After lunch at Aunt Vera's Restaurant, where the vegetable broth and the discovery of the gossip source had left a bittersweet taste, Carlos returned to the Town Hall with a lighter step. The weight of the war was still there, but now there was a concrete project to occupy his mind, something that built instead of merely remedying.

  Pushing open the solid wood door of the main building, the smell that greeted him was familiar, but with a different nuance. There was always the scent of beeswax on the woodwork, charcoal ink, and the subtle must of old papers. Today, however, a fresher, woodier smell dominated: the smell of new paper. Not the thin, white paper of his century, but the earthy, slightly sweet, damp odor of paper made from araucaria pine, which was beginning to arrive in small proof stacks from the industrial districts. It was the smell of material, tangible progress.

  But he didn't follow the corridor leading to his own office, where the casualty reports would be waiting like vultures. Instead, he turned left, toward the Ministry of Labor's room.

  The door was ajar. Inside, Fernanda was leaning over a large handwritten spreadsheet, her fingers marking columns of names and trades. The afternoon light illuminated the dancing dust motes around her. She heard the footsteps, looked up, and upon recognizing Carlos, let out a long, deep sigh that seemed to come from her heels. Her face, normally serene and efficient, bore marks of fatigue under her eyes.

  Here we go, she thought, lowering her head for a moment before composing a professional smile. More work. Always more work. But it's work that matters, at least.

  Carlos entered, pulled up a simple wooden chair, and sat down in front of her, without ceremony.

  "Fernanda," he began, getting straight to the point. "You know the paper mill? The one starting to produce that light brown, pine-smelling sheet?"

  "Yes, President," she replied, placing the pencil on the desk. "I received the first sample batch for the records. It's… rougher than what came from outside, but it's ours."

  "Right. Besides school textbooks, it's going to produce a new product. Something that will change how the Republic communicates. We're going to make a newspaper."

  Fernanda blinked. The word meant nothing to her. She masked her fatigue with professional interest, resting her chin on her hand.

  "And what would this… 'newspaper' be?"

  "Basically," Carlos explained, gesturing as he formed the ideas aloud, "it's a publication. Large sheets of paper, folded, which will be released, for now, monthly. And inside them, we'll put information. All the important information about what's happening in the Republic. And for that, you'll need to assemble a team of people with investigative skills."

  He paused, seeing her process it.

  "For example, this first edition… could bring an account of what happened in the battle against Albuquerque. A true, controlled account. Without revealing our tactical secrets or exact numbers, of course. But the people deserve to know more than just street corner rumors. They deserve to know there were heroes. They deserve to hear the names of those who lost their lives for our freedom. And also what the real situation of the war is, to put an end to this blind fear."

  Fernanda's eyes, previously just tired, lit up with immediate understanding. She wasn't a big reader—life hadn't given her that luxury—but the utility of it was crystal clear.

  I'm not much of a reader…, she thought, her eyes lost for a second on the spreadsheet. But I would read that. To know where my taxes go. To know if my daughter will grow up in a safe place or at war. To know who to trust.

  "That… makes a huge amount of sense," she admitted, her voice more animated. "And not just about the war. We could put the town hall job postings inside! The open positions in the new factories! Everyone who can read would run to get a copy."

  "Exactly!" Carlos grew animated, seeing she grasped the essence. "And we can also announce our advances. The completion of the cistern that will bring running water to Founders' Street. The medals of honor we'll mint for the war heroes. The new laws approved by the Council. All in one place, official, accessible."

  Fernanda picked up the pencil and began to scribble on the edge of the spreadsheet, thoughtful. But a doubt struck her.

  "One question, Carlos. Everything you mentioned—wars, job postings, public works—would be information the town hall itself provides. So why did you say you need to hire people with 'investigative skills'? Sounds like… spying."

  Carlos smiled. It was the right question.

  "Because the newspaper won't have only official matters," he explained, lowering his voice a bit, as if sharing a secret. "We want people to want to read it. So, it could have a section telling the story of one of the heroes who died. Who he was, where he came from, what he left behind. A small tribute. It could have a report about an important crime that happened in the Mocambo—a theft, a fraud—and how it was solved. To show that justice works." He made a dramatic pause. "And… it could even have the most harmless gossip. Who opened a new workshop, who got married, who won the best bread contest."

  The idea, which had seemed merely a government tool, now gained color, life, flavor. Fernanda could almost see people gathered around one of the sheets, someone reading aloud to the others, commenting, laughing, discussing.

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  "Recipes!" she exclaimed, a flash of inspiration. "Aunt Vera is always creating new dishes with the ingredients we have. There could be a recipe per edition! Or… poems? Stories? Something for entertainment."

  "Perfect!" Carlos agreed, excited. "That's it. The newspaper needs to be useful, informative, but also a little bit… of the community. That's why I need people who go out from here, talk to people, discover these stories. People who investigate the life of the Republic, not just its laws."

  Fernanda bit the tip of the pencil, thinking quickly. A name came to her mind with such force she almost said it aloud. She looked at Carlos, hesitant for a second, but then confidence in her own judgment prevailed.

  "If it's gossip, life stories, and… investigation we need," she said, placing the pencil on the desk with a decisive click, "I think I have the perfect person in mind."

  Carlos looked visibly pleased. Fernanda is amazing, he thought. Always a step ahead, always with the right person up her sleeve.

