Page 1 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

PROLOGUE

LISBON, 1941

I stare at the television screen, gripped, as the memorial procession slowly makes its way along Avenida da Liberdade. The tree-lined pavements on either side are filled with mourners. The men all clamping their hats to their chests, eyes lowered, the women’s faces obscured by black veils. The camera zooms in on a group of varinas , and even though the footage is in grainy black and white, I can tell that the fisherwomen have swapped their usual bright costumes for black dresses. Several of them are crying, which catches me off guard, and a lump begins forming in the back of my throat.

The footage cuts to a shot from the front of the procession as it reaches Rossio Square.

‘And now, those closest to Castello will make their way into the Queen Maria II Theatre,’ the broadcaster announces, ‘where some of the biggest names in the entertainment industry will be performing in a tribute concert to her.’

The camera zooms in on an unshaven man, his eyes puffy and ringed with shadows. It takes me a moment to realise that it’s Emilio, and my heart aches at his obvious sorrow.

‘One can only imagine how devastated Emilio Almeida must be to have lost his musical partner,’ the show’s host continues in voiceover.

‘Yes,’ the voice of his female co-host chimes in. ‘Almeida and Castello were such a formidable duo. And they’d only just begun.’

‘Absolutely,’ the man agrees. ‘Who knows what they might have gone on to achieve – but one thing’s for certain, she really did leave an incredible legacy from her three-year career.’

I feel a sharp stab of pain, followed swiftly by a flush of anger. It’s all so unfair. So frustrating. But then another, deeper, more protective instinct kicks in, and I turn away from the television and finish packing my case. There’s no turning back now. For my plan to work, I need to let my anger fuel me, not frustrate me. It’s not just my life that’s at stake after all. I shove the lid of the case down and click the silver catches shut.

When I look back at the screen, they’re showing a heart-shaped wreath of lilies, beneath a photograph of the deceased. A photograph of me.

I turn off the television and the picture shrinks to a tiny dot, then disappears completely. And just like that, I cease to be.