The weight of the reports and the image of the numbers—seventy-seven, two hundred and fifty-nine—still hung over Carlos like a low, dark cloud even after the meeting ended. The air in his office, once his refuge for calculations and possibilities, now seemed stifled by the ghosts of the creek. He needed to get out. He needed to see something that grew, that advanced, that wasn't about loss, but about construction.

  After a restless night, he took his morning tea—a strong infusion of local herbs that still didn't satisfactorily replace the coffee they hadn't yet found, but it was what they had. The hot, amber liquid helped clear his mind a little. Then, he left.

  The impact of the morning air was immediate and therapeutic. The smell was different: damp earth from the night's rain, the sweet perfume of some flowers beginning to bloom in the flowerbeds, and, underlying it all, the distant, promising scent of woodsmoke from the day's first furnaces. The sunlight, still soft, filtered by a partially cloudy sky, painted the world with golden tones and vibrant greens.

  He walked without haste, admiring the streets. They were no longer just widened trails. They were planned avenues, lined with young but already robust trees—ipês, paineiras, some fruit trees—that provided shade and serene beauty. Wildflowers grew in orderly fashion in stone flowerbeds along the sidewalks of packed earth and pebbles.

  The streets are more beautiful and well-kept than many in the city I lived in, he thought with a stab of surprised pride. Speaking of which… maybe it's time to stop thinking of this as a 'Mocambo.' It sounds provisional, hidden. This place… is a city. The Republic's city. A good part of the old Quilombo's population already lives here, and more people are arriving all the time. People who escaped alone, people we liberated…

  His thoughts were interrupted when he passed the Minister of Labor, Fernanda. She wasn't alone. Walking beside her was another white woman, but whose appearance was a shock in the still-rustic setting of the Republic. The woman— perhaps in her mid-thirties—wore a light blue linen dress with fine lace details and a cut reminiscent of European styles that reached the capitals. It was visibly more elaborate and expensive than many of the simple, practical, and beautiful dresses produced in local textile factories. She wore silver earrings with small blue stones that sparkled with each movement.

  Seeing them, Fernanda stopped and smiled.

  "Good morning, President!"

  The woman beside her also stopped, her eyes—a curious gray—studying Carlos with an intense, polished interest.

  "This is Matilda," Fernanda introduced with an elegant gesture. "She is my illustrious friend who arrived on last week's caravan and plans to live here. Matilda, this will be your new boss, President Carlos."

  The woman named Matilda didn't wave or give an exaggerated curtsy. Instead, with a graceful movement that seemed rehearsed, she gently took the edges of her dress and made a small, but perfect, curtsey. A greeting worthy of a lady at court, not a refugee in a city in the woods.

  "It will be a pleasure and an honor to work for you and for the Republic," her voice was clear, educated, each word measured.

  Carlos was momentarily flustered. Receiving that level of formality, that air of almost feudal deference, was strange. He was used to nods, to "Good morning, Carlos," to firm handshakes.

  "Good morning," he replied, trying to match the politeness without seeming artificial. "Welcome, Matilda. I hope… I hope you like it here and find your place in the Republic."

  The encounter was brief. They both had business. They exchanged a few more formal pleasantries and went their separate ways. But the image of Matilda stayed in Carlos's mind.

  Besides the freed people who come here seeking freedom… there are those who immigrate for other reasons, he reflected as he walked. Living conditions, opportunity, maybe even idealism. But this Matilda… with that dress, those earrings, that way of speaking… she didn't come out of material need. What would bring a woman like that to a 'city of Blacks,' as outsiders must see it? And what does she think she'll find here that's 'better'? He then remembered the letters. Fernanda, with her elegant handwriting and persuasive arguments, had written to old contacts, to people of means with abolitionist sympathies or in delicate situations. What on earth did she write in those letters to convince a woman like that to come? Must have been quite an argument…

  He was on the main street, nicknamed "Founders' Street," where the first concrete apartments had been built. It was natural that many of the young Republic's most important figures lived there. It was then that he saw the Minister of Education, Quixotina. She was coming from the opposite direction, carrying a precarious pile of books so high it almost blocked her view. Apparently she didn't even see him and just walked right past without greeting him.

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  Carlos, still thinking about the contrast between Matilda and the environment, notices the contrast of noble Matilda with the noble Quixotina.

