by Jessica Dall
Cecília’s entire body tensed. “Are you planning to stop us?”
“Hardly.” Tio Aloisio heaved a sigh. “I had a suspicion you wouldn’t take well to being locked in, so I’ve been in contact with a friend I have in France. Outside Paris. I was originally going to suggest it for you, but after this fiasco, I imagine we’re all better off out of the country.”
“All of...” Cecília looked toward Francisco, only to find empty air. “Cisco?”
“He slipped away as soon as he saw me,” Tio Aloisio said. “I thought it best to let him go.”
“He’s wanted!” Her voice rose a little more than was prudent.
“And he’s aware. You’ve freed him, which is more than he could have expected. What he does with that freedom is going to be up to him. You know your brother. There’s nothing we could possibly say that will change his mind. There are people who are willing to question their faith and come to a stronger understanding of it through those trials, and those who gain their strength from believing there are no questions to ask. Your brother has always been the latter.”
And you think I’m the former. After everything that had happened, Cecília couldn’t fully disagree with him.
“Now, the Vento de Verão is in port, ready to cast off as soon as I give word,” Tio Aloisio continued. “I would highly suggest we all be aboard it before the first minister thinks to block off the docks. Unless you wish to catch your own ship, Bates?”
Cecília looked at him in time to see John and her uncle share some other silent conversation in a look before he offered her a small smile. “I’ve never made it as far inland as Paris. I’m told it’s a city to see.”
“Then might I recommend we go?” Tio Aloisio turned, obviously meaning his question to be rhetorical.
Cecília still lingered, sending a last look after where Francisco had been.
“You saved him from prison and put him off Malagrida,” John said. “That could be enough to save his life. Even if he stays here.”
Could be. Cecília wished there was more certainty than that, but with Francisco, she supposed that would have to be enough. Tio Aloisio was right. They all had their own versions of faith. She couldn’t change his any more than he could change what hers had become. With a certain nod, she turned back to follow her uncle. John took her hand once again and gave it a gentle squeeze.
As they moved away from the prison, the streets became quiet, nearly ominously so. But it seemed the soldiers Senhor Carvalho had sent were still searching closer to the breakout, not the docks. They came around a line of wooden buildings, no doubt temporary structures to replace what had once been there, and her breath caught. Though the moon wasn’t more than a small crescent, the light had managed to catch the Tagus, making the entire wide band of water glint silvery-blue behind the masts of the ships at dock.
“This way,” Tio Aloisio said, and Cecília noticed she’d stopped. She started after him again then saw it: Tio Aloisio’s ship, Papai’s ship, her ship. She picked up her pace, jogging the last few steps past the men to look up at it.
“Are we climbing aboard?” John asked behind her.
Tio Aloisio gave a low whistle in response, and a gangplank appeared over the side. “As I said, I was prepared.” He motioned for Cecília to go ahead of him, and out of everything else she had felt that night, that year, a heady buzz began as she walked up the plank and onto the deck.
Tio Aloisio followed close behind her, handing his bag to one of the handful of men on deck. “Get that into the captain’s quarters. Bates, I trust you still know your way around rigging? I thought it best to let as few men as possible know what was happening.”
“Aye, sir.” John touched Cecília’s arm lightly before slipping into the activity on the deck as though born to it.
Tio Aloisio remained beside her. “You aren’t choosing an easy life, you know, Cilinha.”
She nodded, the nickname not feeling as grating anymore. “I’m not sure if I would know what to do with myself at this point, if things were suddenly easy.”
Tio Aloisio shook his head, but she could almost see the hint of a smile in the moonlight, as if being on the ship made him feel lighter as well.
A man finished pulling the gangplank and faced Tio Aloisio. “Are you taking the helm, sir?”
“I suppose I should. It’s certainly been a while,” he said then looked at Cecília. “Would you care to join me? It was your father’s ship, after all.”
Cecília blinked in surprise. “Really?”
He took a step back and held his hand out toward the large wheel near the end of the deck. Not giving her uncle the chance to change his mind, Cecília headed where directed.
“Hoist the mast!” Tio Aloisio called. The order echoed through the sparse crew as he took a place behind the helm. “I’ll steer us through the mouth of the river, then we’ll see if you can have a go.” He glanced at Cecília. “As long as you don’t wreck us on the coast, it’s hard to hit something out at sea.”
Butterflies stirred in Cecília’s stomach, and she nodded, not trusting her voice as the ship slowly began to pull away from the dock. The deck under her feet rocked slightly. Wind began to blow her hair, carrying the intoxicating smell of salt and spray up from the water. She breathed it all in, watching the silvery-blue water pass underneath them. And for the first time in months—for the first time in years, perhaps—she felt entirely at peace. Maybe, just maybe, everything would finally go right.
