposed it was fair after the last time he had seen her. “Yes, Tio.”
Senhor Carvalho had already turned away, apparently expecting her uncle to follow, so Tio Aloisio gave a quick “Stay out of trouble” before he moved off as well.
With more people beginning to mill about, Cecília slid back into the room to wait for Senhor Romão. She could certainly do her best to stay out of trouble. It would just be helpful if she actually knew what all the trouble was.
Chapter Twelve
As the
sky to the east slowly turned pink, Cecília finally gave up trying to sleep. She sat up and irritably pushed at the hair that had escaped from her braid overnight, but it didn’t help the familiar itchiness that overtook her whenever she’d been left in one place for too long.
There must be something wrong with me, she thought, but that was nothing new. She’d always known as much. She just didn’t think she’d still get urges to sneak away even with so much freedom. Since they had gone to court more days than not over the past week, she had to imagine it was the fact that people still refused to let her know what was actually happening. Her grandfather continued to go to secretive meetings, the courtiers continued to say vaguely snide things about Senhor Carvalho without any specifics, and Bibiana...
Cecília looked across the room in the soft dawn light. Though Father Moreno had been there every day, Bibiana hadn’t changed in the slightest. Crossing herself, Cecília sent up yet another prayer asking for help keeping her faith in God’s plan, but especially since news had made it around court that she was the sister of a criança milagre, it was getting harder and harder. If she had to listen to one more person talk about how wonderfully blessed she had to feel while her little sister continued to be a lump in bed day after day, Cecília thought she might scream.
Not for the first time, her eyes drifted to where the box holding John’s book and letters was hidden in the trunk she had brought from her grandparents. She had packed it only because she hadn’t trusted her grandmother not to go through her things while they were gone—or at least that was she had told herself. Sometimes, she felt as though she was starting to lose track of what she actually thought and what she’d convinced herself of, but as her annoyance grew, she found it harder and harder to stay away from it. She couldn’t imagine she would find much that would help her in a book of English philosophy or letters she had already memorized, but her mind continued to drift back to the sentence she had found underlined in that book one night when she’d broken down and looked at it.
Scientia potential est. Knowledge is power.
Cecília had to assume that John had marked that passage when he had written where to write him in the cover. It was entirely the sort of thing he would have said to her.
But what knowledge? she asked the box silently, as though John would be able to answer her through it. Yours or Father Moreno’s?
The rattle of carriage wheels snapped Cecília out of her thoughts, and she slid out of bed to move to the window. Outside, Father Moreno’s carriage rolled toward the house. It was alarmingly early, even for the priest.
He must not have gone to Lauds. There was no way he could have attended dawn prayer even at the church down the street and still arrived at first light. She glanced heavenward. Is that an answer?
Everything remained unhelpfully silent, save for the arrival outside.
With a huff, Cecília picked up her bed dress and pulled it over her camisa, not feeling the need to call up Senhor Romão’s angolense girl so early to put on a full gown. As Father Moreno had said on the first day he had arrived, they needed to follow God’s will in this as in all things. They had to trust in His plan. After nearly nine months of waiting and wondering, though, it was simply getting harder to do.
Maybe that’s why nothing’s worked yet. I don’t believe enough? She looked at where Bibiana was sleeping. It seemed cruel to make Bibiana suffer as some sort of test, but it didn’t seem impossible.
Unless that’s pride? Thinking it’s about me? She released another annoyed breath. Why isn’t anything ever simple?
Soon enough, the door downstairs opened, and after a few words with what sounded like Ricardo, one of Senhor Romão’s older servants, Father Moreno’s footsteps headed for Cecília and Bibiana’s room. Cecília made it to the door before he could knock.
Father Moreno paused briefly in surprise before offering as kind a smile as ever. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Father.”
“I should offer my apologies for waking you this early. It’s a busy day, but I wanted to make sure I still could see how Bibiana was doing.”
Cecília stepped back to allow him into the room, not feeling the need to state the obvious when he could so plainly see it. As he headed for his place at the bedside, Cecília asked, “Would you mind if I joined you to pray this morning, Father?”
Father Moreno’s eyebrows rose, but he looked more pleased than anything. “Not at all, my child. I’d welcome the company.”
Nodding, she took a place near the end of the bed and rested her elbows on the mattress as she clasped her hands. Actually sharing her thoughts with the priest felt too exposing, but if she was being tested, perhaps helping to pray would at least be a start. All she could do was hope.
