Page 89 of The Taste of Light
He had often sat under the shadows of this dragon tree, staring at others' lives, not being part of it and not really wanting to. Today, as the ride turned, that angry indifference, the feeling of being denied something he despised in the first place, never came. It used to repel him, this warmth of mellow smiles, of snug afternoons, of a lover's embrace. Now he might as well be sitting on a glacier, so desolate was the bite of its absence.
Anne would love it here. She would bring her children, a girl with the same champagne hair, a toddler hanging on her skirts, waiting for a turn on the carousel.
Pedro rubbed his chest right above where his heart was supposed to be. He wanted inside that carousel, too.
If he and Anne were to have a future, he must focus on what had to be done. There weren't many options. He could proceed alone, hunt Ulrich by himself, force his confession. But he was tired of war. He needed his name cleared to start a new phase in his life, not destroying but building.
Pedro crossed the garden, heeding the call of another familiar place. With brittle legs, he stopped in front of São Bernardo Street, number 33. He stared at Fontes’s solar, and the house glowered back at him, cross-eyed and gray-faced. Built after the earthquake that leveled the city in 1755, it was a prime example of the Marquis of Pombal architecture, only three floors, a revolutionary anti-seismic system, and absolutely no decorations protruding from the walls. The result lacked beauty, but the efficient style perfectly matched his godfather's puritanical beliefs.
Night had fallen with all its shadows. While he stood in the darkness, the glass surrounding Fontes’s door sparkled. Girding his resolve, Pedro climbed the steps to the front porch and knocked.
The door swung open, his hand still mid-air. A mop of brown hair and vivid gray eyes peeked at him from the other side. He would recognize that freckled nose and coltish disposition anywhere. Gabriel's baby sister. Only she was no baby. She must be the same age as Anne, a girl of eighteen.
"Are you opening doors, Manuela?" Pedro drawled.
"Tista is feeling poorly." She eyed him from his boots to the saber hanging from his belt. Placing gloved hands on her waist, she cocked her hip to the side. "Have you come to kill Father?"
"No."
She raised her brows. "Gabriel?"
Pedro's lips twitched. "Only if he provokes me."
"Pity." She shrugged, opening the door wide. "He never does, nowadays."
"Is your father home?"
She nodded.
Pedro stepped inside and was swept to the past by the scent of pastry and beeswax, the brass Argand lamps, the Norman tapestries, and the toile du jour wallpaper. He used to come here daily for his afternoon lessons, notebook under one arm, bumping Santiago's shoulder and tweaking Manu's ponytails.
"Are you coming? I'll let him know you are here."
Exhaling, he followed Manuela's petite frame. A painting in the corridor made him pause. His mother. She sat with her hands folded on her lap, an indulgent smile on her lips, gazing at an infant. The boy played with wooden soldiers at her feet.
He had forgotten the love in her caramel eyes.
"I missed you here, cousin." Manu smiled and pointed to the open library. "Take it easy onPapa."
"What do you want?" The voice, stern and rough, came from the doorway. Fontes circled his customary chair by the hearth but didn't sit. Instead, he crossed his arms, his face a mask of contempt.
Pedro emerged from the shadows into the light of the chandelier. "Assistance. I discovered evidence that can extinguish slave trading and prove my innocence."
Fontes frowned. New lines radiated from his eyes, a hardness to his mouth Pedro hadn’t seen before, not even when he had shut the door on Pedro's face after Mozambique. "It's too late."
Coming here had been a mistake. Pedro unclenched his hands and touched Braganza's dossier. "Too late for the truth?"
"For a long time, I wanted to believe in your truths. Your mother,Que Deus a tenha, would understand I strove to turn you into a noble subject."
"What a grand job you did." Pedro paced to the window. Outside, the carousel spun in the park dizzyingly.
"She was my sister, and I loved her above all else."
Then why abandon him after his return from Mozambique? Pedro had needed him, damn it. His guidance, support, understanding... Instead, the only welcome he had received had been his father's. Pedro shut his eyes. "Stop talking about her."
"You were a prince among men, the noblest heart, the keenest mind, the strongest physique. You could have changed the world. But what did you do with your greatness? You squandered it on petty acts of revenge. Fighting for profit, for power, for yourself." Fontes took a sharp breath, his eyes shining feverishly. "You are not like her. You are the spitting image of your father, vain and selfish. I made a deathbed promise to your mother that I would take care of her beloved son. I covered your villainy once, but never again."
Pedro turned and faced his godfather, eyebrows raised. "Covered for me? When have you ever—"
