Maristela was surrounded by trash.
She didn't remember crawling away from the wall. But she must have. Otherwise, they would have found her already.
Mother Teresa had blown the convent's ceiling off in a flaming ball of green fire.
The police couldn't ignore the explosion. Some had entered to help evacuate whoever was inside.
Seventeen novices, nine nuns, four friars, one… mother.
Maristela looked around, picked up her bag that had fallen nearby.
Maristela stood up. She couldn't linger. She couldn't be found. The police were nearby, helping and containing.
"Your fault."
Vampires, witches, secrets, gold coins. Glowing symbols. And now, the fugitive needed to stay alive until sunrise.
Her body was sore. The fall hadn't killed her, but it should have. She wished it had. She deserved it.
She was hurt. But that wouldn't stop her. Pain would never stop her from anything again.
She saw the police entering and leaving through the main entrance. Some were escorting nuns and novices into paddy wagons. Probably offering shelter and protection from the fire.
But two of them, in particular, were carrying a rug. A huge Persian rug. She knew that rug. It was the same rug from Father Dan's office.
Someone was inside that rug.
Flavius? Mother Teresa? Father Dan himself? Someone else?
She didn't know. She only knew she needed to get out of there and find the Pig Hovel's. Mother Teresa had given enough clues.
It was a tenement. The name was Pigsty, so it had to be a filthy, hard-to-reach place, so off the map that normal people wouldn't know where it was.
She couldn't do anything. Not there. Not now. So she walked.
If she hadn't said goodbye to Clara and Silvane, maybe she could have escaped the vampires hunting her. Maybe Mother Teresa would still…
"Your fault."
Maristela walked along the dirt road, hiding in the shadows of the trees until she descended into the city streets.
She heard a whistle. Stopped. Held her breath. Two policemen passed fifteen meters away, talking quietly, laughing at some joke she couldn't hear. She waited for them to turn the corner. Only then did she continue.
The streetlights were still on, but some were old and flickered, and others were broken. She had never walked through a big city's streets at night. After she got tired, she walked even more.
The first rays of the sun began to appear when she found an alley. Not because she knew where she was, but because her legs simply stopped. They couldn't take any more.
The alley was narrow, dirty, smelling of urine and old grease. Wooden crates stacked against a wall. Cardboard is piled in a corner. Rusted cans.
It was perfect.
She crawled into the pile of crates, pulled a sheet of cardboard to cover the entrance, and closed her eyes. It was a true possum's den — or any other damn rodent's.
The pain didn't stop. Or maybe it was the guilt.
Her right ankle throbbed in its own rhythm, each heartbeat echoing through the swollen flesh. She didn't need to look to know it was purple.
It wasn't broken. If it were broken, she wouldn't be able to move her toes.
The pain was bad, but it wasn't the worst in the world. It was nothing compared to being let go from that damn ledge.
It's not broken, but it won't heal on its own. Shit.
"The police are looking for you," the Orphan's voice came, low.
We'll stay here. Today. Tomorrow. Maybe the day after. Until you can really walk.
The cat purred on Maristela's chest. She blinked for a second and felt… peace. Then exhaustion won.
When she opened her eyes again, a pair of green eyes stared back.
A pair of green eyes watched her in the dim light of her hiding spot.
Maristela held her breath. Her hand went to the knife on her belt.
The orange cat blinked slowly. Purred.
She exhaled. Her hand relaxed.
The cat entered the refuge of cardboard and newspaper. Its warm body rubbed against Maristela's arm, blocking the light that escaped through the cracks. Its eyes glowed in the dark — two green headlights, without judgment, without fear.
It purred louder. Lie down beside her. Began to lick itself.
Maristela felt something strange in her chest. A warm pressure.
It was good to feel love from something that didn't charge you for it. It was good not to be abandoned for your own good.
Maybe one day she could have someone like that.
The cat stayed for a few minutes. Then it stood up, stretched, and left without looking back, as if its mission was complete.
Maristela pulled out the pocket watch.
15:46.
I know. Need to solve practical problems.
First: food. She had money. One hundred thousand réis from Dan's envelope. Enough for weeks, if she were frugal. But she couldn't show up in public places in those clothes — the torn habit, dirty with blood, smelling of death.
Second: she needed new clothes. She even had two changes of novice clothes in her bag, but that was exactly what Flávius and his policemen would be looking for.
She left the alley when darkness had already covered the city. She limped slightly but knew that pain wouldn't go away anytime soon.
She found an improvised fair near the Luz station. Cloth stalls, boards on the ground, poor people buying from even poorer people. A used clothes vendor was packing up his merchandise.
She chose the shabbiest ones — a fine cotton blouse, a faded brown skirt, a long shawl to cover her shoulders and face. She paidcheaplyp. The man didn't even look at her.
In a dark corner, she changed clothes. She buried the dirty habit deep in the trash, covered with fruit peels and food scraps.
She returned to the alley, to the possum den she had made with cardboard boxes, newspapers, and old wooden crates.
She slept.
She woke with the sun high.
"Food," the Orphan's voice sounded, weak but present.
Shut up.
She needed to eat. And drink. And use a real bathroom instead of relieving herself in a dark, dirty alley.
The corner bakery — the same as yesterday. She dragged herself there, walked in as if she were a customer, and ordered a bread roll just to earn the right to use the bathroom. The woman at the counter looked suspicious.
They probably thought she was another "woman of the night" — as they called those who had no other choice.
The bathroom was tiny. She did what she needed, washed her face in the sink, drank tap water until she couldn't anymore.
When she came out, she bought another bread roll and a piece of cheese.
And then she saw it.
The newspaper was folded on the counter, next to the cash register. The headline occupied half a page, block letters that seemed to scream even in silence.
"MOTHER SUPERIOR MURDERS PRIEST AND BURNS SANTA ROSA CONVENT"
Liars
The subheadline was worse:
"ilvane, 17, and the other 16 novices have been taken in for interrogation as alleged accomplices. Mother Teresa is in custody, awaiting trial and receiving medical care."
Maristela sat on the bakery floor. The bag with bread and cheese fell from her hand. Tears of anger came.
Then, a dry, sad laugh came from her throat, and a smile appeared on her face while the tears ran down.
It was my fault