She called me "little one."
She was so small herself, twisted and deformed like the those unfortunates men stare at after paying their money. Yet when she called me "little one" she was exactly right. I was a child to her, a beloved child, and this was a name my mother might have called me. Might have, only she didn't. My mother, as extraordinary a woman as she was, always wanted--needed--something in return for her love. She could not have helped that. But she who was my queen never seemed to demand anything from me. I don't know how or why.
I cannot imagine that I could hear "little one" from anyone else and be so glad it referred to me. It is my private name, reserved for her use alone, nothing like the name I toss about in all directions in the marketplace.
Her name was one thing I never learned.