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her fists on her hips. “I don’t have a scarf on because we’re on the monks’ island, and anyway, I’m little. You, though, you should cover your hair. You’re too old to be like that.” She blinks. “Well, make your skirts decent and come on. The monks will give you a bed.” She runs toward the trees, as fast as I ever did.
    I stare after her.
    She stops, comes back, and smiles. “Can’t you speak? Or are you just shy? My aunt is shy. At least around men. Papà says that’s why she’ll never marry. She says he’s wrong—she wouldn’t want to marry an old man who wants her just to take care of him. Here, let me help.” She steps close and yanks at my skirts.
    Swimming with my skirts tied together made the knots harden. The girl works in silence at one knot, then the other, cheeks bunched, lips protruding. She doesn’t mind being close to me. I must keep breathing. This is such hard work for both of us—her untying, me breathing. Finally, my smock falls and the girl jerks it straight. She’s much taller than Tommaso, but I’m sure she’s younger than him, maybe seven?
    The girl surveys me. Her arms hang below the top of her legs. She’s just like me. I stare.
    “You’re a mess.” She wrinkles her nose, a prominent nose; the middle of her face isn’t sunken. “Seaweed is clumped in your hair and you stink like dead fish.”
    Is that all? She doesn’t mention my size. Is she crazy?
    “But I don’t care.” She holds out her hand. “Come.”
    I watch her take me by the hand, though I’m ready to bolt. Her hand is hot and soft and large. As large as an adult’s, but with long, slim fingers. It’s so much like mine was at her age that I have to suppress a yelp of amazement. The girl tugs at me like Mamma did. No one else has held my hand for years, not since I was really young. The fact of her hand around mine makes my heart expand.
    Only now do I feel the effects of all that swimming yesterday. Arms, legs, chest, back, neck, buttocks, all of me aches. And I’d eat anything right now. I’d chew on a rock. Thirst rasps me raw. I’d give whatever I have for sweet water. I roll my head in a circle one way, then the other. I can feel a headache coming on, a vicious one.
Please, please, don’t. Please let me enjoy this child a while longer.
What I wouldn’t give to stretch—stretches can stave off the headaches sometimes—but I don’t want to appear even larger. I don’t want this girl to drop my hand in fright.
    We pass through the cypress trees. The island is not all forest, after all. Ahead, a meadow. With a building. A cloister. It’s kept up; this must be where the monks live. Maybe they’ve taken this girl in as a charity case.
    We approach an arch. Reluctantly, I pull my hand free and fall behind the girl as we pass through the archway, to stay ready for whatever might happen, whoever might appear. Other people won’t accept me the way this monster child seems to.
    We walk along a portico that forms the perimeter of a courtyard…with a cistern in the middle! I run and put my hands on the edge and stare down into it. No bucket, no bucket. But there’s a bowl carved into the stone base for birds, and that’s brimming with water. I get on all fours and scoop with a hand. The water is so clean, so lovely, I dip my face into it until eyes, cheeks, ears are submerged. This is bliss. I pull back enough to lap like Gato Zalo does. Sweet water. My head feels lighter. Maybe the pain won’t come, after all.
    The girl laughs.
    I slosh up one last mouthful. She’s still laughing. And she’s right. I’d never do this back home. I turn to face her and fall on my bottom. She laughs harder. And I’m laughing now, too, laughing as though this isn’t the end of the world. Laughing like Mamma, as though I’ve always known how.
    Bong.
Bells ring. Could it be midday? I look around. I can just see the point of the bell tower above the roof of the cloister. A person hangs on the thick bell rope,