Reminding myself of his odor has soured my stomach. Pour me a glass of water, Elesa. Pour one for yourself too, if you would like. Or, perhaps, we should stop for that pot of tea now?

You would prefer to continue? Ah, I thought so. You are a very bright girl, Elesa.

Tip a bit of whiskey into that water glass. The flask is underneath the bed pillows. Then I will tell you what to do when life gives you a butcher.

Sióra Gazi said that whatever their profession—military commander, surgeon, landowner—when it comes to matters of the heart—the Sióra did not say “heart,” she said “flesh”—either a man is a butcher or he is not.

I laughed out loud when my butcher was an actual butcher.

You are polite to him. You look somewhat disappointed whenever he departs your company. You note where his eyes linger when he offers you his goodbyes. My butcher’s eyes were on my waist, which was not surprising, because his wife, like him, was barrel-shaped, her waistline lost long ago to her five children.

My blessed third is heavy within me now, so I know it is difficult to imagine me as I once was. My waist, corseted, same as yours, Elesa, could be encircled by a pair of male hands.

At the butcher’s next visit, you call attention to his region of interest by wearing a bright ribbon around it or pinning a fresh flower there. You touch the place often, smoothing the fabric of your dress or brushing away fanciful lint or crumbs. You may even spill a drop of coffee there, which requires you to rub the area with a handkerchief dipped in water, leaving a coin-sized stain behind, a little circle of wetness for him to think about later, once he is alone with his hanging carcasses. Then you wait. You wait until you know what you truly want from your butcher.

After the birth of Patricio, my body was my own again. With Charles on Dominica, I knew that it would remain that way, its figure slimmed again, its waist cinched, its roses in full bloom. I wanted to clothe it, for the first time in my life, with choices that I alone would make. I wanted new dresses measured and fitted, all with much more than a touch of pale gray lace. I wanted a parasol, a pair of ivory-colored ankle boots, matching gloves, a shawl that was not the color of ripened wheat, and two bonnets.

When I went to Sióra Gazi’s villa with nothing more than a cloth bag of dried sultanas, Charles had to purchase for me a makeshift wardrobe. He found for me secondhand dresses, all ill fitting—their sleeves too long, their ample necklines requiring the addition of a shawl for modesty—along with a set of petticoats and chemises and four white linen nightdresses embroidered with white silk-thread bees. Sióra Gazi disapproved and fumed over the carelessness of these items, except for the nightdresses, which she declared were exquisite. She showed me how the bees were there not for the eyes to enjoy but for the fingertips, which was ideal for a nighttime garment. The shop owner had told Charles that the pieces were part of a trousseau belonging to a British bride-to-be, but the garments were never worn because the young lady died of malaria upon her arrival on Cerigo. I asked Charles what a “trousseau” was.