by Jessica Dall
“You believe it that dire?”
She pressed her lips into a thin line.
“Cecília. Look at me.”
She couldn’t bring herself to look away from the spot on the delicately patterned rug on the floor.
“Cecília.” He leaned to put himself in her sight line. “If you’re in trouble, tell me.”
Lord, did she want to. She steeled herself enough to at least meet his eyes. “Please, just stay away until I tell you different? I’ll explain the moment I can. I promise. If you could just wait...”
The concerned, critiquing look didn’t leave his face, but he finally nodded. “It’s been five years. I can handle waiting. I only hope you know you can trust me. No matter what’s happening.”
“I do. This is just safer for everyone.”
He didn’t appear any more pleased, but he nodded again. Cecília took a deep breath, preparing to make her exit before noticing his eyes flick to the low neckline of her gown. He beat her to speaking. “Do I at least get to kiss you again, since you’re already here? It is somewhat cruel to wear that dress to tell me I can’t see you.”
She let the breath out with an exasperated huff. With everything else, it hardly seemed the time. But if he was going to offer to leave things on a lighter note, she wasn’t going to dissuade him. “I came from Mass. You don’t wear your best for Sunday?”
“Your best outdoes mine by a good margin.”
Cecília rocked forward enough to kiss him. She pulled back again before he could deepen it. “I really should go.”
“A few more minutes.” His hand slid to the small of her back to pull her closer to him. “Surely, that can’t ruin anything.”
She’d already put both of them at risk, loitering around that side of the palace. The sooner she left, the better. But then the chances of someone seeing her leaving now were the same as someone seeing her in five minutes. Or thirty. “A few minutes. As long as that’s it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Another light pull brought her flush against him. Then his mouth was on hers, and Cecília did her best to turn her mind off. Just for a few minutes.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cecília blew out a breath, brushing her skirt self-consciously, though John had assured her—multiple times—that everything looked entirely in order before she left. She had wavered slightly from her original plan, but she had still gotten a promise to stay away, so she’d done what she’d set out to do, even if she’d allowed herself to get sidetracked. She only needed to worry about keeping her own head out of a noose.
She turned the corner to her own hallway and stopped dead. Especially since he had been given his new noble status, Senhor Carvalho had been a rare sight around Cecília and Tio Aloisio’s rooms. Sending someone with an invitation to see him was a far more proper transaction between a count and a merchant, no matter how long they had been acquainted. Yet there the man was, making it as impossible for Cecília to pass as if a brick wall had suddenly appeared.
His sharp eyes hit her as she stood frozen in place. “Ah, Senhorita Durante. I was just inquiring after your uncle, but it seems he is out. Perhaps you would favor me with your company instead?”
For as light and honestly kind as the words sounded, they made her stomach bottom out. Not now. Whether he truly had been more interested in speaking to Tio Aloisio or not, there would be no escaping giving a report if she was with Senhor Carvalho. And as quickly as her mind was racing, she couldn’t think of a thing to tell him. Though she had not dared disobey the specifics of the first minister’s orders, diligently attending daily service, she certainly hadn’t done what he truly wanted. Most days, she was halfway out the door before the priest had closed his mouth from bidding them requiescant in pace. If she didn’t loiter, there was little chance she would hear anything worth reporting. Where that left her when the first minister wanted information, though, she hadn’t yet worked out. It was too late. With no other choice, she curtsied deeply and followed as Senhor Carvalho turned for his office.
What little color she’d had in her face was no doubt long gone by the time she reached the first minister’s office. As desperately as she tried to work out something that would allow her to escape the man’s ire, all she could picture was the executioner tightening the noose around her neck. How did Luís... She couldn’t bring herself to finish that thought. Galant or idiotic, Luís’s convictions had allowed him to face his own death with solemn purpose. Cecília couldn’t find anything close to that.
Senhor Carvalho didn’t speak until they had made it to his office. “Please sit.” He motioned at the offered chair as he took his own chair-throne.
Cecília forced herself to perch on the edge of the smaller chair, feeling about the size of a five-year-old.
He shuffled through some papers on his desk, quickly finding what he wanted. His eyes ran over whatever was written there even as he addressed her. “You’ll forgive me if I jump straight to business today?”
“I...” Cecília took a breath to steady herself. “I’m afraid there isn’t much to report, senhor. I’ve been attending Mass every day, as you directed, but I haven’t heard anything that sounds dangerous. A little grumbling about the new grand inquisitor, general statements about the state of Lisbon’s soul, but you have complete control of the court.”
Senhor Carvalho’s blue eyes came up, pinning her in place as he seemed to read her thoughts one by one before he spoke again. “Is that so?”
Something about the way he asked the question made Cecília feel as if she was walking into a trap, but she said, “Yes, Minister.”
“You haven’t heard anything of interest.”
“Senhor, truly, I’ve been listening, but—”
“What can you tell me about your brother?”
Cecília jerked in surprise, having to catch herself before she did anything else he would no doubt see. “Francisco?”
