Old Iota disappeared during these excursions. Even in her widow’s weeds, I could see that it was Iona who cradled you in her arms. Do you remember the ginestra, Patricio? The hills were golden, as if lit by a second sun when they were in bloom. A handful of thyme crushed in your hands, a butter cake, and a spoonful of light honey. Wherever you are now, my blessed second, if you can find these things, gather them together and that will be the scent of ginestra. Breathe in, Patricio, and you will remember your mother when she was at her happiest, your brother at his most hale, and the twins Old Iota and Iona who held you for the first two years of your life, as if you were their blessed own. Your father, you will not remember, because he was already afar.

Prior to his departure, Charles had entrusted a sum of money not to me or to Old Iota but to a butcher, the one who had the room above his shop, the one who had witnessed the Sacrament of Marriage, his sour yeast and unwashed feet stench in my nostrils. This man, round and soft with the flesh of the animals that he sold, was to be the holder of my purse strings because he could read and write. “You do not even know your numbers, Rosa. Old Iota is no better,” Charles had said, his eyebrows lifted in disbelief that I would object to the arrangement that he had made on my behalf. “You and Old Iota know what? One to ten, courtesy of your fingers?” he added. “That is not enough for such matters. That is enough for buying fish and garlic.”

I did not correct my husband, but he was wrong. I knew the number of name days that had passed. Twenty-seven by then, more than enough for buying fish, garlic, and more.

The butcher, Charles informed me, would pay the monthly rent on the house and Old Iota her wages. Every week, the butcher would dole out to me an allowance for foodstuffs and sundry expenses. If I needed to send news to Charles, the butcher would write to him on my behalf. The butcher, in turn, would read to me any letters that arrived from Charles. It was a gentlemen’s agreement between two men who knew more than fish and garlic.

Elesa, there is no need to write down what happened next—What good can come from Patricio knowing the ways of women?—but you, my dear, should know that it was an agreement that would work in my favor as soon as I understood that the butcher was not a gentleman.