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

  Paula felt a sudden chill run down her spine, a contrast to the heat of her scientific enthusiasm moments before. The time has come, she thought, drying her hands on her apron. The real player enters the scene.

  She knew Orsini by reputation. An old fox, her internal monologue continued as she followed Luzia through the corridors. They say he negotiated peace between the Papal States and Venice without firing a single spell—only with debts and contracts. And the most persistent rumor… that he aspires to be the Supreme Pontiff. An ambitious man, then.

  A cold analysis took hold of her. This could be good. An ambitious man sees tools, not heresies. Henrique is greedy, but he's also arrogant and stupid—his greed blinds him. Orsini… Orsini is just greedy. Calculating. He can see the value of what I've built here. She took a deep breath, adjusting the cross on her neck. But it won't be easy. He didn't come to admire. He came to assess. And possibly, to buy.

  Upon entering her office, she found Dom Orsini not sitting, not examining her books, but standing before the large window overlooking the inner garden. The afternoon light, golden and dusty, illuminated his aristocratic profile, his hands clasped behind his back. He observed the sisters tending the medicinal herbs with an interest that seemed genuine.

  "Good afternoon, Dom Orsini," said Paula, closing the door softly. "I hope you have found the city… welcoming."

  He turned slowly, and a broad, polished smile appeared on his face. It was a smile that reached his eyes but did not warm them.

  "Good afternoon, Holiness. Welcoming?" He laughed, a soft, courteous sound. "I am marveled. Every corner is a surprise. But let's dispense with formalities, shall we? Time, as they say, is gold."

  He took two steps forward, his dark eyes fixing on her with a disarming intensity.

  "You are building the future here, Holiness. An impressive future. But, with all due respect… it is not exactly the future of Holy Mother Church. It is the future of something else. Of a new idea. Perhaps of that republic everyone talks about, but no one seems to name out loud."

  Paula felt a knot form in her stomach. She expected a word game, a diplomatic dance. Not a frontal and precise attack. In her confusion, the question that left her lips was foolish, childish:

  "You… you are not angry? About what I hid from the Church?"

  Orsini's laugh was louder this time, genuine, as if she had told an excellent joke.

  "Angry? My dear Paula, if you knew a tenth of what every prince of the Church hides in their cellars…" He shook his head, the smile becoming conspiratorial. "Sin, for men like me, is not in hiding. It is in hiding poorly, or in hiding things not worth the effort. What you have here…" he made a broad gesture, encompassing the window, the city beyond, "…is worth much more than a simple sin of omission. It's worth an empire. That is, if we use the connection with the new republic well."

  The word "use" hung in the air between them, as palpable as the smell of old parchment in the office. Paula felt a physical discomfort, a cold on the nape of her neck. Use. It was what Carlos feared. It was what she herself feared.

  Orsini, a master at reading the weaknesses of others, caught the change in her posture, the slight tensing of her shoulders. Interesting, he thought, keeping his expression open. She is brilliant, but has the flaw of the idealist. She believes in the intrinsic value of things. It is a weakness… and a wonderful lever.

  "Do not worry, Popess," he said, his voice lowering to an almost confidential, advisory tone. "I am not speaking of exploitation. I speak of… synergy. The Republic has practical knowledge—the steel, the machines, the weapons. The Church has the network, the capital, the legitimacy. We help them sell, protect themselves with treaties, exist without being crushed by Portugal tomorrow. And in return… they share a bit of that knowledge with us. For the greater good, of course."

  He did not say the next part aloud, but his cold eyes proclaimed it: They won't have it. After we learn, they will be a minor incident to be cleaned up, to appease Lisbon and keep our hands clean.

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  Paula swallowed drily. The knot in her stomach tightened.

  "But… that would make them lose everything," she argued, her voice a bit weaker than she wished. "Without the secret of the steel, without the machines, they are just another quilombo. Defenseless. Carlos… the President would never accept."

  "Carlos?" Orsini arched an eyebrow, as if the name were a curious concept. "He will accept. Because his choice is not between secrecy and partnership. It is between partnership with us… and solitary annihilation. Remember, Holiness, all their trade passes through your city. All their iron, everything they sell, all communication with the outside world." He paused, letting the threat hang. "And I should remind you that they refused the governor's peace agreement. They are, officially, rebels. The Church cannot appear complicit in a rebellion… unless that rebellion transforms into something more useful."

