The first ray of sunlight had barely broken the horizon when Carlos awoke, but his mind was already heavy, churning with the previous night's conversation with Aunt Vera. The image of Dona Alice's red-rimmed eyes and the purple bruises on her pale arms danced in his mind, feeding a simmering cauldron of silent hatred. The humid, heavy air of the slave quarters, thick with the smell of sweat and earth, seemed to echo his powerlessness.

  In the end, he thought, with a bitterness that left a foul taste in his mouth, there's only one real solution. Killing that vermin. It's the only way to save us, Alice, and her son. She might not want it now, but it will be for the sake of her future and her child's.

  The day dragged on with its usual slowness, a heavy burden under the relentless sun that burned the back of his neck. The air in the sugarcane field was thick, laden with the sweet smell of cut cane mixed with the acrid odor of sweat. The hardest part, however, was the afternoon. Every moment in Master Jorge's presence was a test of self-control.

  When night finally fell, bringing a cool relief that made his skin prickle, he spotted Tassi sitting near the crackling embers of a fire.

  "Tassi," Carlos called, sitting down beside the man with a tired sigh. "You only fulfilled part of your promise. I want to hear the rest."

  She didn't seem surprised.

  "Of course, of course," Tassi replied, rubbing her muddy hands together. "I even looked for you yesterday, but you seemed busy with Aunt Vera. I didn't want to intrude."

  Carlos leaned closer and began to whisper. "So, how did your escape go? Can't be much of a secret, right?"

  "No secret. It was patience," she whispered, leaning forward. The firelight accentuated the 'F' branded on her face. "We spent the whole year waiting for the right moment. The moment when Jairo, the head overseer, wasn't around. Without him, everything was easier. We escaped at the moment they were locking the slave quarters' gate. Since we were many, we managed to overpower the guards and run."

  "We fled together in the same direction. There were twenty-eight of us. But..." She paused, and Carlos could see the weight of the memory in her eyes. "...someone must have betrayed us. Someone warned the master because the slave hunters were already lying in wait. Half the group was caught before we even crossed the fence. The rest... well, you already know what happened."

  Carlos stared at her, a note of suspicion in his voice. "And the plan was to run away and leave everyone else behind as slaves?"

  He saw the muscles in Tassi's jaw tighten, but her voice remained controlled.

  "Of course not!" she retorted, a sudden fire in her eyes. "The plan was to reach the Jabuticaba Quilombo and get help to free everyone else. Even if they didn't want to help us, all we needed was a magical earth or grass weapon. With that, we could take down all the overseers. Maybe we wouldn't kill Jorge, but we could free all our comrades."

  "But the plan failed," Carlos finished, the weight of defeat hanging between them like a fog.

  "It failed," she echoed, her voice laden with deep sadness. "And now there are more overseers than before. I no longer know how we'll get out of here. If we ever will."

  Carlos lowered his voice to a rough, almost inaudible whisper. "We will. I just need some bullets."

  Tassi shrugged, a gesture of resignation that seemed to consume her whole body.

  "Of course, of course. I hope your plan works."

  Carlos looked around, his eyes scanning the familiar shadows of the senzala. Pedro was nowhere to be seen.

  "Tassi..." Carlos began, hesitantly. "...do you think it was Pedro who told the old man about your plan?"

  Her answer came immediately and flatly, like a blow.

  "I'm certain."

  "How can you be so sure?" Carlos argued, a wrinkle of confusion forming on his forehead. "Pedro was the one who asked Father Ant?nio for help to remove that horrible mask from you. He applied ointment to everyone who was whipped. Why would he do that if he was responsible for our condition? Only someone with inhuman cold-bloodedness could do something like that."

  "It's precisely because he's responsible that he does this," Tassi explained, her voice losing its edge and becoming weary. She stared at the dirt floor as if the answers were written there. "And I understand your doubt. Pedro always tries to help. He's saved me countless times, just as he helped you. He's a good person. Unfortunately, the situation he's in has made him our enemy. But, you see... I don't hate him."

  "How so?" Carlos asked, intrigued.

  Tassi shrugged her shoulders again, a small, defeated gesture.

  "It's simple. He has a son."

