Paulinha let herself into the draft room, closing the door behind her, turning the lock. Sunday morning darkness lingered outside the windows, she grateful for its protective cover. Squinting in the dark, she made her way to Pêro’s design table.
She’d gone to bed early last night, entering a deep sleep, one filled with artistic inspiration. Vivid designs visited her dreams. She’d risen before the roosters, the day’s responsibilities, and church. Quickly, she’d dressed and tiptoed downstairs, leaving a note to Pêro of her whereabouts, not to worry, and to fetch her at first light at the Fabrica. She’d hurried and walked with the fisherman’s wives and the early morning catch as they returned to the Mocambo from the riverfront.
Recovering the match box, she lit the lantern. Its light sputte
