‘You know,’ I said, forcing the words to unroll evenly, ‘you were named for a saint.’ ‘For real?’ I nodded. ‘She founded a group of nuns called the Poor Clares.’ She glanced at me. ‘Why did you pick her?’ Because, on the day you were born, the nurse who handed you to me shook her head and said, ‘Now there’s a sight for sore eyes.’ And you were. And she is the patron saint of that very thing. And I wanted you protected, from the very first moment I spoke your name. ‘I liked the way it sounded,’ I lied,
