The Stars of Heaven Read online

  New to the city or not, Mr. Bates didn’t seem to have an issue with the crowds. He stayed close at hand, matching each of Cecília’s movements a second after she made them to maneuver around slower clumps of travelers on the street. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, debating whether she should offer any kind of conversation.

  He beat her to it. “Is there a reason so many of you wear those black cloaks?”

  Cecília frowned. “Pardon?”

  “When I first arrived, I thought there were only priests on the street. There are still more priests here than I’ve ever seen in my life, I’m relatively sure, but it seems everyone wears those.” He motioned briefly at her cloak. “I’ve been meaning to ask your uncle about it.”

  She shrugged. “Even the less virtuous think twice before attempting to rob someone who has taken holy orders. This is safer than flaunting fine clothing.”

  “I take it that’s why your uncle insisted I keep a dagger with me, then?”

  “Most men carry a sword if they can afford one.” She didn’t bother to look at him as she swung out wide to avoid those who were kneeling in front of a niche carved into the side of a building dedicated to São António. The builder had included a relic from the blessed saint himself when the niche had been created, or so Cecília had heard whispered. She crossed herself quickly.

  Mr. Bates didn’t.

  She continued to study him out of the corner of her eye. “You came with my uncle from London, Mr. Bates?”

  “Indeed, I did.”

  “Are you from London, then?”

  “London by way of everywhere else,” he said and smiled when she sent him a questioning look. “I was born in Southampton but jumped a ship as soon as anyone would let me. Have been to the far reaches at this point. London was just my most recent stop.”

  She fought down the rush of excitement the idea of travel sent through her, keeping her voice level, properly disinterested. “You’re a merchant? Like my uncle?”

  “More a sailor who had the good fortune to make friends in high places. I owe your uncle a great debt for all the help he’s offered in getting me settled in Lisbon.”

  Cecília pursed her lips slightly. Many of her uncle’s business partners were English, part of the British Factory as they were called, but she couldn’t understand why Tio Aloisio would take it upon himself to bring another Englishman—an English Protestant, she was willing to assume—back to Lisbon.

  “It’s a beautiful city.” He kept the conversation moving when she didn’t answer. “It is as they say: he who has never seen Lisbon has never seen a good thing.”

  At least he and Cecília could agree on that. Glancing at the parishioners spilling out the door of Nossa Senhora dos Mártires into the square in front of the basilica, Cecília was left with the sinking feeling that it was getting far closer to ten than she’d originally estimated. Even if she had convinced Tio Aloisio to come to the Baixa with her, they would have had no chance to make it to São Vincente in time for High Mass. All she could hope was that no one had noticed she’d gone, and the entire morning would be one more thing she would have to privately confess at the Palmeiro’s. She slowed them to a stop just outside the square by another niche—one holding a thick wooden crucifix—and pointed east. “Rua Nova dos Mercadores is that way, if you’d like to part ways here.”

  “I’m more than happy to walk you the rest of the way home, Senhorita Durante.”

  Because after everything, she needed someone from her bairro seeing her wandering about alone with an Englishman. “With the crowds, I imagine that would make you late for your meeting.”

  A conflicted expression moved over Mr. Bates’s face as he scanned the crowd for himself, no doubt seeing she was right.

  She saved him the trouble of having to weigh whatever duty he felt to her and however important he considered his meeting. “I’ve lived in Lisbon my entire life, Mr. Bates. I’m certain I’ll be able to make it home without your assistance.”

  Mr. Bates began to give one more halfhearted objection before a low rumble moving through the ground made him trail off. Cecília frowned, looking for an approaching coach, though from the way the sound was growing, it would have had to have been a line of coaches barreling toward them.

  “What’s that?” Mr. Bates followed Cecília’s gaze.

  Cecília shook her head, not having any better idea than Mr. Bates. The rumbling grew stronger, making loose pebbles rattle around her feet as the sound neared a roar.

