I had never left in midservice before. I had never even considered it as a possible act. Like flight, to leave—Where would I go?—was beyond the borders of my thoughts. I was breathless that morning because I knew that I would do it again.

Red was walking toward the center of Kapsali town, his strides long and purposeful. He was already past the Villa Venieri when I closed the church doors behind me. I would not be able to follow him, if he went much farther. I broke into a run, something that I had not done since I was a little girl. The road sloped downward and I reached him faster than I thought I would. He stopped and turned toward me. My legs, removed by the Angels, disappeared, and the rest of my body fell into a heap of flesh and fabric. A cry came from me, more out of surprise than pain.

“Sióreta, Sióreta?” he inquired, as he knelt down beside me.

I hid my face in my hands. Where are the Angels now? I wanted to know.

The Angels knew that they were no longer needed. My silence was enough.

Red thought that I was in too much pain to speak. He picked me up in his arms and began to carry me back toward the church in the Fortezza. I peeked through my fingers and thought this would not do. We will be seen. “Please, over there,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. He leaned his head into mine. I dropped my hands, and we were face-to-face, his breath on my cheeks. I pointed him toward a narrow path, which led behind the Villa Venieri and wound its way along the high walls of the adjacent villa. There the path opened onto a spit of land with a view of the Ionian Sea. Long ago someone had placed a bench, painted a middling blue, facing whatever color the water was that day. The view was unremarkable. Who on this island had not seen the sea? The bench served no purpose, except to prevent someone from walking off the overlook on a moonless night. Unfrequented and shade bare, the bench’s only witness was the Ionian. The Angels took my legs, but they had given me foresight.

Cradling me in his arms, Red sat down on the bench.

Keeping my voice low in order to keep his breath on my cheeks, I whispered, “I am hurt.”

He asked if I was in pain.

I answered with my given name.

He asked if my ankles had given way.

I told him my family name.

He asked if he could lift the hem of my dress past my low boots.

I told him my age.

He assured me that he was a surgeon.

I told him that I was unmarried.

He undid my bootlaces.

I hid my face. I did not want him to see me smile.

He pressed his fingers gently around my bared ankles.

I sighed into my hands.