After the War: A Novella of the Golden City

The Golden City

The Seat of Magic

The Shores of Spain

The Seer’s Choice

AFTER
THE
WAR
A Tale of
The Golden City

J. Kathleen Cheney

EQP Books

AFTER THE WAR

An EQP Book / 2016

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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Copyright © 2016 by J. Kathleen Cheney
Cover Art by Rachel A. Marks

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

For information address the author at:
http://jkathleencheney.com

Editing and formatting by:

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UALITY
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RESS

The name
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Q
UALITY
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PRODUCED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

T
HANKS TO
everyone who’s helped out on this story: to all those who read early copies and gave commentary; to my cover artist, Rachel A. Marks, who always does the most lovely work for me (despite having a dozen other hats to wear); to Rick Fisher, who’s valiantly edited my work and helped me with a thousand side issues in publishing; and to my Patreon supporters, who helped bring this story to the page.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Cast of Characters

Ferreira Family Charts

Author’s Note

About the Author

Friday, 18 June 1920, Lisboa

T
HE
C
AFÉ
M
ARTINHO
D
A
A
RCADA
at the Praça do Commercio had a sign in their window, advertising that Serafim Palmeira would be singing there that evening. As João da Silva had actually heard one of the other street workers speak of her lovely, mournful voice, he’d made up his mind that he would spend a few of his hard earned mil-reís and go hear her. So, after a long day of working on a mosaic on Santa Augusta Street, he returned to his tiny rented room in the Barrio Alto, cleaned up as best he could and dressed in his Sunday finest. Then he made the trek back down to the Baixa, the city’s modern downtown.

He was learning to love Lisboa. The night was sultry, with the scent of the sea drifting in from the mouth of the slow-moving Tagus. The sky was clear, although the stars seemed dim next to the bright shine of the City of Light. At night the Baixa glowed with electric streetlamps. Pedestrians in fine garb walked along the street, the cheerful chatter of groups distracting João as he walked past, hands shoved in his pockets, trying not to see others’ lax handling of their handbags and wallets.

Portugal felt like home to him, but it was in places like this where he was most alone. He had no one to walk with, no one to talk to. He had no past, and couldn’t seem to trust others.

There was still much in life to enjoy. Once he’d reached the café, he joined the press of bodies near the bar to order a Vinho Verde, and then stood against the wall with those waiting to hear the visiting singer. At the moment, a man sat in the corner, playing the twelve-stringed guitar, the tune speaking of loss and pain. It felt familiar to João, the way everything about sorrow resonated with him. He’d often wondered if that was why he loved
fado
—
the music of love and loss.

He knew loss, if nothing else.

Another man, not as well bathed, and reeking of onions, bumped João’s shoulder, trying to claim another space against the wall. He stood so close that João felt the man’s wallet in a jacket pocket. He could lift it out if he chose.

He was looking at the interloper when the singer walked to the chair next to the guitarist. When João turned back, Serafim Palmeira sat there, her slim figure wrapped in an old fashioned costume, a white cotton shirt and black skirt, with a simple black shawl draped about her shoulders. Her hair was short, in the current fashion, with inky black curls. One pale hand lay atop her shawl, the other in her lap, the webbing between her fingers barely visible from where he stood across the hall.

He might like
fado
, but this was why he’d come to see her. She was a
sereia
.

The sereia didn’t come to Lisboa
—
they feared the city was cursed
—
but supposedly Miss Palmeira was a Christian like João and not given to superstition.

He sipped at his wine, eyes drifting closed as she sang her first notes.

Her voice was soft but carried throughout the long café’s hall, such yearning in it that tears stung in João’s eyes. She sang of lost love, of losing her man, something she knew despite her youth. She couldn’t be more than twenty, but it was said she’d lost her husband in the Great War. The pain in her voice was clear.

That song ended, and she promptly launched into another. João found himself staring at her, unsure when he’d opened his eyes. Her face was lowered, her wide dark eyes fixed on the café’s tiled floor. Her shawl had slipped a bit, and her gill slits showed on the side of her neck, further proof that she wasn’t human. If she was using her
call
to make her song more poignant, João couldn’t tell, but he doubted she needed that magic.

Her eyes lifted then as she sang of the beauty of the Golden City, her home, and for the first time she gazed out over her audience. Tears glistened in her dark eyes as she sang of the anguish of wanting to be home, but
not
wanting to be there alone. Her eyes drifted across the mass of lower mortals by the café’s door.

And she stopped singing, one webbed hand pressed to her heart. She looked . . . shocked.

The crowd went silent, all aware something had gone awry.

She stepped down from the dais and darted toward the café’s door, as if she had to escape. She cried a name as she pelted across the floor, but when she neared the door, she veered aside, slipping around one of the tables and nearly knocking an old man onto the floor. She didn’t even apologize, but strove forward, pushing through the crowd of men in her desperation to reach . . .

Me.

João wasn’t sure whether to run or not. Her eyes were fixed on his, confusion in them.

“Alejandro!” she cried again. Enough men cleared aside that she could grab the lapels of João’s tatty jacket. “Alejandro. What. . . ?”

And then she swooned.

Unable to do anything less, João caught her in his arms. He gazed down at the young woman’s pale face. He didn’t recognize her. Not at all. Did she know
him?
Or had she, in her sorrow, convinced herself he was someone she’d known?

The guitarist had pursued the young woman across the hall, an older man with streaks of gray in his black hair. He regarded João with equal disbelief. “Jandro? What are you doing here?”

João stared. “Do you know me, sir?”

The man seemed startled. “Do you not recognize me, Jandro?”

For a split second, João’s head swam, and he thought he might swoon as well.
Did
he know these people? He gazed down at the girl in his arms, whose eyes began to flutter. “I have no memory, sir,” he told the older man, glancing up. “I was injured in the war and have no memory of
anything
before that.”

The man reached across the girl’s body to cup João’s cheek like he was family. “You are Alexandre Ferreira, my daughter’s husband.”

His brain supplied the information that Alexandre was a Portuguese form of Alejandro, but neither name meant anything to him. He turned his eyes back down to meet those of Serafim Palmeira, who pulled away to gaze at him, tears running down her pale cheeks.
How could I possibly have forgotten being married to a girl like this?