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handsomer than the outside. Once you take it apart, how will you know where the pieces belong?”
    â€œI’m a genius,” he said.
    She laughed.
    After she left he munched rich apple pastry. What sort of life was it for her, shut up in this gloomy mansion, her days policed by ugly, disagreeable servants, her nights pinned down by the Major’s stout body? She’s a better paid version of Belle, that’s all, he told himself, and whores know what they let themselves in for. He opened his satchel.
    A tooth had broken. He hoped he could replace the pinion. Darkness already lapped at the windows, though, and by the time he could get downtown the jewelry shops would be closed.
    He went to the door. “Hallo,” he shouted, hoping Antonia would be the one to answer.
    Instead a large woman in a blue-striped nurse’s uniform descended the stairs. “ Je ne parle pas anglais ,” she said, her frilled cap bobbing.
    Tom knew a little French from dealing with Canuck cabinetmakers. He managed to explain that he would leave the clock as it was, and put it together when he returned with the necessary part the following morning.
    III
    A cold drizzle started falling as he went from shop to shop: by the time he reached the Major’s, rain was driving down. Sheltered by the portico he stamped, trying to get the water out of the pulpy cardboard that lined his soles. The front door opened.
    â€œMr. Bridger,” Antonia cried. “You’re drenched.”
    â€œSorry I’m late. I had a time getting the right size pinion.”
    As he hung his things to drip noisily into the tin-lined inset of the coatrack, she ran off. He was at the study fire, standing one-legged to warm the other numbed foot, when she maneuvered through the door with a tray that held a substantial platter of triangular sandwiches, a silver coffeepot, and a brick-shaped yellow cake as well as dishes and silverware for two.
    â€œIdeal weather for a picnic,” she said.
    That they were to share a meal delighted him and at the same time jabbed him with the identical guilt he would have experienced had he borrowed the Major’s gold-handled saber without permission. He remained standing as he ate roast beef sandwiches.
    She handed him a slice of cake. The dough was gummy and tasted of baking soda. Before he could swallow she shook her head. “Don’t say a word, not a word! Your expression says it all. My only excuse is it’s my first cake.”
    He downed the mess with coffee. “You’re a late starter.”
    â€œFather loved to travel and I grew up in inns and hotels across Europe. When I was little I truly believed food emerged whole-cooked from dumbwaiters. And note,” she added triumphantly, “it didn’t fall.”
    On the high throat of her shirtwaist, where most women wore a broach, she had pinned a yellow hothouse rose. Tom could smell its sweetness.
    â€œYou should leave here,” he heard himself say.
    She looked up. The rain was the only sound in the warm study. “But why?” she asked. “I’m happy.” The softening of her full underlip told Tom that she lied.
    â€œThis is wrong for you, all wrong.”
    â€œDetroit?”
    â€œWith all your traveling, you must speak a lot of languages. You could be a teacher.”
    One delicate black brow arched questioningly.
    â€œYour father’s dead, isn’t he?”
    She hesitated. “Ill.”
    â€œThen why not find another way to support yourself, and him?”
    She continued to look at him in perplexity. All at once she reddened to the hairline. The petals shook at her throat. “Ida’s hinted about Uncle, but she’s never come right out with the truth. So he did have them here.”
    For a moment, utterly confused, Tom saw only the rosy blur that was her blushing face.
    â€œYou really are his niece?”
    The pinkness had receded, leaving her cheeks vivid. Tilting her head