The next day, Pêro unlocked the alley door of the Fabrica Santa María and peeked into the kiln room and looked at the stairway leading to the clay drying room. He couldn’t help but feel the presence of the group of suspicious men here too. Entering, he took stock of the shop, seeking for something out of place. A rat scurried across the dusty floor and disappeared under the shelves of tools. All seemed secure. But was it really?
But was it really?Where a problem didn’t exist, Pêro lamented, one could always be fabricated like in literature. From his experience, God’s flock had an alarming tendency to do so. He bit his lip.
Rafa, Kujaguo, and Jawoli arrived at the shop as the sun crested Lisbon’s seven famed hills.
“Clay is here!” Rafa called, stepping into the back alley, Pêro following