Epilogue: 1775
Cecília’s heart pounded as their carriage rolled through the crowds that lined the streets leading to the Praça do Commércio, slowly enough that she had plenty of time to scan the buildings that made up what they were calling the Pombaline Baixa—after all, the designs, the work, all of it had been led by the long-serving first minister Senhor Carvalho, now the Marquês de Pombal for all of his tireless efforts. Traveling into the city was likely a needless risk. Though it had been fifteen years, she couldn’t trust the first minister’s wrath had lessened any. He had, after all, seen the entire Durante family—save Bibiana—officially exiled even after they had already left the country, and he was not a man known for forgiveness. Still, at the news that Lisbon had finally been rebuilt, Cecília had found it impossible to stay away.
“Is it everything you thought it would be?” John’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
Cecília looked away from the window long enough to meet his eyes. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen everything yet.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up at the slightly snarky reply. “I’m just seeing if you think it was worth the risk of coming.”
“I’m not sure you’re one to lecture me about taking risks right now.”
“You can’t say you aren’t just as interested in what’s happening in Boston.”
“I’m not sure anyone on this side of the Atlantic, save perhaps King George, is as interested in what’s happening as you are, John Bates.”
The amused look turned into a full smile as he turned back to his own window. Cecília shook her head but let the conversation drop. They had already gone through it dozens of times, the compromise that he could get involved in whatever was happening with his old friends in Boston as long as they stopped first in Lisbon. All of it was no doubt asking for trouble, but for everything else that had changed in the past fifteen years, John was no more risk averse at forty-two than he had been at twenty-seven.
She returned to staring out the window, spotting the designs all the architects had been slaving over what felt like three lifetimes ago brought to life. Perfectly symmetrical buildings lined carefully measured roads. Still, even rolling down the street, she could see all the imperfections, every façade that had been erected to cover an incomplete structure. Lisbon might have been “rebuilt” enough for the grand opening, but there was certainly construction still happening.
Finally, the crowd became so thick that the carriage couldn’t move.
John leaned to see
farther ahead of them. “We’re going to have to walk if we want to get much closer.”
Cecília nodded, knocking to get the driver’s attention. “Pull off onto one of the side streets,” she said when he leaned down to look through the small window into the carriage. “We’ll walk from here.”
The man frowned. “Are you sure that’s wise, senhora?”
It wasn’t, but that had never stopped her. And it felt oddly fitting, following the masses into Lisbon with John next to her. “We’ll find you when we’re finished.” She swung the door open before he could hop down to do it for her. John quickly joined her, and they filtered into the crowd walking toward the grand arch marking the start of the Praça.
The smell that was Lisbon—sea air, sardines, red sand—hit her strongly enough that it nearly knocked her off her feet. Memories of the life she had once lived, back when the streets had been small and twisted, back when she had snuck her way down to the river while her mother and aunt were speaking inside, washed over her. She took John’s hand, keeping one foot moving in front of the other as they entered the Praça. For all the awful she had seen in her life, there had certainly been good too. If everything hadn’t happened exactly as it had, she never would have met John. She likely would never have left Lisbon. She certainly wouldn’t have had the last happy fifteen years, seeing at least her small part of the world.
Leading John behind a man playing a pipe for coins, Cecília found a spot alongside one of the cheerful yellow buildings that surrounded the Praça. All of those, at least, seemed to be completed, the monuments to neoclassicism Pombal had had designed for their new, enlightened Lisbon.
Settled in place, she scanned the platform that stood in the center of the square, erected for the unveiling of Senhor Carvalho’s statue. She had to imagine there had been more than a few unkind words said about it at court, but opening the new Baixa by dedicating a statue of himself right in the center seemed entirely in character for the man Cecília had once known.
A flash of the Távora executions shot through her mind. She shook her head to clear it. Following Father Malagrida’s execution, the autos-da-fé had been abolished for good. No one else had burned. Even Francisco, wherever he had gotten to, had once again escaped death even if she had heard his name mentioned in any one of a hundred stirrings against Senhor Carvalho over the years. Where he was, though, or even if he was still alive, she supposed was anyone’s guess. Either way, she supposed more speculating would do her no good. If nothing else, she would have to attempt to explain herself in front of Saint Peter, assuming Francisco arrived there before her.
Mind once again clear, she opened her eyes and focused on the platform. Senhor Carvalho stood near the center, looking far older than he did in Cecília’s memory. She gave a light laugh. It has been fifteen years. All but King of Portugal or not, he isn’t immortal.
The crowd fell silent as the speeches began. They clapped and shouted as the statue was unveiled. Though some looked angry, overall, the people Cecília saw seemed happy. The people of Lisbon supported their first minister. Looking at the younger faces around, Cecília had to imagine half of the people standing on the Praça barely remembered the quake that had brought them all there—if they had been alive at all—let alone all the ups and downs that had dominated Cecília’s early adulthood.
Let them never know any of it as more than a story, she sent up as a soft prayer. Let them only know the good that has come from it all. Let that be the legacy all the horror leaves behind.