  “And to think she was also from the nobility. But she doesn't seem delicate or ceremonious like Matilda. She's pure energy condensed into the form of an irritated minister.”

  He chuckled softly, the sound almost inaudible.

  That's when he felt a sharp, painful impact on the back of his thigh, almost on his buttock.

  "OW!" he exclaimed, jumping forward and turning instinctively.

  There stood Quixotina. She had carefully left the books on a low wooden bench and was now standing, hands on hips, eyes narrowed, and mouth a thin line of supreme irritation.

  "I walked right past you without saying good morning because I was carrying half the library, and I came back just to give you a decent greeting," she said, each word coming out like a crack. "And what do I find? You laughing and talking about me behind my back!"

  "I'm sorry!" Carlos raised his hands in defense, still rubbing his thigh. "I swear, I thought you wouldn't hear!"

  She advanced and delivered another kick, this time more on the hip, but still firm.

  "Ow! Stop that!" Carlos protested.

  "So you're apologizing not for speaking ill, but for me hearing it? What kind of twisted logic is that?" she asked, her eyes sparkling.

  Carlos retreated another step, preparing for another assault.

  "I used the wrong words! Forgive me, Quixotina! My sincere apologies!"

  She stopped, arms still crossed, and stared at him. Finally, an exasperated sigh escaped her lips, and an expression of weariness mixed with the old irritation took over her face.

  "Hmph." She turned her head away. "I'll consider forgiving you…" She paused dramatically and looked at him from the corner of her eye. "...if I also get a gift. A good gift. Like the one you gave Tassi. And there has to be dinner too! Something from your world I've never eaten!!"

  Without waiting for an answer, negotiation, or any reaction beyond Carlos's dumbfounded look, she turned, collected her pile of books with a grunt, and marched off toward the town hall, leaving him standing in the middle of the street.

  Carlos rubbed his face with his hands, a mixture of pain, embarrassment, and resignation.

  Me and my big mouth, he thought, a warmth rising up his neck. Now I have to think of something that would please a woman who was once a noble, who had access to everything, and who now only seems interested in books, projects, and… expensive gifts. Great.

  He resumed his walk, this time heading toward the commercial and industrial district on the city's outskirts. The path was busier. Workshops were starting up, the sound of hammers and saws filled the air, mixed with the smell of freshly cut wood and bread coming from bakery ovens.

  And it was while walking that he began to overhear. Whispers in groups on street corners, animated conversations in front of workshops, more heated discussions near the market. A single topic dominated all conversations: the Battle against Albuquerque.

  The fragments he caught were confused, contradictory, inflated by rumor and distance.

  "...heard it was a bloodbath! Hundreds of ours died at the creek!"

  "Nonsense! My cousin is in the army, he said it was a crushing victory! The new rifles made mincemeat of the bandeirantes!"

  "Albuquerque fled with his tail between his legs, they say he cried!"

  "Cried nothing! He'll come back with twice the men! We should flee deeper into the woods…"

  "Flee what! We have cannons now! I heard the blacksmith talking…"

  Carlos slowed his pace, listening. The concern he already felt deepened. People were scared, confused, misinformed. The official communiqué, read only to those who went to collect their pay at the payment windows, clearly wasn't enough. Rumor, faster and more emotional, was creating its own narrative, fueling unfounded fears or dangerous expectations.

  An idea began to take shape in his mind, clear and urgent.

  Just making announcements when people come to collect their pay isn't working, he thought, his walking pace quickening along with his thoughts. It's slow, fragmented, reaches few people. We need something more… systematic. Something that unifies information.

  Maybe… maybe I can start a newspaper, the thought arose with the force of a revelation. Paper isn't a critical problem anymore. And we have the steam engines… which is where I'm going to see the new installations, in fact. If we adapt one of the presses…

  He passed the large masonry cistern that was in its final stages of construction, its elevated tank promising running water for entire sectors of the city. A symbol of tangible progress.

  With a newspaper, he planned mentally, we could announce our victories with the real facts. Control the narrative. Also advertise new factories, hirings, laws, achievements… even personal ads. Of course, the number of people who can read is still low, but that in itself would be an incentive! People would want to learn to read to find out about the best opportunities, the news, what happens inside and outside the Republic! It would be a tool for unity, education, and information control. Perfect!

  Determined, he continued walking toward his destination.