Senhor Carvalho seemed to interpret the question as rhetorical—his eyes continued to drill into her.
“He doesn’t write to me these days,” she continued carefully, saying the absolute truth. Since Bibiana had taken her vows, Francisco hadn’t written a word to either Cecília or Tio Aloisio. “But I imagine he’s still doing his ministry work in Brazil?”
“Oh no.” Senhor Carvalho turned the paper in his hands around for her to see. “He’s gone missing. Sources who would know state that he was last seen attempting to board a ship bound for Lisbon.”
Cecília tried to keep her breathing steady as it became harder and harder to draw air. Dear Lord, Cisco. What are you—
“You wouldn’t know anything about that?” Senhor Carvalho motioned with the paper.
“I just said, he doesn’t write to—”
“He writes to the priests,” Senhor Carvalho snapped, his tone rising as close to a shout as Cecília had ever heard. “He writes to those cursed men still clinging to the idea that Malagrida is anything but a mad, backward buffoon. Tell me, senhorita, how I know that, and his own sister is entirely in the dark on that matter.”
“I-I...” Cecília pulled on whatever remaining thread she still had keeping her together, shock and exhaustion threatening to overwhelm her. “I swear, Minister, on my dear father’s soul, I didn’t know. I hadn’t heard—”
“You are no use to me, Senhorita Durante, if you refuse to open your ears and listen.”
“Please—”
“You will be keeping the Hours.” He jabbed his finger at her. “You will be in that chapel every time those bells ring. I don’t care if you need to sleep there to do so. You will be there, and you will not leave until you have something useful to tell me. Believe me when I say that this is your very last chance unless you wish for us to revisit our last discussion. Is that clear?”
“Yes, senhor,” she whispered.
“Do not try my patience, Senhorita Durante. You will find it has worn very thin.”
“Yes, senhor.”
“You may go.”
&nbs
p; “Yes, senhor. Thank you, senhor,” she said, her voice so breathy that Heavens knew if he could even hear her before she scrambled up from her chair, not able to care that she must have looked like a frightened mouse.
She stepped back into the hall but only made it halfway to her rooms before the shaking caught up to her. She placed her back to the wall, taking shallow gulps of air as she tried to pull herself back together. They only came faster and faster, not allowing for any true breath as her already shaking fingers began to tingle.
“Senhorita Durante?” Senhor Ventura’s voice sounded somewhere nearby.
Dear Lord, why? She couldn’t lift her head.
“Senhorita Durante.” A pair of boots stopped in front of her. “What’s the matter?”
She shook her head, trying to draw enough breath to remain upright let alone speak.
“Senhorita Durante?”
Slowly, she managed to find that little thread she’d been clinging to, though tears felt far too close to the surface. She blinked quickly, trying to force them back as she met Senhor Ventura’s dark eyes. “I’m sorry. I...” She fought to swallow. “I just got some bad news.”
His eyebrows pulled together, genuine concern playing over his face. “Is it anything I could assist with?”
Another man was offering to help without knowing just what that help would risk. She shook her head as she struggled to find something safe to say. She ended up with, “My brother has gone missing.”
“Your brother?”
“My elder brother. Father Durante. He was on a mission to Brazil. Now he’s disappeared, and no one seems to know...” She sucked in a sharp breath as she tried not to fall right back into an attack. “I don’t know where he is or if he’s hurt...”
Senhor Ventura continued to watch her with the same expression, but he at least didn’t offer any empty platitudes. “I will add him to my prayers.”
“Thank you.” She dropped her eyes, the statement so familiar and yet oddly foreign, leaving her even more off-balance. How did you not already think to pray for him?
“Would you like to come to the office to take your mind off of things?” he asked after a beat. “I just started the plans for how we’re going to rebuild the damaged side of Junqueira Prison.”
Dear Lord, the prison was the last thing she needed to think about. She shook her head. “Thank you for the offer, senhor, but I think I need to lie down. I feel a little faint.”
“Of course. Would you like me to walk you?”
“I think I can make it.”
Senhor Ventura looked at her for a final moment before he stepped back with a short bow. “Please don’t hesitate to fetch me if you find any need of me.”
“Thank you, Senhor Ventura,” Cecília said, though she had zero intention of doing so. She watched him move toward the architects’ office to start what was no doubt going to be a much less complicated day than anything she would have been able to manage.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was hardly the first time Cecília had kept the Hours, but it had never felt quite so oppressive. Her entire body ached as she found herself back on her knees for Vespers, and it was only her second day. If things kept going as they were, she would have ended up looking more hunched and hobbled than ninety-year-old, arthritic Senhora Abarca by the end of the week.
“Amen,” Cecília mumbled by rote with the rest of the small congregation and crossed herself as Father Moreno finished the service. Soft shuffling filled the chapel as the handful of courtiers present began to move out of the pews. Cecília remained where she was, blowing out a long breath as she tried to relax her muscles enough to move.
Finally, she managed to get her legs to shift, just in time to notice Father Moreno moving toward her.
