by Jessica Dall
She reached the little box she hadn’t seen inside in more than a year. Opening it, she pulled out the little misshapen São Cristóvão and slipped that into her pocket as well. Leviathan she could leave with the other banned books on her uncle’s bookshelf, and the letters John had written five years ago... She picked up both and moved to the other papers she had in her vanity.
“What’re those?” John asked.
“Things I’d rather no one go through if they come in here.” She took the entire stack of pages and tossed them into the unlit fireplace. Using the flame from her lamp, she set the papers alight. The rest of the room would likely be torn apart, everything that was left confiscated, but at least all those records and thoughts would be gone, hers alone. Giving a satisfied nod, she turned away from the growing flames. “I’ll leave the lamp lit. With any luck, Tio Aloisio will think I’m still here, if he comes back. Do you think you can help me out the window over the desk? I can’t go out the front.”
“You’re sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
She nodded, trying to look far more certain than she felt. “Just meet me in the garden.”
John didn’t look any more enthusiastic about the plan, but he didn’t argue as he turned for the antechamber.
With his back to her, Cecília took the chance to cross herself, glancing up at the ceiling as she offered a weak prayer then slipped her hand into her pocket. São Cristóvão hadn’t done anything to protect Papai or João, but perhaps he’d keep her, John, and Francisco safe—half-melted or not.
THE ARCHITECTS’ OFFICE looked exactly the same as the last time Cecília had been there, and the normalcy of it left her unsettled. Her heart beating in her throat, she forced herself deeper inside the room to what she recalled was Senhor Ventura’s desk.
Thank you, Santo Expedito. She released a relieved breath as she saw Senhor Ventura’s portfolio resting against the table legs. In one motion, she scooped it up and began flicking her way through pages of equations and designs. Finally, she found plans—the new European designs for the buildings going up in the Baixa, the archway that would mark the new riverside plaza, and the prison. She pulled the last free with a jerk, scanning the markings in the dim light. When she had asked to learn what the architects were doing, she hadn’t thought she’d be using the knowledge to be able to break out of a prison. From what she saw on the page, though, she had learned exactly what she needed to be able to do so. As she folded the plans to slip them away, the office door opened.
Cecília froze and found herself staring right at Senhor Ventura.
He recoiled slightly in surprise before he seemed to register who it was. “Senhorita Durante.”
“Senhor Ventura.” She did her best to recover, giving as blithe a smile as she could manage. “I hope you don’t mind my poking through your things. I was running short on reading material, and I remembered you offered to let me see your plans.”
“Of course.” He stepped fully into the room. “I imagine it must make for some long days, being quarantined.”
Quarantined. She repeated the word in her head. So the rest of the court didn’t necessarily know what had happened, then.
“You’re feeling better, though?”
“Certainly on the mend”—she fell into the lie—“but I’m still not supposed to be out. I should get back. Would it be a problem if I took this for the evening? I really need something to do.” She slowly started for the door, not intending to give it back even if he disagreed.
“Feel free.” He turned to continue facing her. “I could come and explain what we’re doing, even, if you’d like.”
“I’d feel awful if I got you ill. In a few days, perhaps?”
“I look forward to it.” He nodded with enough enthusiasm that Cecília had to fight down a new wave of guilt. She would just have to be careful that, if they were unlucky enough to get caught, she got rid of the plans before anyone found them. Keeping Senhor Ventura from being dragged into the mess was the very least she could do for the man. There were already too many people at risk with what she was doing. He walked with her to the door. “Might I walk you back to your room?”
Dear Lord, no. She kept her smile in place. “I’d love that, but like I said, I’m not supposed to be out yet. My uncle would have a fit if he saw me talking to someone.”
Disappointment moved over his face, but he accepted the answer with a polite bow. “In a few days, then.”
“A few days,” she agreed. When we’ll be well on our way to England, I hope.
Doing her best not to look too suspicious, she poked her head out into the hallway to check that no one was outside the first minister’s office before she quickly ducked around the corner to the outside door. She made it to the hedges in record time.
John met her as soon as she turned out of sight of the palace. “I was beginning to worry.”
“I have it.” Cecília didn’t feel the need to recount what had just happened. “You’re certain you want to do this?”
“As long as you are.”
She released a tense breath but steeled her resolve. “We should go, then?”
John nodded and let her turn halfway before he caught her wrist and pulled her in for a searing kiss.
She blinked up at him as he broke it.
“For good luck.” He gave a weak half smile. And in case we don’t make it out of this—the silent addendum seemed to hover between them. “Let’s go. If I recall, it’s a long walk into Lisbon.”
Chapter Thirty
Junqueira Prison rose as imposingly as ever, even if it was just a shadow against the blue-black sky. Cecília slowed next to John as they made it through the final streets, her legs already tingling unpleasantly from the long walk after so much sitting around.
“We should hurry,” John said, his voice just loud enough for her to hear. “Things aren’t going to get any safer.”
Cecília nodded, suddenly not feeling able to speak as her stomach went into knots.
