On the other side of the sea, in Portugal, Francisco and his crew spent a few weeks at the port. Francisco stayed in bed most of the time, still recovering from the voyage, while the girls spent their days wandering through the winding streets and coastal markets. Every night, Catalina would return to his cabin and describe everything she had seen—the tiled houses glinting under the sun, the smell of roasted chestnuts from the vendors, and the echo of church bells that rolled over the harbor. Francisco would listen quietly, smiling as her excitement filled the small cabin.
"I like it here," Catalina said one evening with a wide smile. "Portugal isn't as bad as Spain paints it. There are no slaves on the streets, and no one has called me a mestiza. Honestly, if I could choose a place to live, it would be here."
Francisco chuckled, and Elizabeth, who was about to leave for her cabin, burst out laughing too. Francisco laughed so hard a tear escaped his eye.