  Earthquake. The thought registered a second too late as the street under her rolled. Cecília tipped forward as shouts went up, mixing with discordant clanging church bells. She put her hand out to brace herself, but the ground lurched again. Her shoulder slammed into the curve of the niche then bucked the other way. She hit cobblestone hard.

  The wall of the building across from her split, chunks of white plaster raining down across the street. Rough brick showed through as the ground continued its assault. Then the brick started to tilt. Eyes widening, Cecília curled into herself, everything happening too quickly to make sense. The wall fell. Hard chunks pelted her as it kicked up a cloud of dust so thick that she had no choice but to close her eyes.

  Slowly, the shaking slowed, and the roar was replaced by a cacophony of the most horrible sounds Cecília had ever heard—screaming, crying, panicked whinnies of horses. Cecília’s body seized. She tried to unfurl, but her muscles wouldn’t release. Shock kept her curled, eyes squeezed shut as though everything would stop if she didn’t look, as though she would wake up in her bed, the morning a dream. A new roar rose over the screams a second before the rumbling returned. Crying, she dropped her forehead to the ground, mumbling some prayer for mercy as Hell rose up around her. “Misericorda. Misericorda de Deus.”

  There was more screaming, more crashing, a loud snap, and pain shooting across her back. Somewhere, her mind registered that something hard had landed on top of her. She choked on dust as she gasped, trying to suck in what air she could under the crushing weight. Time began to blur. Nothing existed beyond the roar and rocking and pain.

  The ground slowly stilled once again—after how long, Cecília couldn’t begin to imagine—but she still couldn’t breathe. She struggled to reach whatever had pinned her. One hand touched smooth wood—the crucifix from the niche. She pushed, but it wouldn’t shift. Something had to have been on top of it, pressing into the cross as it pressed into her. Her sight began to blur, her chest not able to expand enough to take in air. As hard as she fought to remain conscious, her mind turned fuzzy.

  The third roar barely registered until the crucifix shook loose. Cecília gasped. She ended up coughing, thick dust coating her throat. No longer completely pinned, she still had to fight to free herself. Rough bricks scraped her palms, but they shifted as the shaking stopped, letting Cecília inch her way forward. She could find her way out, if she just kept moving...

  Reaching out once more, her hand hit nothing. She froze, the sensation not making sense until she realized she had reached open air. The day had simply turned pitch black.

  And the Lord said unto Moses, Stretch out thine hand toward Heaven, that there may be darkness over the land of Egypt, even darkness which may be felt. The words floated through Cecília’s mind, and she crossed herself before she realized how much pain the movement caused. She couldn’t bring herself to rise from her knees. God had thrown her and the whole city down into the earth. There was no other explanation.

  Slowly, some light began to filter through the haze in the air, and Cecília’s eyes struggled to adjust. The sight was worse than the darkness. Bodies poked through piles of stone—men with their heads dashed open, mangled limbs reaching out as if trying to free themselves even without the bodies to which they had once been attached. Others were still alive, and some cried for help, some already fleeing over the rubble. They weren’t in Hell. But Lisbon seemed worse.

  As the reality filtered through her shock, a new thought registered in Ce
cília’s mind. Bibiana. Mamãe.

  Cecília scrambled to her feet, pain muddling with the panic to the point where she couldn’t feel her body at all. Unthinking, she started stumbling over the piles of brick and wood and bodies.

  “The Day of Judgment has arrived!” A priest’s voice carried over the awful screams still echoing from the rubble. “Remember the Apocalypse of John: And there was a great earthquake, such as was not since men were upon the earth. The sixth seal has been broken! Repent for your sinful souls.”

  Cecília’s legs shook. The pain in her side grew as the words worked their way inside her.

  “Senhorita Durante?”

  Her name registered blankly in her mind. She tried to turn, but her knees gave out. The dirty, bleeding man in front of her reached out as if he was trying to catch her then stopped short, shouting as he cradled his own arm instead. Cecília hit the ground, the jar somehow more painful than anything she had ever experienced and dulled to where she barely felt it.

  The man recovered, and he looked around before bending, off-kilter, toward Cecília. “We need to get back to your uncle’s.”