The guard at the front door stiffened as John and Cecília approached, shifting the musket in his hands. “Halt. State your business.”
John pulled the doctored letter from his jacket. “We need to speak with a prisoner here.”
“No visiting at night.” The guard made no move to take it. “Come back in the morning.”
“This letter is from the first minister.” John kept the letter out for the guard. “Would you like me to contact him and see if he wishes to wait?”
A flash of apprehension moved over the guard’s face before he snatched the letter and looked it over. After a beat, he called over his shoulder for another guard from inside and pressed the letter into the second man’s hands. “Take them in.”
The second guard glanced down at the paper then nodded. “With me.”
If anything, the halls of the prison felt smaller at night, the distance between the lanterns along the hall leaving long splotches of darkness to walk through. Cecília tried not to breathe through her nose, as the smell was even worse than she remembered—especially with the guard leading them down into the bowels of Junqueira Prison rather than up. Cecília could only be glad there were no awful cries.
They reached the bottom of the stairs, and an odd thumping sound started.
“What’s that?” Cecília asked before she caught herself.
The guard snorted. “The mad priest. Between his ravings, he throws himself into things. Here.” He moved up to one of the doors and pulled the panel open.
The hollow thumping grew louder, and perverse curiosity drew Cecília forward. With his long white hair fanned out in a ratty mane around his head, the man inside looked every bit the lunatic Cecília had been told Father Malagrida had become. Gone was the imposing figure who had enraptured crowds in the campos outside Lisbon. The poor broken man sitting inside, beating his head against the rough stone wall, didn’t look as though he would have been able to draw a mosquito’s attention, let alone a crowd’s. She had to wonder if
Senhor Carvalho had actually seen the priest in the past few years. If he had, she couldn’t imagine what the first minister expected to gain from sending the Inquisition after him. Setting Father Malagrida loose to wander the streets as a crazed beggar would likely do more to drive away what followers he still had than convicting him of heresy.
“If you don’t mind, we’re in a hurry.” John’s voice brought her back to the present.
“Right.” The guard let the flap close again and moved down a different cramped hallway. “This is who you’re here to see?”
As the man pulled the next flap out of the way, Cecília caught a glimpse of her brother, looking nearly as haggard as Father Malagrida but thankfully much saner. “Ye—” she started to answer before the guard jerked, and she realized John had his arm locked around the guard’s neck as he had Francisco’s before. Quickly enough, the guard went limp as well, and John let him slide to the floor.
“It didn’t seem the time for a fair fight,” John answered her wide eyes before quickly binding the man’s hands.
“It is a little disconcerting how adept you are at that.”
“I told you, docks aren’t always the safest places.” John finished with the length of rope and started to pat down the guard’s clothes. He came up with a key. “Ready?”
Cecília couldn’t say she was, but they were in much too far to hesitate.
Francisco’s head jerked up as the door opened, surprise making him look more like the brother she remembered for a split second before his eyes narrowed. “You.”
She supposed she shouldn’t have expected any more of a welcome. “We’ve come to save you.”
“I’m not the one who needs saving.” His eyes flicked between John and Cecília, not looking the least bit happier with either of them.
You’re going to die. Cecília didn’t bother to make the obvious argument. It had gone nowhere before. It didn’t seem there’d be any reason for Francisco to listen to it now.
“I have more rope,” John murmured, “though carrying him would slow us down.”
“You stay away from me.” Somehow Francisco made just that you sound like an insult.
A sound in the hall said the guard was coming back around. We don’t have time for this... A new thought that just might work popped to mind. “Father Malagrida is down the hall.”
Francisco finally paused long enough for her to continue.
“You wanted to get inside here, didn’t you? To find Father Malagrida? The guard just showed us where he is, right down the hall.”
Francisco stood. “You can’t pretend you intended this.”
“Are you going to question God’s ways?”
He kept his eyes narrowed, but he moved for the door. “Where is he?”
“Cecília,” John said in a warning tone.
“Trust me,” she hissed before motioning Francisco forward to the cell they had just left. If anything, the thumping had only intensified. She pulled the flap back and moved far enough back to let Francisco see. “That’s Father Malagrida.”
Francisco stepped up to the door, alarm cracking the disdain visible on his face.
“He’s mad. You bring him out of this prison, he’s as likely to walk straight into the Tagus and drown himself as change anything.”
Francisco shook his head slightly. “That can’t be him.”
“If I know it is, you must.” Cecília glanced down the hall to see John once again wrestling down the guard. He sent her a look, so she hurried as much as she could. “He can’t be saved. Not even if you get him out of here.”
Conflict played across his face as he seemed to be trying to work out what to do as quickly as Cecília had.
“You likely remember his sermons better than he does at this point,” she pressed on. “Do you think that’s what your vision could have meant? That you need to save him by bringing his words to the people? You joined the Church to help people, Cisco. If you get yourself killed along with him, how will that help? Everything you know will die right along with Father Malagrida.”
A rise of voices on the floor above them made Cecília look up.
