Pêro worked his way up onto all fours and brushed the debris from his hair. He looked back on the Fabrica as flames engulfed the wood paneled wall, the front and studio windows blown out.
“No!” He kneeled on the ground, watching in horror.
He scanned the landscape for recognizable landmarks, locating the cross tower of Santa Brigida’s Convent. He fled east, downhill toward the convent.
Arriving, Pêro paused at a spot where he could see the Palace of the Countess of Sarmento above on the distant hillside. Its fortress wall snaked through the dry countryside grasses, smoke billowing up from the mansion and meadow.
Pêro rushed toward the river.
He crawled over downed buildings.
Around the next corner he came to a stop and gasped.
Some cried, some flagellated themselves senselessly; oth
