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met our joy at the miracle of the other, of that dear face, spoke it too. Sometimes we slept in each other’s arms on breathless afternoons when the murmur of the sea was our distant lullaby; sometimes we wandered along the beach, hand in hand, the water at first so cold it made us cry out; sometimes I lay with my head resting in his lap while he read me poetry, the tragic love of Dido, Queen of Carthage, and her consort, Aeneas. And when he came to the part when Aeneas abandoned her and sailed across the African ocean to the farther shore of Italy, Augustine would touch my face and say: “I would never leave you.”

    When I entered the house that evening, I expected to hear my uncle’s angry shouts, my aunt’s shrill scolding at the lateness of the hour. Augustine and I had lost track of the hour and we had had to run all the way home. I was hot and tired and longed only for bed. Instead, all was quiet except for the low murmur of voices coming from the kitchen. Unwinding my head scarf and trailing it behind me along the floor, I carried the basket into the kitchen. My aunt and uncle were sitting at the table and with them a man I didn’t recognize.
    â€œThis is my niece,” my aunt said, getting up. The man also rose although my uncle stayed seated. “My dear brother’s girl.”
    My father had never been dear to my aunt that I could tell and she had never called him anything but lazy and good-for-nothing and worse. I shot her a look and saw that she was smiling at me, a kind of stretching of the lips for appearance’s sake but her eyes were black with fury at the way I looked—hair escaping from its coil, my clothes in disarray, my hands and feet grubby, my lips when I licked them tangy with salt.
    â€œExcuse me,” I said. “I’m very tired.” I longed to lie on my bed and think about the day, the waves crashing on the shore, the quality of Augustine’s silence when he listened to me talk, the sound of his voice when he replied. I was already turning to go but my aunt had crossed the room and half led, half dragged me to the table, her fingers digging into my arm.
    â€œHave some wine,” she said, pouring me a beaker. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
    I glanced at the man. He was wiry and slightly stooped in the shoulders with thinning brown hair combed forward over his brow. His eyes were heavily wrinkled at the corners as if he was always squinting in the sun although his skin was pale. He smiled at me tentatively. He looked very old to me, perhaps thirty or so, but seemed harmless enough. I drained my wine, nodded to him, and started to get up. I had eaten very little that day and the wine made me dizzy.
    â€œSit,” my uncle said.
    â€œIf I may?” the man said, darting a look at my aunt.
    She nodded.
    â€œMy name is Paulinus,” he said, addressing me. “I am scribe to the bishop.”
    Now I realized why the skin around his eyes was so worn. He took dictation all day. That also accounted for the pallor of his skin, for it seldom saw the sun. When he picked up his beaker I saw the fingertips of his right hand were stained with ink. The rounding of his shoulders was from perching on a stool and bending over parchment like the scribes of the Roman tax collectors who sat in the forum recording the coins people dropped reluctantly into the iron-banded money boxes guarded by soldiers.
    â€œPaulinus is a Christian,” my aunt said.
    I looked at her and back at him. For a moment, I thought my aunt had hired him to tutor me in letters, and then all at once I understood. This man was to be my husband. This night was to have been our betrothal dinner.
    I pushed myself up from the table so that my stool scraped the floor.
    â€œIf you will excuse me,” I said.
    Paulinus looked down, his face so dejected I almost felt sorry for him.
    â€œYou will stay,” my uncle said in a voice I had learned to heed. I