The first thing I asked your mother was how Mrs. Brenane had managed to find her. It had not occurred to me that Charles was not the only man within his regiment who had found a wife on one of the Ionian Islands and brought her north with him. Her husband, your mother told me, had also been garrisoned at the Fort of Santa Maura but had been returned to Dublin years prior due to his poor health. When Mrs. Brenane asked for a Venetian and English speaker among the wives of the men within that regiment, she heard about your mother and decided upon her as our interpreter.

Every weekday, as the breakfast table was being cleared, your mother arrived at the manor house in Rathmines, her wings folded and tucked away so that I alone could see them. Mrs. Brenane and I had saved our questions for each other, and your mother would patiently ask and answer them on our behalf. Mrs. Brenane then left for the midday prayers. That was when the truth was spoken in her manor house.

The Hearn family, like her own husband’s family, are Anglo-Irish, your mother began. The Anglo-Irish worship in the Church of Ireland. They are few in numbers but hold most of the island’s land and wealth. Like the Lazaretti, Venieri, and Cassimati of Cerigo Island, I understood at once. The Anglo-Irish speak English, the language of the island’s conquerors, your mother said. This was also a familiar story to me. The nobilities of Cerigo, as my father had taught my brothers, spoke Venetian because the Republic of Venice had centuries ago conquered and bestowed upon us their bloodline and their language.

The other inhabitants of Ireland, your mother explained, are known as the Irish. They worship in the Catholic Church and speak a language of their own, which was thought to be a lesser language by those who owned the land. Same as Romaic, I understood at once.

Your mother, at Mrs. Brenane’s request, then told me about the disease known as “famine” that had afflicted the Irish and about the desperate years of hunger, prior to Patricio’s and my arrival on their island. She told me how the Anglo-Irish had continued to feast on butter and beef while the Irish became walking skeletons, which death then mercifully took.

“Why does Mrs. Brenane want me to know this?” I asked.

“She wants Patricio to be raised a Catholic,” your mother replied, looking quickly over her shoulder, forgetting for a moment that no one else in that household could understand Venetian.

“Patricio already has a God,” I said.

“Mrs. Brenane wants your son to have her God, and if I were you I would consider it carefully before denying her,” your mother advised.

“Because the Catholic God is a better God?” I asked.