I wish I could tell you my name was Margaret or Esther or Agnes.
You would like that, I think. It would be easier.
We could be friends then.
But I am not Margaret or Esther or Agnes. I am not so simple as that.
I might tell you I have no name, that no one loved me enough to whisper an appellation to my soul so they could call me back home. I do not have a home or someone to call to me.
Or a soul, either, perhaps.
I live at the abbey in Tepla. My mother is dead. I know nothing of my father; no one will speak of him and I do not ask questions any more.
When I was born, no one prayed for any promise of my life, no hope of what I might become. No one gave thanks for what joy I might bring.
I do remember a lullaby and gentle hands and a soft breast. For just a moment.
Then the nursemaid carried me into the dark away from death. She put her lips to my ear, her breath quick and light with fear. The name she gave me, as she pleaded with me to be silent while we hid from my father, is the only name I have.
I am not sorry.
I am Mouse.