The men on the platform retreated, moving for one of the doorways on the other side of the Praça, and John turned to Cecília. He studied her face for a moment before asking, “Ready?”
Cecília studied the crowd for a final moment, looking at what her city, her Lisbon, had become. And it looked... strong. No matter how long it took to get there, one day, Lisbon would be fine. It would once again be her beautiful city, one that would survive another one, two, three centuries, God willing.
She nodded, offering John a small smile before he turned to find a way through the masses still in the Praça. Cecília let him lead, giving herself over to her own thoughts. As good and bad as her memories in the city were, she could at least call herself satisfied. And for the moment, that was more than enough.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I need to thank my loving husband, Niles, who was with me every step of the way while writing this novel. From helping spark the idea to assisting with research to listening to me talk endlessly about character arcs and plotting issues, he was an integral part in the process. As the dedication says, this book truly would not exist without him.
I would also like to thank my in-laws, Jeanne and Michael, who thought of me when they found Mark Molesky’s book This Gulf of Fire soon after its release and gifted it to me while I was struggling with finding sources; my parents, Carolyn and Hans, early proofreaders and general cheerleaders; and my daughter, Louisa, who managed to start sleeping through the night right as I was attempting to tackle final rewrites, allowing for the end of this book to be somewhat cohesive.
Further, thank you to everyone who assisted in the writing and editing of this book, including my beta readers, Emma Stickney and Hannah Bersee, Dr. Ferreira of Brown University and Dr. Shelford of American University, who helped point me toward academic sources on the Lisbon earthquake, and authors such as Mark Molesky and Nicholas Shrady, who have written books about a historical event that is otherwise sorely underrepresented in English works.
Last but certainly not least, I need to thank my publisher, Red Adept Publishing, specifically acquisitions editor Kris James and content editor Sara Gardiner, who both gave valuable feedback that allowed for revisions that created a much stronger final work, and line editor Kate Birdsall, who helped polish the writing until it shone. I certainly could not have done it without all of you.
Author’s Note
Going into writing The Stars of Heaven, I knew I would be doing a lot of research. Any work of historical fiction means hitting the books. However, this novel required a special level of digging, mostly because when I started writing it, I knew next to nothing about Portuguese history. In fact, the idea for the book itself came from an unlikely source—a video game. While playing Assassin’s Creed: Rogue one Saturday, my husband and I came to a scene where the player causes a massive earthquake in Lisbon. While the cause in the game was obviously fictional, we knew the creators of that series used real historical events as a backing, and we doubted they would entirely invent something as large as a city being destroyed for a plot point. As both my husband and I are history nerds, this sent us down the rabbit hole of trying to find out about this event we’d never heard about. What we found was one of the most important historical events that seemingly no one—at least no one who hasn’t read Voltaire’s Candide—has ever heard about. Yet, as I read more about this devastating event and how much it altered an already quickly changing Europe, I knew there had to be a story there.
As my knowledge of Portuguese history ended with the few paragraphs about fifteenth-century explorers in my high school curriculum, I quickly threw myself into research... and found books about the Lisbon earthquake, at least in English, to be few and far between. As I don’t actually speak Portuguese, I was very, very lucky that around the time I was struggling to find what I needed to write this novel, Mark Molesky’s book This Gulf of Fire: the destruction of Lisbon or apocalypse in the age of science and reason was released. For anyone interested in learning about the actual history of the quake along with a quick rundown of all the Portuguese history you likely missed in high school, I highly suggest this book.
Now, after four years, hours and hours of research, and dozens of rewrites, The Stars of Heaven sits before you in its final form. As it is a work of fiction, I admit to taking a few liberties, such as inventing characters, filling in gaps where the actual historical record is lacking, and even transposing Father Malagrida’s 1756 pamphlet, “An Opinio
n on the True Cause of the Earthquake,” to a live sermon—but I have done my best to accurately represent all the ups and downs people living at the time may have experienced after such a world-changing event. I hope, beyond being an enjoyable read, this work brings an amazingly important but often forgotten piece of history to life.
Also by Jessica Dall
Beyond the Style Manual
Building the Bones: Outlining Your Novel
Order and Chaos
Raining Embers
Graven Idols
Shattered Tempests
Standalone
The Stars of Heaven (Coming Soon)
Watch for more at Jessica Dall’s site.
About the Author
Jessica Dall finished her first novel at the age of fifteen and has been hooked on writing ever since. In the past few years, she has published two novels, The Copper Witch and The Porcelain Child, along with a number of short stories that have appeared in both magazines and anthologies.
In college, Jessica interned at a publishing house, where her “writing hobby” slowly turned into a variety of writing careers. She currently works as both as an editor and creative writing teacher in Washington, DC.
When not busy editing, writing, or teaching, Jessica enjoys crafting and piano, and spending time with her friends and family. She can most often be found at her home in Maryland with a notebook and her much-loved, sometimes-neglected husband.
Read more at Jessica Dall’s site.
About the Publisher