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lessons to learn, haven’t we?”
    â€œI suppose that we do,” said Lucy, finding the sentiment, and indeed the man himself vaguely threatening. Hoping to mask this feeling, Lucy casually removed his pipe from his pocket, to study and admire it. The man took an interest as well, and asked if he might have a look for himself. Lucy handed the pipe across, and the man held it this way and that. He nodded his appreciation. “This is a very fine pipe.”
    â€œThank you,” said Lucy.
    â€œVery fine indeed.”
    â€œThank you, yes. May I have it back, please?”
    The man returned the pipe, but there was an unhappiness in his eyes, as though to part with it pained him. When Lucy tucked the pipe away in his breast pocket, the man stared at Lucy’s chest.
    The mountains had eclipsed the sun and the compartment dropped to a cold coloring; the conductor passed in the corridor, stating it would soon be time to disembark. The man stood as the train eased into the station.
    â€œWhat’s your name, boy?” he asked.
    â€œLucy.”
    â€œLucy? I like that. I’m Memel.” He pointed out the window. “And there’s your new home.”
    The Castle Von Aux stood a half mile beyond the station; Lucy could make out a broad, crenellated outer curtain wall and two conical towers. It was built at the sloping base of a mountain range, standing gray-black against the snow—a striking setting, but there was something chilling about it also. Lucy thought it was somehow too sheer, too beautiful.
    Memel was buttoning up his coat. Once accomplished, he did a curious thing, which was to tilt his head back and speak into the empty space before him: “Mewe,” he said. “We’ve arrived. Will you come out, yes or no? I’m sorry that we argued.” Bending at the waist, he peered under the bench and made a beckoning gesture. “Come on, already. What are you going to do? Stay here forever?”
    A boy rolled like piping from beneath Lucy’s bench and stared up at him. Lucy took in the boy’s features, which were a source of fascination; for whereas Memel was an old man who seemed far younger than his years, here was a boy of perhaps ten with the mark of bitter time impressed upon his face: a hollowness at the cheek, a bloodless pallor, wrinkles bunching at the corners of his eyes. When he extended his hand, Lucy shook it, but the boy, Mewe, said, “I meant for you to help me up.” Lucy did help him up, and now the three of them made for the exit. The wind was swirling snow outside, and Memel and Mewe flipped up the collars of their coats before disembarking. Only now did it occur to Lucy just who these people were.

9
    T hey stepped into the shin-high snow blanketing the platform. The station was a fallow cabin with its door half off the hinges and the windows knocked out. Animal tracks darted in and out of the homely structure but there were no human footsteps to be seen. Neither Memel nor Mewe had any baggage; they pushed on in the direction of the castle, punch-punching through the frosted snow, while Lucy stood awhile by the train tracks, preferring to be apart from these two. But when they noticed his falling behind they ceased walking and called for him to hurry along, that they might travel together. Lucy could think of no alternative other than to fall in line, and so he did this, saying to himself, I am alone with two bloodthirsty thieves. We are walking into an anonymous field of pale snow. Hoping to keep their criminal minds occupied with chatter, Lucy spoke, asking Memel if Mewe was his son, or grandson. Memel said no, they were merely friends.
    â€œNot today we’re not,” said Mewe.
    â€œNo, that’s true. Today we’re not friends. But normally, yes.”
    â€œWhy aren’t you friends today?” Lucy asked Mewe.
    Mewe shook his head. “Memel likes to talk; he’ll tell you.”
    â€œYou’ll only