This is just a small little snippet of what I've written about Natercia. Unbeknownst to her. Ha!
She didn’t look up into his eyes. She couldn't bear to. Natercia shifted her feet, feeling the uneven cobblestones of Rua Direita under her thin leather soles. The young man took a step closer, extending his hand, reaching into her line of vision under her lowered lashes, pleading for her to look at him. Standing in the shade of the leafy palms lining the Rua, he had entered the gate, coming closer to her than she wished. Almost feeling the warmth of his presence, the unevenness of his breathing, Natercia squeezed her eyes shut.
Hearing the sound of the heavy church doors pushing open behind her, she ducked, turning toward the sound. There on the well-worn steps of the old Santa Maria Church stood her father, Afonso Agostinho Benedito de Costa, and Mother Valencia, her hands tucked graciously together under her chin as if she were praying. They were deep in conversation. Natercia noticed her father’s well-worn leather purse sagging empty at his side. He had paid handsomely for her to remain with the Sisters of Santa Maria. She knew he would be expecting Natercia’s complete obedience.
A light mediterranean breeze brushed Natercia’s flushed cheeks, nudging her toward the steps. Like the wispy seeds of a summer dandelion being whisked up and away, she felt herself being pushed and pulled toward her destiny with very little control on her part. At any moment, she knew Mother Valencia’s gaze would fall upon her, taking in her starched white collar peeking out from her plain, muslin dress, and the way her long, dark locks were tucked neatly underneath her small head cap. She tried to smooth out her skirt and straighten her cap. She was nervous and light headed.
Steeling her heart against the inevitable pain, knowing there was no turning back now, Natercia took one unsteady step along the cobblestones toward her father and Mother Valencia, and away from him.
“Natercia,” the young man pleaded in his steady voice from behind her. She had heard him say her name many times before, but never quite like this. She paused. Her own name had never sounded more beautiful to her ears.
She turned, suddenly anxious to look into his deep gray eyes one last time, to memorize the way his dark hair hung about his ears, to see the sturdy shape of his broad shoulders. But instead of deep gray, she was startled to see eyes rimmed with red, curly hair matted against his forehead and cheeks, and shoulders slightly slumped forward, eager for her to respond. She realized he must have run the entire length of Rua Direita to catch her. He was aching and pleading and she knew it. She knew it as well as she knew how to breathe. Squeezing the bit of ribbon her younger sister Aline had pressed into her hand as they said their quiet, tear-filled goodbyes that morning, Natercia took a large gulp of air, stretched her noble neck high, lifting her delicate chin into the warm spring air, and turned away, stepping lightly in her new black slippers. It would not do to prolong their misery.
“I will wait for you,” she heard him call out hesitantly toward her back. Natercia briefly shut her eyes, shaking her head almost imperceptibly to clear away her longing. And without turning back, she allowed the breeze to float her up and away.
Afonso Agostinho Benedito de Costa clicked his heel on the steps and dipped his chin toward his approaching daughter. Natercia knew better than to expect a sympathetic look from her father; instead, she focused on Mother Valencia as she made her way up the wide steps. Between the loud thudding of her aching heart, and the dedicated effort she was making to put one slippered foot in front of the other, she heard the faintest squeak from the wrought-iron gates at the entrance of the church yard. She willed herself not to look back. To just keep walking.
From somewhere down deep, in the depths of her soul, unbidden by her conscious mind, a single word bubbled up until it escaped her lips in a tiny heart-broken whisper.
“Eduardo.”
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