“No, Sióra,” your mother answered, crossing herself three times. “Mrs. Brenane,” she said, “wants an heir. Why do you think that she has welcomed you and Patricio into this house?”

“To spite her sister,” I answered.

“What better way to spite the family than to graft another Catholic onto the family tree?” she said.

“Patricio has a God,” I repeated.

“Sióra, your son and you will need more than one God, if your husband does not return from Crimea.”

Elesa, your mother was right, but she did not know that I was not to be a branch of the tree.

Only you, Patricio.

After Charles departed for Crimea and it became clear that I would have a blessed third, Mrs. Brenane made her offer to me: Leave Ireland and leave Patrick. Mrs. Brenane needed an heir but had no need for me. She offered me first-class fare back to Santa Maura, as she thought that it was my island of birth. She even offered to find a traveling companion for me in case I gave birth during the journey. Your mother was deeply angered by Mrs. Brenane’s demands, but I was not.

The Angels told me that it was for the best, Patricio.

If your grandaunt is still alive, do not allow her to read this, Patricio. But if she has gone to her Catholic God, then you, my blessed second, are the heir to a great fortune, as she promised me you would be.

When Mrs. Brenane called you “Patrick” or “Little Man,” I had squeezed your hand tightly in my own, but, Patricio, you would squirm until I let you go. You would then toddle toward your grandaunt in recognition of your other names. When I was alone with you, I would slap you whenever you tried to form your new words with me. Your eyes would open wide, and there was a startled moment of silence before you began to cry.

It is that silence that rings now in my ears. Forgive me, Patricio. I know you did not understand, but I had to make you remember that Venetian and Romaic were our languages, and English was theirs.

I know that Charles, upon learning of my departure from Dublin, will fold up the letter from his aunt and let out a sigh of relief. He may even slap his knees and let out a whoop of joy. Mrs. Brenane would have written that Patrick was safe in Dublin and under her guardianship. She promised me that she would not write to Charles about my condition. I promised her that once my blessed third is born I would find someone to write to her, especially if the baby was a boy.