  Recognition registered in the mess of Cecília’s mind. “Mr. Ba...”

  Another rumble went through the ground, not as strong as the others but enough to send up a new round of shouting. Cecília whimpered. She couldn’t let herself think about the Apocalypse, the man in front of her, or the pain shooting through her body.

  Mamãe, Bibiana... She needed to make it back home. God was punishing her. She deserved it. Sneaking out, lying... But He wouldn’t punish them. Not Mamãe. Certainly not Bibiana. Good, innocent little Bibiana.

  She forced herself back up to standing, even as every inch of her fought against it, and turned for her best guess of where home might be in the shell that was Lisbon.

  Mr. Bates called after her, his voice mixing into the awful clamor filling the dusty air. Cecília moved faster through the horrifying jumble of ruins. Dead eyes stared up at the brown sky, and prostrated living pulled at their hair or kissed painted saints and rosaries. Her foot caught on something. She stumbled but couldn’t bring herself to look. Whatever it had been, she didn’t want to see.

  She cleared a pile of rubble only for a wave of smoke to sweep over her. She coughed and moved the lace from her mantilla to cover her mouth in some vague attempt to breathe, but even then, the smoke seared her lungs. Something was burning. No, many things were burning. She had to turn back around, but she didn’t know where else to go.

  “Senhorita Durante.”

  She started at hearing her name so close to her side. Mr. Bates had followed her.

  “We need to make it back to the river. The city’s alight. If we can get on your uncle’s ship, we might have a chance.”

  “I can’t... My family...” Cecília shook her head, unsure if she was about to laugh or cry. Nothing made sense. How he can plan... Her mind couldn’t carry her through a thought.

  “You won’t find anyone dead.” He grabbed her wrist with his good arm. “Please. Perhaps your parents will go to the river too?”

  Papai would have. The thought appeared somewhere deep in Cecília’s mind. As little as she could believe Mamãe would, as well, it was enough to let her follow the way Mr. Bates was leading. Her body ached more and more with each step.

  Chapter Two

  No matter which way Cecília tried to go, she couldn’t find any landmark, anything familiar, anything that looked like home. Cracked shells of buildings poked out in chunks of plaster and stone. Twisted metal railings rose like deadly snakes from piles of bricks, empty spindles when Cecília was lucky and impaled mangled bodies when she wasn’t. After Lord knew how long of walking through the horror, Cecília couldn’t absorb any more. She fell into the rest of the beaten, bloody mass of humanity, trying to find a way out of town. Even Mr. Bates had fallen silent as the enormity of it all appeared to hit him as well.

  Somewhere outside the walls of Lisbon, Cecília’s body suddenly jolted back to reality, the dull ache she had been feeling turning into breathtaking pain. She stumbled slightly.

  Mr. Bates snapped out of his own daze. “Senhorita Durante? What’s the matter?”

  The question nearly made her laugh. She didn’t waste the breath it would take to state the obvious. “I... I need to sit.”

  Mr. Bates took her elbow with his good arm, as though worried she would tip over where they stood, and looked around before leading her to a large stone sitting off the main road. No one else so much as bothered to look. Cecília supposed she couldn’t blame them. She had long stopped listening to the cries for help. There were too many who needed aid while everyone needed to protect their own.

  Mr. Bates took a seat on the ground next to her, looking as exhausted as she felt beyond the gray ash that had plastered itself to his face and hair.

  No powder or too much. The weak thought bubbled up as she looked at his hair, the humor quickly dying off as she realized the absurdity of it in current circumstances. Instead, she tried to take stock of herself. Her ankle was stiff and swollen. Her left side throbbed where the crucifix had fallen on top of her. Her eyes started to water. If God wanted to make his displeasure known, He had, beyond the shadow of a doubt. The throbbing spiked as a sob escaped. But perhaps it was supposed to. Perhaps it was God multiplying her sorrow as He had Eve’s for her sin.

