I went back to my bed of roses and closed my eyes. When Kanella returned from her morning errands, my fate tellers were gone, and the house smelled of lye and thyme. I was dreaming of St. Catherine of Alexandria. She had visions of the Mother of God and the Divine Child, who in His infancy had accepted Catherine as His pure bride. As His betrothed, her faith grew stronger. Her defense of her faith grew stronger as well. The Roman Emperor beheaded Catherine for both crimes. The Angels then took her body up to the Mount, where it was later found, perfumed and invested with miracles.

“You are twenty-five,” intoned St. Catherine, as she unlocked the heavy doors of a convent. Inside, there were cages, not of birds but of roses.

“You are twenty-five,” repeated the voice, but it was Kanella’s, as she lifted up my bedcovers. “You are too old to allow this to happen. Mark out the days and learn to foretell,” she scolded. She left the room and returned with a change of bed linens. As she stripped the sheets, I stood by the shuttered windows watching her work. My words had left me again. In their place was the hymn to St. Catherine, “Let us praise the most auspicious bride of Christ. . . .”

Kanella was right. I was too old. I had to learn to foretell.

The following morning, I saw Charles for the first time. I was certain that God gave him to me, so I loved him upon first sight.

Even at nine in the morning, the church in the Fortezza was full of shadows. Lit by candles that gave off more smoke than light, the air inside was heavy with beeswax and incense. I thought of this weight as the breath of God. I breathed it in, deeper and deeper, until I felt light-headed, until I was a dust mote, floating. I saw miracles that morning that I have not told to another soul. I saw the Icons blinking, first St. John of Chrysostom and then St. Basil. I saw the Theotokos—you know her as the Mother of God, Patricio—nodding off to sleep and waking with a start, jostling the sleepy-eyed Divine Child upon her lap. I witnessed Jesus on the Cross sneezing soundlessly. This made me weep for him more than the sight of his wounds. I longed to cover his bare shoulders with a shawl and to cup his cold feet in my hands.

Elesa, we will never finish if you continue to lay down your pen. You do not have to believe me in order to write what I say. Believing me is not part of our arrangement. Patricio will believe me. He is the only one who must.

In the Orthodox Church, Patricio, we do not have pews. We stand in the nave for services, the women and girls on the left side and the men and boys on the right. The curls of smoke from the censers were forming lace doves, which hovered near the Holy Altar as they often do, but that morning a dove broke from the flock and flew toward the far right edge of the nave. My eyes followed, and the dove took me to the face of a young man with large round eyes, thick curved brows, and a head of brown curls swept to one side of his forehead. His face was pleasing but so pale that I thought that he was frightened. I wanted to see the rest of him, but I caught only the red jacket of his uniform as he turned and departed through the front doors of the Church. Connected by a thin, strong rope, his body pulled mine out of those same doors. My legs were certain of what they had to do. They followed Red.