Oh, dear Lord. Please, no. She already had been racking her mind for how she could protect Francisco without damning Tio Aloisio and herself. She didn’t need the other priests throwing themselves into the mix as well.
Of course, no one listened to her prayer, and Father Moreno stopped at the end of her pew. “Good evening.”
“Good evening, Father.” Cecília fully straightened and caught her hands in front of her to keep them from fidgeting.
“How are you faring today?” His kind eyes searched her face. “I’ve noticed you’ve been joining us for the Hours.”
Of course you have. “I’ve been praying for my brother.” The first thing she could think of left her mouth, even if it was likely the worst option she could have gone with, save blatantly admitting to what Senhor Carvalho had ordered. She only just caught the grimace before it made it to her face.
“Oh?” Father Moreno’s graying eyebrows rose.
“He’s gone missing.” She was locked into the lie now. “I’m worried about him.”
The interested look fell into obvious disappointment. “You haven’t heard from him, then?”
“No, Father. Have you?” Cecília! She cursed herself, not wanting him to answer.
Father Moreno’s mouth pinched. “I’m sorry to say I haven’t.”
Thank you, Lord.
“I admit, I am worried as well. He should have landed by now.”
“What?” Cecília’s voice squeaked.
Father Moreno studied Cecília’s face again, seeming to realize that she didn’t know something he did. He motioned to the confessionals to the left of the pews. “Would you like to make confession, child?”
“Oh, I already—”
“Please.” He cut off her lie, moving toward the little cabinets.
Gritting her teeth, Cecília followed along, watching his black robe flutter out behind him. Her mind briefly glanced over the one she had been wearing the day everything had started. It had been turned into rags that November, too shredded from when she had crawled out of the rubble to mend. Apparently, real priestly robes didn’t offer as much protection as before, either.
She stepped into her side of the confessional then turned to kneel in front of the grille. Her knees quickly protesting, she sat on the little bench instead. She heard Father Moreno enter the opposite side, and the grille slid open. When he didn’t speak, Cecília asked, “Would you like me to actually make—”
“No. Not unless you wish to, of course. There are simply... many ears about the palace. I thought we should be cautious.”
Moving won’t help you with that. Cecília remained silent, biting the inside of her cheek.
“When was the last time you heard from Father Durante?”
“Months ago.” Cecília interlaced her fingers in front of her, telling herself that it wasn’t technically a lie. She could even say when she was a child was months ago—just many, many months.
“You haven’t heard of his vision, then?”
“Vision?” Cecília repeated, already not liking the sound of where the conversation was headed.
“São João o Apóstolo blessed him in a dream. Told him it was his calling to save Father Malagrida from this shameful case being brought against him.”
Cecília squeezed her eyes shut tightly, the situation so much worse than even the dire possibilities that had been niggling at the back of her skull. “He’s coming to Lisbon?”
“That is what we were told. He should be here by now, though, and no one has heard a word from him. I was rather hoping he had contacted you.”
“Me?”
“As his sister?”
You have the wrong sister for that. “I haven’t heard a word.”
“Oh dear.” Father Moreno sighed. “I will continue to pray for him. I hope nothing happened to his ship.”
Cecília couldn’t have said a shipwreck would have been a worse fate than Senhor Carvalho’s wrath. At least with a wreck, he could wash up on some friendlier shore. Trying to do anything with Father Malagrida in Portugal would likely lead to a much more painful death than what could happen at sea. For him and the rest of them.
“You’ll let me know? If he contacts you?”
“Yes, Father.�
�� Since that possibility seemed about as slim as her ever actually getting on a ship, she didn’t let herself worry about agreeing.
“Thank you, child,” Father Moreno said.
Silence fell over them, and Cecília shifted her weight uncomfortably. “Is that everything, Father?”
“Oh, yes. Yes. Unless you would like to make confession.”
“I did this morning.” That was a lie, but she was going to Hell, anyway. She could certainly have done without confession for another day. There seemed little it would help at that point.
“Go with God, my child.”
“Thank you, Father,” Cecília said in a rush before she stood and left the confessional. She slowed in the hallway outside the chapel, trying to think of somewhere to go or someone she could ask for help. Francisco might have been attempting to sign his own death warrant, but she couldn’t hasten that. He was her brother, no matter how they had left things years before. Her first instinct was to find John, but that would hardly have been fair. Too many people were already at risk. She wouldn’t pull him back less than half a week after she’d warned him away.
Tio Aloisio? The thought made her stop as she mulled it over. Her uncle had been the first minister’s man since before he’d been the first minister. Cecília wasn’t certain whether Senhor Carvalho had friends, but if he did, Tio Aloisio would have been considered one. She couldn’t trust, if she went to her uncle, that he wouldn’t go straight to tell the first minister, as he had about Father Moreno.
But it’s Cisco... Her brother had all but told her that she was damned when she had brought Tio Aloisio to the camp after the quake, and she still would risk her life to save him. She could hope her uncle had at least some familial love left for his only surviving nephew, at least enough not to want to see him hang or worse.