  A muffled grunt startled her enough to look up again, and she turned just in time to see Mr. Bates pushing himself back up to sitting, rubbing a shoulder that didn’t look quite as disformed anymore.

  He met her eyes silently for a moment, some sort of determination burning behind the exhaustion, pain, and worry, then asked, “Do you know where we are?”

  She tried to blink away her tears. “What?”

  “We can’t get to the river. We can’t stay here. We need some sort of plan.”

  “Plan?” Cecília’s voice tipped up, incredulous. “The world is ending. The Lord—”

  “Has left us both alive,” Mr. Bates completed for her. “It would be a poor show of faith to let ourselves die, don’t you think?”

  Cecília looked back the way they had come. The mass of dirty, bleeding people seemed unending as smoke continued to rise from what had once been Lisbon, turning the beautiful golden sunlight a sickly brownish orange.

  “Your uncle has a vineyard, doesn’t he?” Mr. Bates continued. “Somewhere in the country?”

  The calm practicality in his tone helped make its way past the haze of despair in Cecília’s mind. “Near Queluz.”

  “Where’s Queluz?”

  “Half a day northwest,” she recited then properly looked around at the land and realized they were on the road west toward Belém. “North from here.”

  “That’s where he would go, don’t you think?” he said then added, “Where your family would go?”

  Mamãe, Bibiana, Tia Ema... The thought shot a new wave of panic into her stomach. She tried to keep her breathing under control as each sharp breath drove an even sharper pain through her side. They can’t be dead. God wouldn’t punish them... “There or to my grandparents’ in Loures.”

  A conflicted look passed over Mr. Bates’s face. “Which is closer?”

  “From here, the vineyard.”

  Visible relief washed over him. “We should go there, then. Hope that everyone else does as well. Do you think you can lead the way?” His eyes dropped over her. “Do you think you can walk?”

  Mamãe and Bibiana are alive. They have to be. Being farther up in the Baixa than Cecília and Mr. Bates had been, though, would mean they likely would leave the city going north, putting them somewhere between Queluz and Loures, nowhere near Belém. Who knew how much longer Cecília’s body would last, but she had to try to get somewhere she would be found.

  Forcing herself up with a wince, Cecília nodded. “I think I can.”

  CECÍLIA HADN’T BEEN to her uncle’s vineyard in years, not since Papai had died and Tio Aloisio had taken over Papai’s b
usiness. Not for a year or two before that, even. Still, she recognized the landmarks as she and Mr. Bates made their way north, even though it seemed to take untold ages to move from one to the next. The half-day carriage ride she remembered stretched on hour by hour, as her already sore body tried to collapse. As stiffly as she moved, it was a miracle that any light was left in the sky by the time they reached the little valley holding Tio Aloisio’s vineyard. With the pinkish glow still clinging to the hills on the horizon, Cecília could make out the boxy shape of her uncle’s home surrounded by the scattering of storage houses and lodgings for the men who worked on the vineyard. Everything still seemed to be standing, but the buildings, the trellised grapevines lining the hills around the house, the placidity of it all felt cruelly mocking.

  “That’s it?”

  Cecília nodded, not sure she was breathing well enough to speak.

  Releasing his own relieved breath, Mr. Bates helped her down the last hill, and they walked up the path leading to the home’s front door. Though a lit lantern had been hung from a hook out front, the rest of the home remained dark. The emptiness made Cecília’s stomach turn. The vineyard hadn’t been leveled, but it seemed as though all the people who kept the vineyard running while Tio Aloisio was away had disappeared.

  Mr. Bates moved up to the wooden door and knocked. After a moment, he knocked again before looking back at Cecília. “No one seems to be home.”

  “Do you think something happened to them?” she asked breathlessly.

  He studied her, his gaze concerned before he took the lantern off its hook and held it closer to the building.

  A long crack snaked up from the door, and Cecília stepped back at the thought of the house crumbling. “Maybe we should stay out here.”

  Mr. Bates frowned. “What?”

  “If it”—she couldn’t bring herself to say most of the words passing through her mind—“cracks more?”