No, Lafcadio didn’t say what he wanted from you, Mrs. Hearn.

I would think for you—and Bill—to send him a letter. Illness can make even the proudest man lonesome, Mrs. Hearn.

I’ll ask something of you, Mrs. Hearn, if it’s not too forward. If Lafcadio left any of his clothing here, would you send them to him? Better yet, I could take the garments from you tonight and bring them down to New Orleans with me. Lafcadio wouldn’t want you to know, but I see no reason not to tell you. He has pawned his clothing, probably everything but what was on his back and on his head. He’s as poor in New Orleans as the day he arrived here in Cincinnati, poorer considering that he doesn’t even have his health now.

“He left nothing here,” I heard my voice saying. My heart was in my throat. My heart was breaking with songs.

Then I best be going, Mr. Watkin said. Showing up unannounced on your front porch wasn’t how I thought we would meet, Mrs. Hearn. I hope to see you again when I’ve better news or, if I don’t, I’ll send a letter to you and Bill from New Orleans, Mrs. Hearn.

Mr. Watkin turned to leave.

I hadn’t invited him in, although the night had been spitting rain at us.

Then, sudden as winter, he turned back around.

Did Lafcadio tell you that I was to be a witness? he asked. At your marriage, Mrs. Hearn. I was all set to come that day, but then the wife thought—well, it doesn’t matter now. I know Lafcadio was disappointed. He said a neighbor woman did it in my stead. I apologize, Mrs. Hearn, for not being there for him and for you. He’s like a son to me, Mrs. Hearn.

Could you say that again, Miss?

Excuse me for saying, but given your question I don’t think you’ve heard a word that I’ve been saying.

I’ll make it plain. I didn’t mention Mr. Watkin to you before, Miss, because I’m the one who’ll have to go to court to be included in Pat’s life. There’s no one who’s denying Mr. Watkin’s claim to friendship, is there?

No, Miss, I never went by “Mrs. Hearn.”

Mr. Watkin just assumed that I did.

For the day-to-day, I was Alethea Foley. Cincinnati is a big city, but the boardinghouses and their owners all know one another, so do their cooks and their washerwomen, and everyone else who makes their living in those hives. I didn’t want it to get back to Mrs. Haslam that I’d left her kitchen to marry one of her boarders. If I had to return to someone else’s kitchen one day, I wanted to make sure that I could.