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Tones.” They talked about the use of color, of how to use a romantic blur without being sentimental—“I abhor sentimentality,” she told him. They found more aerial photos, pictures taken from tethered hot-air balloons, kites, even small rockets. Maybe it was the fact of Cymbeline’s time in Dresden drawing to a close that edged their many conversations into more personal topics.
    “Cymbeline, Cymbeline,” Julius said, “is that a common name for American girls?”
    “My father has some interesting ideas about women, like giving them men’s names. He once made us live in a spiritual commune on the Strait of Juan de Fuca in Washington.”
    “A spiritual commune? Like a place of ghosts?”
    “No, but he believes in those too.”
    “I would like to meet this father of yours.”
    Then there were times when Cymbeline felt they were speaking in code; she would offer an opinion, say, about the recent hunger strikes of the jailed militant British suffragettes, and the increasing violence toward women, and Julius’s ambiguous response about being “allowed to be who you are” would leave her to wonder what, exactly, they were talking about. It was similar to when her family members would have loud, lively and slightly aggressive political discussions that seemed to have little to do with politics and everything to do with the friction between certain family members. All those unresolved disagreements that cannot be addressed directly lest the confrontation cause permanent damage, the unkind words and frustrations laid bare. Much better to dress it up in something like politics.
    Her confusion was that Julius sought her out, seeming to enjoy her company, but in what way she wasn’t entirely sure. There were times when she felt nothing but the warmth of friendship and professional camaraderie. It was the other times that threw her, when she was aware of a spark much like the little flash from the day they ran into each other at The Procession of Princes. Most likely she was simply one more temporary student-friend in a long line of temporary student-friends. It seemed so unsurprising, that students and professors sharing the same interests would share a friendship. Then the students grew up, moved on, or went home (like Cymbeline) while Julius remained in place. And maybe he was a little lonely too?
    Cymbeline also noticed him “giving her the once-over twice,” as her sister Ruby would say. Cymbeline was shy around men; she was not shy around Julius.
    Then there were the times when he seemed to disappear outside of class and she wouldn’t see him for days. And other times when he was with her—yet not with her—and she knew enough not to ask where he was when his attention was so clearly elsewhere.
    She told herself it was a German thing, something cultural that she didn’t understand. She told herself that she didn’t ask because she didn’t want to be rude, when, in truth, she didn’t want to know. It had occurred to her that he might be married; no one wants to be in love with a married man. There. She admitted it. She was in love with Julius Weisz.
    Berlin, 1910
    The trip to Berlin came about because Julius told her, “You really should see Berlin before you leave.” Though she very much wanted to visit Berlin, if for no other reason than that it was the city of Alfred Stieglitz, she demurred. “What would be your hesitation?” he asked.
    Going away with you, she wanted to say, because I have no idea what it means to go away with you. Instead she said, “I’m not sure I have the money for it.”
    They would take the train, he said, spend the day and return thatevening. “You will be my guest,” he said. “Cymbeline, you have never seen anything like Berlin. It’s one of those cities that can’t be mistaken for someplace else.”
    So this is how Cymbeline ended up disembarking from a train at the Anhalter Bahnhof, a vast cathedral of a train station flooded with light and possessing four