The afternoon sun bathed the courtyard behind the church with a golden, oblique light that made cement dust and grains of sand glitter like suspended particles of gold in the air. Popess Paula was in the middle of the experimental plot where they tested new mortars when Sister Luzia approached, her fine linen habit floating gently over the bricks laid out on the ground.

  "Your Holiness," called the Sister, with a slight bow. "The new assistants sent by Pope Henrique have arrived. Twelve monks. They await in the Ambassadors' Hall."

  Paula did not immediately look up. With a precise gesture, she dropped a drop of a murky liquid onto a concrete block and observed the chemical reaction—a slight acidic fume rose to her nostrils. Only then did she nod.

  "Twelve?" her voice was flat, but a muscle tensed in her jaw. "What unexpected generosity."

  She wiped her hands on a rough cloth hanging from her belt, staining it further with a mixture of oxide and lime. Her fingers, slender with short, work-stained nails, touched the dark blue gem in the cross on her neck, like someone seeking comfort in a familiar talisman.

  Why would they send me so many assistants? the thought hammered in her mind as she walked towards the main building. Her steps echoed in the cold stone corridors, a contrast to the courtyard's heat. Is the Church really so intrigued by my discoveries? Or is it something worse?

  She passed an open window, and a sudden breeze brought the smell of the sea mixed with the sweet, heavy odor of burnt sugarcane from some distant mill. The combination made her nauseous for an instant.

  No, she concluded, her lips tightening into a thin line. It's not scientific curiosity. It's control. They want to watch me, encircle me, suffocate me. Put a bridle on a woman who dares to look beyond missals. A pang of frustration, hot and familiar, burned in her chest. I can already imagine it: weekly reports, justifications for every gram of ore, interrogations about every experiment. I'll lose what I cherish most—my freedom to research.

  But there was a more urgent concern, a piece that didn't fit on the board. She stopped for a moment before a stained glass window depicting Saint Jerome in his study, the colored light painting her face in shades of ruby and sapphire.

  And most importantly… where is the papal legate? Dom Mateus Orsini. Why did they send these monks in advance, but not the main envoy? Her blue eyes darkened with suspicion. They're testing my defenses. Sending the infantry before the general. Or worse… he's already here, disguised, observing.

  She took a deep breath, the fresh air of the corridor helping to clear her thoughts. Good. I've already prepared a whole series of justifications. About trade with the quilombo—I'll say it was to obtain rare minerals for medical research. About omissions in the reports—I'll claim protection of sensitive discoveries that could fall into heretical hands. I have answers for everything.

  But as she approached the heavy oak door of the Ambassadors' Hall, another layer of preparation took hold of her. It was then that she forged the smile—a calculated gesture that stretched her lips without reaching her eyes. A smile of empty courtesy, of plastic diplomacy, which ached in her facial muscles like a mask of lead.

  Pushing the door, the sound of creaking hinges announced her entry.

  Inside, the twelve men were arranged in an almost military fashion. They weren't sitting on the velvet armchairs, but standing, forming a rigid semicircle. Their habits were too new, the folds still marked from packing in their bags. The air smelled of new wool and a slight odor of nervous sweat—the acrid smell of men who had traveled far and were in enemy territory.

  The one who seemed to be the leader—a man in his early forties, with a narrow face and eyes so light they seemed colorless—took a step forward. His thin lips moved first in an equally false smile before he spoke.

  "Your Holiness," he began, in a voice that tried to be respectful but had the harshness of one accustomed to giving orders. "I am Brother Tomás, appointed by Pope Henrique to assist you in your… labors here on the frontier of Christendom. We bring experience in monastic administration, copying of sacred documents, and…"

  "And surveillance?" Paula completed, still smiling, but letting the word hang in the air like a knife.

  Tomás's smile froze. The other monks exchanged quick glances. One of them, younger with a face marked by smallpox, couldn't disguise an expression of disdain.

  "Surveillance is a strong word, Holiness," replied Tomás, regaining his composure. "We prefer to think of it as… documentation. So that Alba can better understand the miracles occurring here."

  "Understand or control?" Paula asked, walking slowly around the semicircle, her eyes examining each face as if they were specimens under a lens. This one is afraid, she thought, seeing the trembling hands of an older monk. This one, angry, upon noting the clenched jaw of the youngest. Well, they'd better be angry and afraid. I don't plan on their stay being pleasant.

  It was then that the pockmarked monk spoke, without asking permission, his voice laden with youthful arrogance:

  "They say Your Holiness spends more time with heretics' instruments than with the sacred chalice. Is it true your 'laboratory' smells of sulfur and unbaptized things?"