  "And who would that be?" he asked, curious.

  "Matilda."

  The answer fell like a stone in a tranquil pond. Carlos froze for a second, his brain processing the image of the woman in the blue dress, perfect curtsey, and air of nobility.

  The noblewoman? The thought shot through him, laden with incredulity. The one who looked like she stepped out of a European salon? Her, mingling with the common folk to hear gossip?

  "Matilda?" he repeated, unable to hide his skepticism. "Fernanda, are you sure? From what little I saw, she seems… well, she seems to have difficulty adapting to our pace. To our… simplicity. The people here might find her strange."

  A light, almost amused laugh escaped Fernanda. She shook her head as if privy to an inside joke.

  "She really does look like a European noblewoman lost in the woods, doesn't she? All that posture, those manners." Her tone became more confidential. "But I should tell you a secret, Carlos. She was my friend back in Areia Branca. Even when I was just a seamstress with nothing to my name. And, despite appearances… she's a bankrupt noble. Everything she had in the city was a facade."

  Carlos raised an eyebrow.

  "Those earrings… that dress… they looked very expensive."

  "Illusion," Fernanda retorted with a mischievous smile. "The earrings that look like gold with gems? They're made of a cheap alloy. The blue linen dress? The cut is good—I sewed it myself; give me a decent machine and I'll make dresses for a queen—but the fabric is common. The trick is in the gem."

  "Gem?" Carlos asked, his technical interest instantly piqued.

  "The Painting gem," Fernanda explained. "It's a rare gem, looks like an opaque rainbow. Matilda is a weak but steady Adept. She uses its power on her earrings, her dresses, to give them that shine, that vibrant color that doesn't fade… for a day. She has to renew the 'paint' magically every single day, or everything fades and becomes ordinary."

  Carlos's mind began to race. A gem that alters the appearance of objects? Even if temporarily… We could use it in illustrated books! In official documents to prevent forgery! In signage! Even in disguises!

  "That's… incredible!" he exclaimed. "Fernanda, that gem could have a thousand uses! For illustrations, for—"

  She interrupted him with a wave of her hand and a patient smile.

  "Carlos, you really aren't from here, are you?" she said with weary affection. "The Painting gem is considered… useless. A rich person's curiosity. The 'paint' only works on object surfaces, not on people or in the air. And, as I told you, it's not permanent. It requires constant mana to maintain. It's an expensive pastime, not a tool."

  Carlos's enthusiasm didn't completely deflate. Every useful gem was once considered useless. I think it's worth studying, later. "But, back to Matilda… if she's a bankrupt noble, did she come here out of pure necessity, then?"

  Fernanda's face grew more serious.

  "Not just. She's a widow. Even bankrupt, she had a pension that sustained her. The problem was something else: she can't stop snooping. It's stronger than her. In Areia Branca, she discovered cases of adultery, bribes, embezzlement… and exposed them, without fear. Not only that: she discovered horrific cases of mistreatment of slaves in 'respectable' households and made them public." Fernanda lowered her voice. "She herself, as a teenager, fell in love with a slave in her own household. They were forcibly separated. She later married a man she loved but refused to have a single slave under her roof. That anger, that curiosity… she brought it here."

  Carlos fell silent, reprocessing the image of the woman. The facade of nobility gave way to a much more complex portrait: a stubborn woman, ethical to the point of anger, and with a natural talent for digging up secrets.

  "Alright…" he said slowly. "I'm still not entirely convinced she'll fit in, but… I'll trust your judgment, Fernanda. You've always proven to be an excellent and astute employee. If you say she's the person, I believe you."

  "Thank you, Carlos," Fernanda replied, a genuine warmth in her eyes. "And don't worry. To prove it to you, I'll tell you more: she's already friends with Aunt Vera. She's already immersed in the Republic's gossip. And believe me, she has no problem swapping those dresses for ordinary, dirty clothes to blend in and hear stories at the market, the port, wherever. There was a time she cut her hair short and dressed as a man for a week to infiltrate a gold smuggling ring. Not that she cared about the crime itself, but it gave her access to the wife of the old Provincial Governor." Fernanda paused, her eyes shining with complicity. "And today, when you saw her, she was 'dressed to impress' because she knew you'd pass by us. You fell for her little act perfectly."

  Carlos let out a low laugh of admiration and self-deprecation.

  "And I fell for it like a duck, didn't I? Typical." He raised his hands in surrender. "Alright. She's hired. Or… assigned. And put her to work. We need the first edition of the newspaper as soon as possible."

  "Understood, President," said Fernanda, already reaching for a new blank form.

  Carlos stood up and left the room, leaving Fernanda with her spreadsheets and her new monumental project. As the door closed, Fernanda didn't immediately look at the papers. She stared at the door, a final thought, one last detail she had deliberately omitted, passing through her mind.

  Ah, Carlos… there's one more little reason why she came here, she thought, a secret smile touching her lips. After she became a widow… she developed a certain… appetite for young men, regardless of skin color. The elite of Areia Branca found out, was scandalized, and iced her out. Here… well, here the Republic is full of young, strong men full of stories to tell. Fresh meat to savor, of all kinds. And to investigate.

  She shook her head, picked up the pencil, and began to write the name "Matilda" at the top of a new list titled "Newspaper Team." The work, as always, was just beginning.