“Time’s up.” John fingered the rope he still had. “We need to get out of here.”
“Please, Cisco,” she said, making a final attempt.
Francisco took a few steps back, conflict still washing over his face though he slowly started to nod.
“Great.” John grabbed Cecília’s hand. “Which way?”
Cecília looked around, trying to place where they were versus the plans. “We need to get back up the staircase. Then the far side of the prison is still damaged. We can get out that way.”
“Off we go, then.” John started forward.
The grumble of voices grew clearer as they move toward the stairs.
“You let them in?”
“They had a letter from the first minister. What was I supposed to do?”
“It must have been a fake. You better get them before Senhor Carvalho arrives, or you’re going to be in one of those cells before morning.”
Cecília’s stomach clenched at the idea of Senhor Carvalho himself making the trip to the prison. If they were facing that level of wrath, a simple hanging would likely be too good for them. Maneuvering around John, she led the way, slipping through the door at the top of the stairs and around a corner just ahead of the guards. In the cramped hallways, the reverberation of their voices and footsteps made it impossible to tell if it was three men or thirty.
Using the long patches of darkness to remain out of sight, Cecília found the next tight staircase they needed—the one she had taken to see Luís, if the recognition that hit her stomach said anything—and led them out of the belly of the prison.
As they left the echoing guards below, the prison went eerily quiet—no angry voices or mad thumping. There had to be men locked up behind at least some of the wooden doors they passed, but there wasn’t so much as a cough. The silence only grated on Cecília’s frayed nerves. She did her best to focus on logical things and work out where they were versus the plans she’d reviewed.
The hall they were in came to a T, and Cecília headed right.
“Are you certain you know where you’re going?” Francisco whispered behind her.
I certainly hope so. “I have the rebuilding plans.” She made a left turn that should have brought them to the back of the building.
The hall suddenly came to a dead end.
“We can turn around—” John started as voices began to filter through the distance. More guards were being roused. There was shouting and footsteps.
“Now we’re trapped,” Francisco snapped.
Heart beating too quickly at the encroaching panic, Cecília swallowed, trying to work out where she had made a mistake. She had followed the plans to where rebuilding was marked to start. There was something she was missing. The hall shouldn’t have ended so suddenly. There should have been an opening of some sort in that hall. Suddenly, it registered. The wall was oddly pitched and brick, not stone like the rest of the prison.
“No, we’re not.” She moved to the last door on the slanted wall. Pulling back the flap, she smelled a gust of blessedly clean fresh air. “Here! They must have bricked over where the hall cracked. The cells on the other side are still open!” She tried the handle. The wooden door wouldn’t budge. “John. That key?”
He jumped as though he hadn’t thought of it and patted down his pockets.
“Please tell me you brought it.” She glanced down the darkness-mottled hallway. She still couldn’t see anyone, but the voices were growing closer and clearer.
“Yes!” John found the key he’d taken from the guard. “Just pray it works.”
“I will,” Francisco murmured a little more pointedly than the situation called for.
Thankfully, John ignored him, working to fit the key into the lock.
Footsteps neared. The guards couldn’t have been more than a turn or two away.
“John...” Cecíli
a glanced between him and the hall.
“It fits. It’s just... rusty.”
Voices echoed around the stone, sounding dark, nearly demonic.
“John.”
“It’s going. Just a second.”
“Hey!” The shout went out as a man rounded the corner.
“Got it!” John rammed his shoulder into the old door, and it swung open with an unholy creak.
A gunshot went off, a musket ball hitting stone somewhere close enough for Cecília to hear the ricochet.
“Run!” John grabbed her hand again, and she grabbed Francisco’s, moving them as a chain out into the dark night.
Cecília panted, the burning in her legs back in full force as she struggled to keep up with the men’s longer strides. She didn’t dare stop as more and more gunshots went off behind them. John made a wide swing, heading first away from the river before doubling back. She didn’t have the breath to question him.
As they neared the docks, he skidded to a stop, nearly sending Cecília straight into his back. She dropped both men’s hands to steady herself. “What—” she started to ask before she saw what he did. “Tio?”
Tio Aloisio stood in front of them, a bag over his shoulder, seeming to have appeared out of nowhere like a phantom. He shook his head. “I knew there would be trouble, having both of you together again. I didn’t imagine it would be to this level.”
“Tio Aloisio, I couldn’t—”
“I thought that might be the case.” Tio Aloisio held his hand up to cut her off before checking the street behind him.
John frowned. “How did you—”
“Senhor Ventura isn’t the best secret keeper, it seems.” Tio Aloisio glanced at John before addressing Cecília once again. “He let it slip he had seen you while out in the hall and, when brought to the first minister, that you had taken his plans for the prison. From there, it wasn’t too difficult to put together what you were attempting to do. There are a fair number of soldiers out in the streets around here looking for you. My first stop after I heard was to the diplomatic corps, and when I heard someone was set to ship out in the morning, I was willing to venture where you might be headed after the prison.”