  The silence that followed was cutting. Paula stopped in front of him. The man's smell—acidic sweat and a hint of rosemary, perhaps to disguise it—invaded her nostrils. She kept the smile, but now her eyes shone with a dangerous light.

  "The smell of sulfur, Brother…?"

  "Lucas," he replied, lifting his chin.

  "Brother Lucas," she continued, smooth as torn silk. "Sulfur is an interesting element. Used in medicines, in metal purification… and, yes, in some less orthodox practices. Perhaps, during your stay, you can learn the difference." She turned her back to him, a clear sign of contempt, and addressed Tomás again. "As for the sacred chalice, Brother Tomás, I use it every morning at mass. But I confess: I study its form, the purity of the metal, how the light refracts in the wine. For me, even the Eucharist is a phenomenon to be understood, not just celebrated. The world God created is perfect, beautiful, and wondrous, and I seek to understand this world created by God."

  Tomás seemed bothered by the direction of the conversation.

  "Faith, Holiness, does not always require understanding. Sometimes submission is enough."

  "How interesting that you say that," Paula replied, finally letting the false smile drop. Her face assumed a serious, intense expression. "Because it was precisely the submission to old dogmas that allowed the plague to kill thousands in Nova Lusitania, while here, where we understand the disease, it was contained even before reaching the population."

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  The blow struck true. Several monks lowered their eyes. Tomás turned pale.

  "These are grave accusations…"

  "They are facts," Paula cut in. "And speaking of facts, where is Dom Mateus Orsini? The papal legate? I expected to receive him first."

  The change of subject was so abrupt that Tomás blinked, off-balance.

  "The… Dom Orsini follows his own methods of assessment. He must be on his way. We came to advance the work."

  Lie, Paula thought with absolute certainty. He is already here. He is observing, assessing. These are just the smoke screen.

  "I understand," she said, smiling again, but this time with a genuine glint of anticipation in her eyes. "Well, then let's get to 'work.' Sister Luzia will show you your quarters. We begin tomorrow. There is much to document. Many microorganisms, the experiments with water purification, the studies on how rubber gloves from the quilombo can prevent contamination."

  She saw the shock run through the group at the mention of the quilombo material. Brother Lucas couldn't contain himself:

  "Rubber? From the heretics' quilombo? Your Holiness trades with enemies of the faith?"

  Paula looked at him, and this time her smile was almost maternal, which was even more frightening.

  "Brother Lucas, I have saved hundreds of lives with techniques learned and materials obtained through that trade. In my ethics, that weighs more than dogmas about who is or isn't a heretic. Besides, they have already converted to the true faith; my priest who lives there sends me monthly reports. But don't worry," she turned to leave, tossing the words over her shoulder, "you will have the chance to document everything. Every gram of ore, every sheet of rubber. I hope your handwriting is good. You'll need it."

  Closing the door behind her, the sound echoed like a full stop. She stood outside for a moment, listening to the muffled murmur of indignant and worried voices now filling the hall.

  The smile disappeared completely. The mask fell, revealing the fatigue and tension beneath. She brought her fingers to her temples, where a throbbing pain was beginning to form.

  Twelve monks to watch me, she thought, eyes closed. And a legate hidden in the shadows. And me here, in the middle, with my discoveries and my secrets. She opened her eyes and looked in the direction of her laboratory, across the courtyard. But I have one advantage: I know the territory. And I know the truth. Any information sent to the church takes months to be answered. Let's see who tires of this game first.

  She took another deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and began walking back to her sanctuary of glass, metal, and parchment. The silent war had begun. And Paula, the Holy Popess, was determined to win—or, at the very least, to turn every attack into new data for her next experiment.

  This time she went to her laboratory to conduct experiments on rats again. Little by little, she cloned another rat. Soon it was alive, standing, breathing. The cloned rat looked at her, but it was a lifeless gaze.

  Paula's laboratory was a cavern of glass, metal, and shadows. The prevailing smell was no longer that of the blood from the arm incident—that had been eliminated with an obsessive cleaning using alcohol and ash—but rather a pungent, sweet-and-sour odor of formaldehyde, mixed with the earthy scent of straw from the cage bedding and the metallic smell of brass from the microscopes. A whale oil lamp, improved by a system of polished metal reflectors she had designed herself, cast a cone of intense white light onto the main workbench. Under that light, in a wire cage, two rats moved.

  No, one rat moved. The other lay inert.

