Once in the Fortezza, we passed an area where there was a group of Cerigote washerwomen. Their manner of dress—loose tunics slipped over their heads and tucked into their full skirts—differed from my own, which, according to the seamstress, was “in the mode of the young ladies of Venice.” I could not even feign that I was one of them, if I were to be questioned. The downpour that morning had the washerwomen rushing to and fro, removing the last of the Occupiers’ laundry from the lines. They were far too busy to pay me any attention, I thought. I did not care about the British soldiers seeing me. Cerigote eyes and Cerigote mouths were what I knew I had to avoid.

When Charles reached his destination, he turned his head to make certain that I would know where to go. Then he unlocked the door, went inside, and waited. I walked toward that entryway with purpose and certainty but without haste.

Write that down, Elesa. Here, let me repeat it.

I walked toward that entryway with purpose and certainty but without haste. That is what fate feels like, Patricio. You cannot stop your movement forward, but your heart is calm, your steps are steady, and your mind is clear of questions and doubts. Fate took me to the man who would become your father, and now fate has taken me away from you, my blessed second. Doors open and doors close, and we must be prepared to enter or leave.

Patricio does not need to know what followed, Elesa.

Before I could knock, the smell of horses and men rushed out of the opening door, and I slipped in. My dress was drenched from the bottom up, the hems of the skirt and petticoats soaked through. Charles lifted me up by the small of my waist, seated me on a wooden table, and repeated an act from our first meeting. He unlaced my boots.

The next morning, the sun shone, and we met again at the bench on the overlook. Charles could not let go of my hands, but he found it difficult to meet my eyes. After a long silence, he asked if I was in pain.

“Yes.”

“Cara Rosa, Cara Rosa, do you have regrets?”

“No.”

After another long silence, he asked, “Will you meet me there, again?”

“When?” I asked him.

I was spare with my words when I was with Charles, as the fewer that I used, the better we understood each other.

Charles, with hand movements and a small sketch of the island, said that he was being sent to the northern tip of Cerigo and would not be able to meet me again for a fortnight. We then agreed to meet at the room near the stables upon his return, rain or shine.

The following week brought with it steady rain. I resumed my mornings at the Third Hour service. I prayed that God had not taken Charles away from me. I looked for signs of his promised return. I looked for lace doves and sleeping saints. I found nothing in the church in the Fortezza except the smell of rising damp and rotten teeth. On either side of me were low-hanging stomachs and descended bosoms. Around me was what I would become. I prayed for rain on our appointed day because rain or rather my umbrella would hide me again. Then the Angels visited me, and I prayed for full sun instead. “The more Cerigote eyes who witness you in the Fortezza, the better,” the Angels counseled. “You want to stay in your father’s house?” they wondered. “You want to marry the Son of God?” they taunted. “He already has brides all over these islands,” they said.