  The logic was of a murderous coldness. And it was, Paula had to admit to herself with a bitter taste in her mouth, reasonable. For the Church. For politics. She looked out the window, at the towers of her city. The city she had saved from plague, fed, illuminated with new ideas. That city depended on order, on relative peace with the colonial authorities. And she, Paula, depended on her position to protect it.

  In her mind, the image of Carlos arose. Not the distant "President," but the man from the letters. The firm handwriting explaining cells. The respectful, yet not subservient, tone when they discussed the philosophy of mind. He wanted to build a new world. A world without masters and slaves. She, deep in her scientist's heart, yearned to see that world. To contribute to it.

  Reality is different, a cruel whisper echoed in her thoughts. You are part of the Church. You have a people who depend on you. And to protect them… you need to maintain your power. And your power, today, depends on deals with men like Orsini.

  She felt the weight of that chair, of that gem on her neck, like a lead collar. The metallic taste of political defeat was already on her tongue when she spoke:

  "I… understand. We can depart for the frontier tomorrow morning. We will discuss the terms with the Republic."

  Orsini's expression was no longer one of confusion, but of disbelief. He laughed, a short, dry sound.

  "Depart? Us? Holiness, I think there is a misunderstanding." He straightened his posture, secular and clerical authority emanating from him like a mantle. "You will write a letter. An invitation. They will come here. To your headquarters. Power resides in whoever dictates the meeting place. They are a republic of… ex-slaves, however much they adorn themselves with titles. We are the Holy Roman Catholic Apostolic Church. We have existed since Peter." He shook his head, with a mix of disdain and pity. "Paula, think… your predecessor was Henrique. Arrogant, limited, but he understood the theater of power. You two are so opposite…"

  The final blow. The comparison with Henrique. Paula felt small, foolish. The saint who thought she could negotiate as an equal. She closed her eyes for a second, the fatigue of the day, the conversation, the weight of expectations, hitting her. When she opened them, there was already a decision—a tactical surrender—in her gaze.

  "Very well," she said, her voice monotone, without energy. "I will write the letter."

  But behind that apparent capitulation, her mind, the mind that dissected rats and unraveled microbes, began working rapidly. Buy time, she thought, her fingers tracing the edge of the table. I need time. To warn Carlos. To prepare him. To… to find a third option.

  She looked up at Orsini.

  "However," she continued, her voice regaining a thread of firmness, "regardless of how the discussions unfold, any agreement of magnitude will need to be reported to the Holy See for formal approval. We must send a detailed report first. And we will only initiate concrete actions when we have a response." She paused, looking him directly in the eyes. "From now on, I will be completely transparent with the Church. You will have access to everything."

  Orsini held her gaze for a long moment. A slow, almost admiring smile appeared on his lips. Buying time for your little friends, aren't you? he thought, reading the move like an open book. Very well. You play better than you seem. Fine, little fox. I can wait. Time, after all, plays on my side too.

  "No problem, Holiness," he said, with an almost graceful nod of his head. "Prudence is a cardinal virtue. In the meantime… I shall go back to enjoying the air of your fascinating city." He walked to the door, stopping at the threshold. He turned, and his smile now was almost paternal, which was worse. "I only hope that when the response from Alba arrives, you will be prepared to make the right decisions. The decisions that will ensure this city, and your marvelous work, continue to be… yours."

  The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.

  Paula stood motionless for a full minute. Then, her knees buckled slightly. She leaned on the edge of the table, her fingers white from pressing the wood so hard. The smell of the laboratory—formaldehyde, hope, frustration—was still on her clothes.

  A stalemate, she thought. But not checkmate.

  She walked to the desk, took a quill, inkwell, and a clean parchment. She would write the letter Orsini demanded. But between the lines of formal invitation, in the subtext that only Carlos would understand—using the code they had developed to discuss secret formulas—she would write a warning. And a request for help.

  The war was no longer silent. Now it had rules, pawns, and a much more dangerous board. And Paula, the Popess of Microbes and Machines, would have to learn to play—or be swept from the game.