The first thing I remembered buying, once I had a few coins in my pockets, was a length of ribbon, the blue of borage flowers. It looked nice in my hair, which was more reddish brown in those days. The color of my hair was what Pat said he’d noticed first about me.

Yes, I said the color of my hair, Miss.

Pat wasn’t from here, like I said. His eye was drawn to different things.

The last house in Maysville where I’d worked belonged to the Anderson family. I was the head cook by then and I—

No, no relation to the Mr. Anderson who’s helping me with my court case, Miss.

The Maysville Mr. Anderson came over from Scotland before the war.

My Mr. Anderson was born in Cincinnati, after the war. He’s light-complected, but he’s a colored man. He owns a printing house on Eighth Street, if you want to write that down. He also owns this house.

I’ve mentioned that already? Well, I suppose it bears repeating then, Miss.

Before you leave this morning, maybe Mr. Anderson’s wife can show you the main house. Mrs. Anderson has fine taste, and he does as well, now. He has an entire room only for his books. It’s larger than my kitchen here. I should move my pots and pans into there, I’ve told him.

No, Miss, I wouldn’t begin to know how old I was when Mr. Anderson was born.

I know how old I was when I came to Cincinnati, if you want to write that down. Mr. Anderson says that I must have been ten and four.

Pat’s name for me should have been “Mattie de Cincinnati.” But once his mind was set on something, it was better just to accept it or walk away. His heart was young, but his mind was an old man. I never liked being called Mattie. There was nothing wrong with my given name, and if he wanted to shorten it, I’d told him that some people call me “Thea.” Pat wasn’t some people though. I never understood why he chose Mattie over anything else—

It was what, Miss? Alliterative. I don’t remember Pat saying that word, but it sounds like one of his.

When Pat was courting me, I enjoyed hearing his stories. They were queer, like the bell jars that Mrs. Haslam displayed in her parlor. I could look inside their glass domes full of dried flowers, curly twigs, pinned butterflies, and stuffed birds, but I didn’t always know what I was supposed to be seeing. It was the same with Pat’s stories. I heard his words, but I wasn’t always sure what I was meant to understand. I would nod my head at this and that, but more often I would ask questions because Pat’s stories were full of holes.