  Paula observed, her breath held. Her fingers, now clean and sheathed in thin gloves of muskrat leather—a necessary extravagance for sensitivity—adjusted the focus of the magnifying lens. The rat that moved was the original, a robust brown male she had named "Theseus." The one lying there was his copy. Or almost.

  At least now it breathes, she thought, watching the slight movement of the cloned animal's chest. Carlos's knowledge about cell replication in culture medium… it really changed everything. She pulled out a note written in the firm, practical handwriting of the quilombola leader: "The cell is not a magical secret. It's a factory. Feed the factory the right materials, in the right order, and it produces."

  With a stainless-steel tweezer—another boon from trade with the republic—she touched the cloned rat's front paw. The limb retracted in a mechanical reflex. But when she brought a piece of cheese near its snout, there was no reaction. The animal's black eyes were open, glassy, fixed on nothing.

  A lifeless gaze, she murmured, and the sound of her own voice echoed in the heavy silence of the laboratory. The machine works, but the spark doesn't ignite.

  She leaned back in the wooden chair, which creaked. Fatigue weighed on her shoulders, a deep mental weariness. She ran her fingers—without the gloves now—over her eyes, feeling the rough texture of her eyelids.

  A cell is simple, she reasoned silently, looking at her own hands as if seeing them for the first time. Each one is a little machine. With one instruction: grow, divide, produce protein, die. It fulfills its function with a blind and perfect obedience. Her mind visualized the structures she had studied under the microscope—the nuclei, mitochondria, ribosomes—like small gears of a biological clock.

  But a neuron… She looked up at a brain diagram hanging on the wall, full of her annotations. A neuron is also a cell. But it connects. It extends its arms, builds bridges, whispers chemical signals to its neighbors. She got up and went to the diagram, touching the drawings of the synapses. A single neuron is dumb. A signal goes in, a signal goes out. But thousands? Millions? Billions?

  The memory of a conversation with Carlos, recorded in one of his letters, came to mind. His voice seemed to echo in her memory: "It's an emergent property, Paula. Consciousness, the mind. It's not in any one piece, it's in the whole. Like an anthill—an ant is stupid, the anthill is intelligent."

  "And there lies the problem," she whispered to the rats, as if they could hear. How to recreate that? I can copy the DNA, the basic cell structure… I can even make a heart beat, lungs breathe. But how do I copy a whole lifetime of connections? A memory? A fear? A desire for cheese?

  She returned to the workbench, carefully picking up the cloned rat. Its body was warm, its heart beating strong and regular under her fingers. A monumental biological success. A complete philosophical failure.

  "Wait," she said aloud, her eyes widening. The idea came like a lightning bolt, illuminating the darkness of her frustration. Maybe I'm trying to climb a cliff all at once. Instead of trying to recreate the whole being… I can start with the bricks. A neuron culture. Grow them, feed them, observe them trying to connect on their own. Study the bridges before trying to build the city.

  Her heart raced at the prospect. Her fingers ran frantically through her notes, searching for neural culture medium formulas. But then, her gaze fell on the laboratory door, and she remembered the other "visitors."

  "Or maybe…" a dark and tempting thought hissed in her mind, "…I can use the twelve guinea pigs who just arrived. Men are more complex than rats, but the principle is the same. And they came to spy on me… it would be a poetic irony."

  A slight, malicious smile—a genuine one, not the false smile from before—passed over her lips, leaving a wrinkle of intellectual pleasure at the corner of her mouth. But it lasted only a moment. She shook her head, dispelling the fantasy.

  "No," she said to herself, her voice firm in the laboratory's silence. "As tempting as it is, the only guinea pig I will use is myself. It's the only ethical way. And the most efficient."

  The idea expanded, gaining an irresistible logic. She began to pace, her soft leather shoes making a muffled sound against the stone slabs.

  "Just imagine…" she whispered, her eyes shining with a blue fire of pure intellectual ambition, "…how much work, how much research, I could accomplish. Two bodies. Four hands. Two minds… well, one mind, but with double the observation time. I could conduct experiments on the human body in real time, with a cooperative and perfectly comprehensible specimen—myself—on the other side of the bench." The perspective was dizzying. After all, if you want something done well…

  She completed the saying in silence: …do it yourself.

  Until a knock on the door snapped her out of her trance. It was a familiar knock, respectful but firm. Before she could answer, the door opened and Sister Luzia entered. The assistant's face was serious, her brown eyes reflecting the lamplight.

  "Your Holiness," said Luzia with a small bow. "Dom Mateus Orsini is in the office. He requests an audience."