Grandy added honey to his tea. “I hope your friend can enlighten us. Let’s finish reading, shall we?”

Natalie cleared away the dishes while he tucked himself into his reading chair. The amber glow of the reading lamp illumined his timeworn features, now set in an expression of contentment. Though his hands trembled over the pages and his body was thin and fragile, his eyes were bright with interest. There were things that had not yet been stolen from his memory. This, she realized, feeling a wave of love, was probably why her mother had been adamant about keeping him here in the home he’d always known.

May 1897. I went to watch the football matches at the Presidio, and there I met the most extraordinary man. He is a soldier encamped at Astor Battery, and he did not take part in the games that drew a crowd this fine day. I heard someone strumming and singing and was drawn to the sweetness of his song. His name is Julio Harper, and he belongs to a regiment of colored soldiers. His mother, he said, was a Spanish camp follower, cooking for a regiment of infantry soldiers, and his father was a freed slave from the state of Texas. He is ever so gentle, and he sings the old Spanish songs of his mother. We are shy with each other, yet filled with the most tender and magnificent love anyone could imagine.

August 1897. Julio and I were married by a sympathetic chaplain. Before we can live as man and wife, Julio must complete his military service. But oh, such dreams we have. A farm where apples grow and the grass is sweet, somewhere in the hills north of the city. After so many years alone with my books and sketches, I am awash with bliss.

“Soldiers go to war,” Julio tells me. “It is what we do.” He tries to soothe my distress at the prospect of his leaving. Here in San Francisco, there are no pirate raids or attacks by Indians. He must keep his fighting skills sharp. He is trained to operate a large wheeled gun called the Hotchkiss revolving cannon, but his targets are imaginary enemies out on the misty bay, inciting the sea lions to bark. The drills and duties at the Presidio are all for show.

May 1898. It is the height of irony that the one man who nurtured my dream is the same man who stole it away. Mr. William Hearst will likely have forgotten that he once fostered my art and fed my craving for learning. And he will never know that he is in part responsible for separating me from the man I love.