Pêro awoke to tolling church bells and cooing pigeons. Abruptly, the tilting stopped, and the birds took flight, drawing him to the window. He sniffed and knitted his brow. Something in the air was different, charged with power somehow.
Outside, a wooden head of Christ bobbed, the painted-on blood oozing from the rose thorn crown. Below, the priesthood ferried a Brazilwood crucifix. Its sepia timber stained the white cloaks of the clergy as they passed through the city streets on their way to Mass at São Domingos. Behind the cross floated carved doves mounted on long poles with streaming ribbons. A procession of effigies, carried on elevated platforms, of Lisbon’s Patron Saint Vincent, Saint Anthony, and three Portuguese Princesses, followed.
“Pai! You’re late —” Isabela called from the