  "I know that. But that doesn't justify betraying all of us," Carlos insisted, his voice a mix of frustration and disbelief.

  "Do you remember our conversation the other day?" Tassi asked, raising her eyes to meet his. "He doesn't believe we can be free. He's lost hope. That's why he fights to have the best life possible as a slave for his son."

  Carlos shook his head, unable to comprehend.

  "I understand the pessimism, but ruining other people's plans won't improve the boy's life. Being the old man's lackey guarantees nothing." He crossed his arms. "And how will that ensure his son has a better life?"

  "How could it not?" Tassi leaned forward, her voice becoming intense. "His son can use the grass and earth gems. That makes him valuable to Master Jorge because he can make the sugarcane grow more and faster, just like me. Being valuable, the master will treat the boy well. His only job will be to tend the cane field. At least, that's what Pedro believes."

  "But what a stupid plan," Carlos grumbled, anger bubbling in his chest. "So many things could go wrong."

  "I used to agree with you," Tassi admitted. "But now... I think it's a reasonable gamble on his part."

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  "You know how he treats his wife and us," Carlos argued, his voice laden with disbelief. "Why would he treat a slave differently, even with the gems?"

  "I'm only mistreated because I don't respect him," Tassi explained, her expression as inscrutable as a mask. "He treats everyone badly and breaks everything... everything except his precious collection of 'devil's artifacts.' I bet he wouldn't kill his own golden goose. That's precisely why I'm still alive."

  Carlos fell silent for a long moment, the gears in his mind turning slowly.

  "I see..." he finally said, his voice softer. "But I still don't agree."

  "I understand your side, too," Tassi replied. "Despite everything... that child came from me. So, in a way, I'm glad he's doing everything for him."

  Carlos froze, his assumptions crumbling.

  "What do you mean, 'came from you'?"

  "I think I was clear," Tassi's voice was smooth as a stone, emotionless. "That is my 'son' too, though I don't consider him as such. He wasn't a fruit of love, from either side. We were forced by Master Jorge, in the hope of producing a child with my magical aptitudes. Pedro, however, considers that child his son. I made it very clear to him and to Aunt Vera: that thing came out of me, but it is not my son. They understand and respect that."

  Things here are so much more complicated than I imagined, Carlos thought, crushed by the weight of these revelations. I remember history classes in school, where everything was simple: victims and villains. But here... everything has nuances. Alice is a slave owner but a victim of her husband. Pedro is a victim but betrays us for his son. Tassi is a mother who rejects her own child. How do you judge anyone in a place like this?

  "And with that," Tassi interrupted his thoughts, her tone final, "your questions have been answered. Now, it's your turn. Tell me your story."

  "Alright," Carlos sighed, feeling the weight of his own memories approaching. "Actually..."

  ***

  Inside the Holy City of Santa Maria, far from the heat and pain of the plantation, Popess Paula walked through her greenhouse. The air was humid and warm, heavy with the scent of fertile soil, vegetation, and the sweet perfume of rare flowers.

  All the pods from this plant are smooth, she pondered, her analytical mind connecting with the physical world around her. And this plant came from a cross between one with smooth pods and one with wrinkled peas. The wrinkled trait is, therefore, a recessive characteristic. Exactly as described in the devil's book, 'Introduction to Genetics.' Fascinating.

  She noted the observation in a leather-bound notebook, her elegant and precise handwriting marking the page.

  And to think I once doubted this content. But does the same apply to aptitudes for magic gems? Some, like the fire gem, are common. Others, like the strength gem, are very rare. Could there be a similar hereditary pattern?

  Upon leaving the greenhouse, the cool air of the stone corridor was a relief to her skin. She soon walked to her office, which was a sanctuary of knowledge, with shelves crammed with books reaching the ceiling.

  Paula stored the controversial "Introduction to Genetics" in a hidden drawer of her mahogany desk. Then, she took a massive, heavy volume from the shelf. On the worn leather cover, it read: "The Human Body: From Conception to Death."

  It's time to stop calling them 'devil's books,' she reflected, sitting in her high-backed chair, which creaked softly. This knowledge is not evil. Perhaps it is a divine message, a test of faith. I remember confiscating it from a merchant. I always read them before burning them. Jesus could have disguised himself as a beggar to test men's faith. Why would wisdom not come in a profane wrapper? One should never judge a book by its cover.

