After the War: A Novella of the Golden City (14 page)

Roberto tucked the cap into the vial, and then secreted the thing inside his jacket. “It was not just him,” he said. “Generations of his family held her captive, going back hundreds of years. She has first claim on him for his crimes.”

Gaspar and Rafael looked inclined to argue that. But neither did.

Miguel struggled to rise and made his way to the portal. “Roberto, was it the right choice?”

Roberto laughed softly and raised one hand. “I have never regretted it, Miguel. I am happy to serve my lady. I am her champion and trusted friend. Thank you for warning me. I would not have thought to offer otherwise.”

Alejandro’s mind reeled. Hadn’t he read that somewhere? Something about a fairy lady and her scarred champion. Hadn’t there been stories. . . ?

“No, I think you would have anyway, Roberto. It’s in your nature,” Miguel said. “God be with you.”

Roberto smiled and, with one swipe of his hand, caused the portal to close. The stable dropped back into darkness, the smell of burned straw and pine needles the only evidence that anything had happened.

“What just happened?” Markovich flicked open a lighter, sending a ghastly glow across his features.

“Roberto rescued a fairy,” Miguel said, “and ran off to live another life. An adventure where he gets to be valiant and win a war for her.” He turned to Alejandro. “We wrote stories about that, when we were boys just learning to read, of the fairy lady who wouldn’t show her face. They were improbable things, but they were
our
stories, Jandro. Yet perhaps . . . they were Roberto’s all along.”

He could remember the stories now. Not writing them, but Alejandro could remember the tales themselves, clearly products of young boys’ imaginations. Or perhaps not. “I remember them.”

“I got to be you today,” Miguel said. “I was the one who knew what would happen. I was the seer.” He took a deep breath. “I set Roberto on that path, and only for a few minutes was I uncertain of his fate, the story I
made
him believe in. But those few minutes were terrifying. I never want that sort of responsibility again.”

Alejandro coughed and then wrapped his arms about his sides, wheezing. “And I never want to be run over by horses again. I’ll leave that to you.”

Gaspar groaned. “I suppose we have some horses to find. Joaquim, can you help me with that?” Together they left the stables, Rafael going with them, to corral the runaway horses.

Markovich sat down on the floor of the stable, hands between his knees. “It’s over,” he said in English. “Thank God.”

Yes, this meant Markovich no longer need look over his shoulder for assassins. Alejandro was glad it had turned out well for the Englishman. He turned about, looking for his own reward. Serafina raised her hands and he helped her up, ignoring the twinge in his ribs as he did so. He set his hands on her elbows and met her eyes. “Did he hurt you?”

She gazed up at him. “No. I’m . . . I’m not hurt. Just . . . I feel exhausted.”

He stroked a curl back from her forehead, and tugged out a stray piece of hay. “I am sorry he ever touched you. If I had known, I would have just given him his damned diamonds that day long ago.”

She smiled weakly and leaned into him, and Alejandro just clenched his jaw and wrapped his arms around her. The twinging ribs, the burning in his calf . . . none of that mattered. He had her back safe and he was never going to let her go again.



Friday, 1 July 1921

All three of their names appeared on the book. During the year since Roberto’s disappearance, Alejandro and Miguel had worked together to rewrite many of their old stories, and Serafina had contributed several poems to the volume. She’d insisted that in some of the stories, the fairy lady must rescue her champion rather than the other way around, a challenge Alejandro and Miguel had been happy to accept.

Several of the stories had been serialized in the Porto Gazette over the previous three months, building an appetite for the collection.
The Fairy Lady
sold well on its first day, crowds coming into the Lello Bookstore to pick up their copies and find out what happened to the fairy who wouldn’t show her face and her scarred human champion.

That evening, after the store closed its doors to customers, Miguel and Alejandro stood on the middle level of the stairwell, overlooking the great store, Serafina at Alejandro’s side. Their publisher
—
a friend of the Duke of Coimbra, of course
—
raised his glass of champagne and saluted their debut. “To the writers of my newest success, may we see many more volumes of the fairy lady’s adventures.”

“To Roberto Machado!” Alejandro responded.

“Roberto,” Serafina and Miguel agreed. They had all agreed that the book would be dedicated to him. Their families could wait until the next volume.

Later that evening, after their publisher had taken them to a congratulatory dinner and Miguel had returned to visit his parents’ house to tell them of their success
—
and to see Isabella, no doubt
—
Alejandro sat on the balcony outside the bedroom window at the house on the Street of Flowers. A light rain fell, not much more than a mist, and he listened to the traffic heading up and down the street, his eyes half closed. The electric tram rattled by, automobiles and carriages and oxen contributing their sounds to the underlying drone. Alejandro found the sounds calming.

