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.

Catalina pouted. "What's so funny? Portugal doesn't seem to have slavery or discrimination. No one I met behaved as cruelly as people said—and I even heard Portugal banned slavery back in 1762!"

Francisco, still smiling, said, "Yes, in their central territories—but not in their colonies. And the ban wasn't because they opposed slavery. It was more about fear—fear of 'white' people being tainted by slaves. Have you forgotten where Spain buys its slaves?"

Catalina shook her head. "I haven't forgotten. I just thought maybe Spain was lying to make Portugal look bad—to stop mestizos from fleeing to Brazil. If Brazil isn't as cruel as New Granada, most would escape that way."

Francisco nodded thoughtfully. "Your reasoning's good, but remember—some things can't be faked. The truth is, Portugal itself doesn't worry much about Africans or Indians coming to the mainland, so people here don't go out of their way to discriminate. But that doesn't make them different from the rest of Europe."

Elizabeth, leaning against the doorframe, added, "You may not know this, but before the French Revolution and the birth of the Republic, Portugal and the United Kingdom had been allies for centuries. And as a British agent, I've seen their actions in Africa. They're not called the greatest slavers for nothing. You're being a bit innocent, Catalina. If you asked them directly about black people or the natives from Brazil, most would speak poorly. They see Africans as non-Christians—beings created to serve. As for the indigenous people of the Americas, they have two versions: the 'savage barbarian' and the 'good savage.' It shows they share the same sense of superiority that runs through all of Europe."

Catalina was silent, her expression slowly dimming. She had never imagined that the kind people who served her meals or the kind priest who blessed her could think that way. At last, she murmured softly, "I see."

Silence fell between them. Francisco only shook his head, then bid Elizabeth goodnight and went to bed.

A few days later, they departed for London. The journey was shorter this time, calm and uneventful—apart from the patrol boats that began shadowing them as soon as they entered British waters.

From the deck, Elizabeth watched the island emerge from the horizon, distant yet familiar. The gray outline of Britain seemed both far and near, like a memory she wasn't ready to revisit. Nostalgia and reluctance tangled within her; after spending nearly four months with Francisco and Catalina, she knew their friendship had grown genuine. But she also knew that once they reached London, she would likely never see them again.

Francisco and Catalina joined her on deck. The wind carried the scent of salt and coal smoke from passing ships.

"So," Francisco said softly, "we're reaching the United Kingdom. This will probably be our goodbye."

Catalina's eyes glistened. "I'm going to miss you, Miss Elizabeth."

Elizabeth sighed, then forced her usual confident smile. "Don't worry, kids. We might see each other again—and if not, the adventure must go on. Oh, and once we reach the port, I'll need to act colder toward you. Best to warn you now."

Francisco nodded in understanding, and Catalina wiped her tears, giving a small, brave nod of her own before heading back to her cabin.

Francisco stayed behind. He turned to Elizabeth and said quietly, "If the time ever comes when you want to leave that life—or find a new place to continue it—you're welcome at my estate. I think you've already guessed a few things. When the time comes, your expertise could help build something new—an entire network."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "So, you really do plan to declare independence," she said with a wry smile. "That information would be worth quite a lot to the King. He might even support you."

Francisco smiled faintly but said nothing. As he turned toward the stairs, he murmured, "I've said what I needed to say. Just remember—you're always welcome." Then he disappeared below deck.

Elizabeth watched him go, whispering to herself, "Those are the kinds of words that make a person feel special." She turned her gaze toward the misty outline of London, wondering what the future had in store for her.

By morning, the ship had reached the Thames. The tide carried them gently upriver until the narrow banks gave way to the city's gray sprawl. Given the small size of the vessel—and Elizabeth's need to report her findings to the government—it was far more efficient to dock directly in London.

After reaching the port, Francisco couldn't help but be fascinated by the sheer size of the city. London stretched along the Thames like an endless maze of rooftops and chimneys, tall church spires piercing the misty sky. The air smelled faintly of damp wood, tar, and horse sweat.

Elizabeth came up behind him and gave him a friendly slap on the back.

"Well?" she said with a grin. "What do you think of it—the most populous city in the world?"

Francisco frowned, still watching the docks crowded with merchants and sailors. "I'm not an idiot," he said dryly. "I've heard of the East and of India. Doesn't your country hold many territories there too? You, of all people, should know how crowded those cities are."

Elizabeth chuckled. "That's because they aren't considered people—or at least, not civilized people."

Francisco fell silent, unsure whether to argue. She wasn't entirely wrong, but the truth of it unsettled him. At last, he sighed. "Forget it," he muttered. "That's a pain in the ass to think about."

The ship finally came to a stop. On the pier, a small unit of soldiers waited—red coats bright against the gray drizzle. Their muskets were held upright, boots polished, their commander standing still as a statue. The crew exchanged nervous glances; even the dullest among them understood this was no ordinary welcome.

Francisco, Ramiro, and Elizabeth disembarked together. The officer ignored everyone else and fixed his gaze on Elizabeth.

"Are you the agent Floris?" he asked in a clipped tone.

Elizabeth's expression turned cold. "That's right. I am Floris. I bring information from the Spanish colonies for His Majesty. I request an audience with the King."

The soldier frowned. "You'll speak with the Prime Minister first," he said firmly.

Elizabeth didn't flinch. "I work for the King, not the Prime Minister. If you have complaints, you may take them to His Majesty."

The officer ignored the last remark. Their exchange was in English, so Francisco could only follow the rhythm of their voices. Then the soldier's eyes turned toward him.

"So—you are Mr. Francisco?" the officer asked, this time in perfect Spanish, his tone softening slightly. "The Prime Minister wishes to meet you. He's pleased to hear that his brother's colony is prospering in New Granada."

Francisco blinked, taken aback by the man's flawless accent. He muttered under his breath, "Yeah, right—like I believe that," then said, "I—" He glanced toward Elizabeth, but she was already walking away, her expression unreadable.

Realizing he'd been caught between the Parliament and the Crown, Francisco exhaled sharply. "Very well," he said at last. "I'll be ready. But most of my crew are mestizos—can they buy supplies here?"

The officer hesitated, glancing at the brown-skinned sailors. "They can," he replied at last, "but it's best they stay near the port. Some Londoners might find them... entertaining, and not all amusements end kindly."

Ramiro swallowed hard. The tension in the air was thick as fog. Both men nodded silently.

Before leaving, the officer added, "Someone will come shortly to arrange your meeting." Then he marched off with his men, their boots echoing on the wet planks.

Francisco and Ramiro stood still for a long moment. The city loomed before them—its crowded taverns, carriages rumbling over the cobbles, and distant tolling of St. Paul's bell through the mist.

Francisco felt a chill creep down his neck. London was grand, proud, and full of life—but beneath its elegance, it seemed like a giant ready to swallow him whole.

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