  She opened the heavy tome, the yellowed paper whispering under her fingers.

  Even so, the heresies here... are disconcerting. It says that sex is defined by 'chromosomes' and that male and female characteristics are shaped by 'hormones' like testosterone and estrogen. How can this be? Only God defines our essence before birth. At least... that's what I used to believe.

  The office door opened with a low creak. A cardinal, in his red vestments smelling of incense, bowed.

  "Your Holiness Paula, the merchant Francisco has arrived."

  "Thank you. Send him in. And once he is here, ensure we are not disturbed."

  It didn't take long for Francisco to appear. He was a short, portly man with astute eyes and simple but well-tailored clothes that smelled of road dust.

  This room has only books and holy images, a very simple room, he thought as his gaze swept the environment. Even the Popess doesn't possess many ornaments. She truly lives by the word of God, avoiding luxury. And to think the Church said she was a heretic and would burn her at the stake.

  "Good afternoon, Your Holiness," he greeted, with a respectful bow.

  "Good afternoon, Francisco," Paula replied, and a genuinely soft look illuminated her dark blue eyes for a moment. "It's always good to see you. Did you have a good journey?"

  "Yes, Your Holiness. Thank you for asking." His eyes landed on the open book on the desk. "I see you're rereading this old volume. Who would have thought that book I sold you would change your life. It was a great coincidence."

  "It was no coincidence, Francisco," she retorted, and now her gaze held a spark of amused superiority. "It was all part of the divine plan. Besides, 'sold' isn't the right word. You were hiding the book, and I... persuaded you to part with it. You can't complain; if it were any other member of the Church, you wouldn't have earned a single penny."

  "I will always be grateful," he said, with a slight smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Although I think that book is worth much more, considering what it brought you..."

  "Don't forget, Francisco," she interrupted, and now her tone was playful, almost singsong, "greed is one of the seven deadly sins. Besides, I now pay you quite generously for your 'services.' And speaking of which..."

  Francisco coughed, cutting her off politely.

  "Here is your usual request," he said, placing a heavy cloth bag on the table with a dull thud. "The reports from the priests of the plantations I passed through."

  Paula took a few letters, her eyes scanning the lines quickly.

  Nothing much different from the usual, she thought, a pang of dismay and frustration tightening her heart. Torture, murder, lust... Towards both slaves and free men. And I, sitting here, practically powerless. If I'm too strict with the plantation owners, it's the poorest and the slaves who suffer. Sometimes I feel like I'm trying to empty the ocean with a thimble.

  As she skimmed the reports, Francisco watched her attentively.

  "Your Holiness, you don't have to do all this... The last pope didn't care for blacks and the poor. I spoke with him once; I had to kiss his greasy hand and feed him false praises before he would even listen to me."

  "Mind your manners, Francisco..." she admonished, but a nearly imperceptible smile touched her lips. "But you are right. It was indeed a greasy hand. Even so, perhaps I should be stricter with you. You've become far too casual over the years."

  "So you want me to kiss your hand and offer you false flattery?" he asked, a clear playful tone in his voice. "I can do that, if Your Most Excellent Holiness desires."

  "Always the clever one, aren't you?" she said, and this time allowed the smile to briefly light up her face. "There's no need. But, in any case, do not compare me to that scoundrel. Unlike him, I strive to follow the teachings of God."

  Her fingers, which had been skimming the pages, stopped suddenly on a specific letter. The report was from Father Ant?nio, from Jorge Oliveira's plantation.

  Antonio... such a promising young man, she recalled, a sense of missed opportunity souring her palate. Full of faith and with remarkable magical talent. A shame he chose a plantation in the middle of nowhere.

  Her eyes fixed on a specific passage, and the air around her seemed to still.

  A slave who appeared out of nowhere. Strange clothes. Knowledge of profane artifacts. Interesting.

  She raised her eyes, her dark blue gaze now sharp and intense, fixing on Francisco.

  "Francisco... did you notice anything unusual at the plantation of Master Jorge de Oliveira?"