Everything had worked out, fortunately. A telegram from the Sint Janskerk in Poperinge verified that an anonymous donor had sent them a large quantity of diamonds in 1918, marked for their orphans, so the diamonds had gone where Alejandro intended. No longer looking over his shoulder, Markovich had returned to work for his government. Miguel was now editing for the Gazette, and had forgiven Alejandro the thing he’d said years before.

And Serafina knew that she had a husband who loved her, no matter how rocky the beginning of their marriage had been. That was the thing Alejandro had wished for most.

She’s coming.

A moment later, Serafina stepped out onto the balcony next to him. She leaned down to press a kiss to his hair and wrap her arms around his neck. “Shall we go in to bed?”

He’d known she would say that. Not because she often did, but because he
knew
.

He could hear it now, his seer’s gift. It whispered to him, only hints of the future. He was content to let it stay that way. He had used it to serve long enough. For now, like a soldier retired from the wars, he would enjoy the present and all the joys it brought.

Alejandro (Alexandre) Ferreira, Jandro
—
son of Alexandre Ferreira and Leandra Rocha, half sereia, half human, seer.

Ana (Santos), Duchess of Coimbra

Bastião
—
former guard for the current Duke of Coimbra

Duilio Ferreira
—
eldest living brother of Alejandro Ferreira

Isabella Anjos
—
daughter of Gabriel Anjos and Nadezhda Vladimirova, healer

James Markovich
—
Englishman of Russian ancestry, maledictor

Jandro
—
nickname for Alejandro (J is pronounced like an H)

João
—
character in story written by a young Alejandro Ferreira

João da Silva
—
name used for an unknown man in Portugal

Joaquim Tavares, Inspector
—
Alejandro’s elder brother, finder

the Lady
—
half-fairy, wife of Miguel Gaspar

Lighter
—
English witch, assigned to work with Alejandro during the war, firestarter

Marcos Davila
—
half sereia of Spanish birth, Serafina’s father

Mariona Palmeira
—
younger sister of Serafina

Marina Arenias
—
sereia, Alejandro’s adoptive mother

Mendosa (Luis)
—
Ferreira family butler

Miguel Gaspar, Inspector
—
mestiço from Cabo Verde, husband of the Lady

Miguel Pinheiro
—
adopted son of Captain Rafael Pinheiro

Phillips
—
Irish Separatist, assigned to work with Alejandro during the war

Rafael Pinheiro, Captain
—
cousin of Alejandro, seer

Raimundo, Duke of Coimbra

Roberto Machado
—
footman in the Ferreira house, war veteran

Safira Palmeira
—
Serafina’s mother

Serafina (Serafim) Palmeira
—
eldest daughter of Safira Palmeira and Marcos Davila, sereia

A few Portuguese words

Baixa
—
downtown (specifically, downtown Lisboa)

fado
—
traditional Portuguese music form, characterized by mournful tunes and lyrics

mestiço
—
individual of mixed blood (in this instance, Portuguese/African)

praça
—
plaza

Vinho Verde
—
young Portuguese wine (literally ‘green wine’)

T
HE
B
ATTLE OF
L
A
L
YS
(WW1) was terrible for the Portuguese. The German army sent several Divisions with tanks up against one exhausted division of Portuguese (who had been on the front line for eight months and were scheduled to be moved to the rear the next day.) The Portuguese Second Division was, therefore, only at partial strength when the Germans attacked. It had been 20,000 men, but attrition had reduced that number to as low as 15,000. Accounts vary, but in their 2001 book, Mendo Castro Henriques and Antonio Rosas Leitão gave the numbers as: dead (1,341), wounded (4,626), missing (1,932), and prisoners (7,440).

Much of the information I gathered about this particular battle came from the master’s thesis of Jesse Pyles, THE PORTUGUESE EXPEDITIONARY CORPS IN WORLD WAR I: FROM INCEPTION TO COMBAT DESTRUCTION, 1914–1918. Mr. Pyles did a ton of research from which I profited, and I greatly appreciate the work that went into his paper. Thank you, sir.

The Lello Bookstore in Porto is regularly listed among the most beautiful bookstores in the world. It now charges an admission fee (too many tourists!) but the price is minimal.

Finally, a note about a voluntary historical inaccuracy: the
Café Elite
didn’t open until December of 1921, but I hoped it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch of credulity to have it open the previous year. It changed its name in 1922 to the
Café Majestic
, under which it still operates today. If you’re ever in Porto, its Art-Nouveau beauty makes it well worth a visit.

J.
K
ATHLEEN
C
HENEY
is A former teacher and has taught mathematics ranging from 7th grade to Calculus, with a brief stint as a Gifted and Talented Specialist. She is a member of SFWA, RWA, and Broad Universe. Her works have been published in
Jim Baen’s Universe, Writers of the Future XXIV, Beneath Ceaseless Skies,
and
Fantasy Magazine,
among others.

To find excerpts of her work, short fiction, and more, visit
www.jkathleencheney.com
.

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