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a person who will not welcome me like this girl has.
    “What is the meaning of this? Who are you?” A man comes at me from the side. He’s huge!
    I curl in on myself and look at him sideways. I’ve never seen anyone so large.
    He’s one of my kind. And the girl is my kind.
    Two, three, four other men follow him. The one who spoke is dressed in saffron-colored breeches and shirt and a black vest. The other men wear long, faded black shifts with a rope at the waist. All huge. All my kind.
    An island of monsters.
    I circle my arms around my knees and tuck my chin into my chest and close my eyes and rock. This cannot be real. I am delirious. The mirror malady, the illness that’s gradually stealing all my strength, must be addling me. Will I die now, alone?
    “What’s the matter with you? Get up at once!”
    “Stop that! You’re frightening her, Papà.”
    I open my eyes and peek at the group from between my knees. Children don’t talk to their fathers like that.
    The girl comes to stand between me and her father.
    “Step aside, Bianca.”
    “No. You have to be nice to her. She’s shy. Mamma would have wanted you to be nice to her.”
    The man’s face softens. All at once I understand that the girl’s mother is dead. Just as mine is. A knot forms in my chest.
    “And she can’t answer you anyway,” says Bianca. “She can’t speak.”
    “I can speak.” This is a dream of delirium. I might as well reveal myself. I stand and let my arms drop to my sides. If I could stand up for myself on my island against real adversaries, I can stand up against imagined ones. I move so that Bianca and I trade places. It is me who intervenes between father and child now. In my hallucination, I am her shield.
    “Where did you come from?” says the father.
    “Across the water.”
    “Where?”
    “My land. My realm.”
    “What are you talking about? Who are you?”
    “Princess Dolce.”
    “You’re a princess?” says Bianca. She looks up in wonder. “Why are you dressed like that?”
    “I escaped.”
    “Tell me more,” says the father.
    “You must know. You know everything that’s in my head. Hallucinations are that way.”
    The father opens his mouth in obvious confusion. His nose is like his daughter’s, standing out sharply from between straight cheeks. I put my hands on my own flat cheeks. I desperately want to reach up—imagine that! me, reaching up—to place my hands on his face. Why hold back?
    I put my hands on the man’s cheeks. He makes a quick intake of breath. His skin feels real. Funny thought. What do I know of men’s faces?
    “She slept on the beach,” says Bianca. “She’s dirty. Can I help her bathe?”
    “I’ll prepare water,” says one man.
    “I’ll prepare bread and figs,” says another.
    “Neither of you can wash her,” says Bianca.
    “Of course not,” says the first man. “We will leave her in your care.”
    Bianca gives me an imperious look, then turns and walks away. I don’t want to stop touching this vision of a man. I search his eyes. This is a good dream, for I can see he’s not sure he wants me to stop touching him. I drop my hands and follow Bianca.
    “We’re not through talking yet,” says the father.
    Bianca and I stop and look back.
    “Shouldn’t you address her as ‘Princess’?” says Bianca.
    “We’re not through talking yet. Get clean. Eat. Rest. But then we talk. Princess.”

F aint light comes through the lone window. Bianca holds a saltcellar in one hand and a cup of tan-colored liquid in the other. “For your teeth.”
    I reach for both.
    “No, the salt first. Then you rinse with the flavored water. You dip your finger in the water to start, though, so the salt will stick to it.”
    I rub my teeth clean. It feels good. Then I rinse and spit into the cup. “What flavor is that?”
    “Cinnamon.” She laughs. “Don’t you know cinnamon?”
    I shake my head.
    “Do you like it?”
    I nod.
    “Well, good. Take that dirty smock off. Everything,