The sun was fully out, and the little second-story room started to become uncomfortably warm by the time Father Moreno finished whatever set of unfamiliar prayers he apparently was using to help Bibiana. Cecília cracked her eyes open to peek. No change. Her stomach sank as she realized she truly had been hoping for a miracle. As she began to debate whether she should stay there, some commotion downstairs caught her attention.
Father Moreno paused as he flipped through his book, looking in the direction of the raised voices.
Cecília stood, knees protesting after kneeling for so long. “If you’ll pardon me, Father?”
He nodded, letting her slip out of the room alone to see what was happening.
“You are not welcome in this household!” Senhor Romão’s voice carried up the stairs from the entryway.
“You wish to turn away the king’s own physician, whom His Highness most thoughtfully sent?” The surprise at hearing Tio Aloisio’s voice made Cecília pause for the briefest moment before she continued toward it.
“Whom the first minister sent, you mean,” Senhor Romão spat.
“I have His Highness’s letter right here, if you wish to read it.”
“We have no need of any physician,” Avô Santa Rita’s voice joined the argument. “Her condition is spiritual, not physical.”
“Entirely possible,” Tio Aloisio agreed. “But the king has heard all the talk around court, and he wishes for Senhor Nunes to see her. He can already get a spiritual report from Father Moreno.”
Cecília turned the corner, and the scene came into view—Senhor Romão and Avô Santa Rita scowling on one side, Tio Aloisio and who had to be the king’s physician, Senhor Nunes, standing on the other, closest to the front door. “Tio Aloisio,” she said to introduce herself.
All four men turned their heads to look at her.
“Go back upstairs, Cecília,” Avô Santa Rita said.
She turned her attention to him. “The king sent someone to see Bibiana?”
“Cecília—”
“Yes,” Tio Aloisio spoke over her grandfather, motioning with the paper in his hand. “As he outlines in this letter.” He looked back at Avô Santa Rita and Senhor Romão. “And I apologize, senhores, but I truly must insist.”
Senhor Romão puffed up. “Now, listen here—”
“Is there any harm in it, Avô?” Cecília broke in. “Father Moreno is with her right now. I’m sure he won’t allow any harm to come to her after everything. And if there is something both physical and spiritual—”
“Cecília—”
“Isn’t it worth trying everything?” she finished. “Please, Avô.”
Conflict played out over Avô Santa Rita’s expression before he blew out a harsh breath. “Let me see the letter.”
Senhor Romão made an incredulous noise and pointed sharply at Tio Aloisio. “I’ll see the entire court hears of this. Invading a man’s private residence.”
“I’m certain you will.” Tio Aloisio nodded, motioning Senhor Nunes toward the stairs.
Cecília stepped out of the man’s way as Avô Santa Rita read the paper Tio Aloisio had given him, and Senhor Romão stormed off toward his office to do whatever he was planning to do about the situation. “Last door to t
he right,” Cecília directed as the physician passed before glancing at her grandfather again.
Tio Aloisio paused to face her just before the staircase. “Thank you, Cecília.”
She started at the unexpected show of gratitude, not entirely certain how to react. She ended up watching the physician disappear from sight instead of responding. “Do you think Senhor Nunes can actually help her?”
“He is certainly willing to try if nothing else. I don’t believe we can ask much more than that.”
So Tio Aloisio wasn’t hopeful. Cecília pressed her lips together tightly.
He turned to head up the stairs, as well, before pausing again. “Oh, I did bring something for you, though.”
“For me?” She frowned.
Tio Aloisio reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small glass vial. “Some of that crate managed to survive.” He held it out to her. “Since you said it reminded you of your mother...?”
Cecília took the vial carefully, vaguely wondering if someone had come and replaced her uncle in the night as she looked at the pale-gold liquid through the delicately faceted glass. “Thank you, Tio.”
He lowered his head quickly in recognition before starting up the stairs and disappearing from sight.
Avô Santa Rita’s footsteps moved off in another direction, leaving Cecília standing in the opening between the stairs and the entryway by herself, holding that little bottle. Carefully, she removed the stopper and dabbed a drop of perfume on the insides of her wrists the way she had seen Mamãe do hundreds of times before. The familiar smell floated up around her, leaving some mix of warmth and sadness comingling in her chest. She replaced the stopper just as gently and brought her wrist to her nose, letting it wash over her for a moment before she turned for the stairs as well. At least she could bring a bit of Mamãe with her to face whatever would happen between their Doctor of Medicine and Doctor Theologiae.