Henri kept his arm around me as we left the elevator and passed through the lobby and into the grand foyer, where we drew curious gazes from guests and staff alike. My dignity protested, but I would have fallen without support.

Cold sweat dampened my undershirt. Maroon carpets, patterned brocade, and flashes of marble, gold, and glass swirled in my vision. Dizzy, I leaned more heavily on Henri, who himself relied on the aid of his walking stick.

A frowning concierge blocked our path, probably hoping to stop a pair of drunken guests from stumbling forth into the street and tarnishing the hotel's reputation.

"Is everything all right here, sirs?" he asked.

"Food poisoning, I fear," Henri murmured, earning sympathy and then alarm from those who overheard.

The concierge stepped aside at once and let us pass.

On the darkened street outside, I drank in the night air and my head cleared a little. Henri waved to a waiting cab, which drew up alongside the curb. The driver hopped out and came around to open the rear door for us, and I fell inside. Henri followed more gracefully.

The door shut, the driver got back behind the wheel, and scents of leather, tobacco, and a hint of motor oil tinged the air. It made a welcome change, and as the car pulled forward and accelerated, I leaned my head against the top of the bench seat.

"I'm sorry," I sighed. "I've ruined everything."

"You have not," Henri countered mildly. "I had seen enough already. In fact, I wondered if you might prefer the theater to the auction hall, when I noted your absence. What happened?"

I shut my eyes. "Nothing."

Henri roused me with a gentle nudge. "Not nothing. You are white as a bedsheet and trembling."

I glanced up at the driver, and shook my head. "Just take me home, please."

Henri leaned forward and spoke with the man at the wheel, making some signs with his hands. When he settled back again, he watched me closely.

"You may speak freely around Arthur," he said.

"Artoor?" Confused, I did my best to mimic his pronunciation.

"Oui. He was an artilleryman. The constant shelling left him deaf. I employ him now."

It was then I understood why the cab had seemed so fine: it was not a cab at all, but Henri's private car. The name Hispano-Suiza graced the steering wheel in polished chrome.

"He cannot hear," Henri continued, "but regardless, I trust him with my life. Please, you need not relay details, but I would like to know what has transpired."

He deserved to know — deserved to know what a mess I'd made of things — and so I told him what Paul had said, and what we both had done. My voice sounded dull in my own ears, as if I spoke of someone else: a stranger, or a character in a play. When I finished, some minutes passed before Henri said anything, and I'd nearly fallen asleep to the quiet rumble of the car.

"Barrington... He has not raised his hand to you before?"

I looked out the window into the darkness, but saw only my pale reflection in the glass.

"Ah."

A defense rose to my lips, unbidden. "He might have struck me once or twice, but it wasn't the same."

I half expected him to interrogate me as a policeman would; to lay bare that 'might have' meant 'had,' and that 'once or twice' meant more than that, but he asked only a simple question.

"What was different?"

The truth rose within me, and I curled around the hurt of it.

"There was no love left. Either for him, or for me."

Henri said nothing more, and turned away to spare me further shame.

Some moments later, the car came to a stop. I dried my face and looked out to see Spruce Street instead of Mantua Avenue.

"I thought you were taking me home."

"And I did," Henri said, as he waited for his driver to come around and open the door for him.

"I don't live here."

"No. I do." He turned to look at me and sighed. "Alec, I cannot, in good conscience, leave you alone tonight. If you will not stay, then I will stay with you. But, respectfully, I believe you will be more comfortable here."

I meant to laugh, but only a soft, weary sound escaped me. Even if I had the energy to fight him, he wasn't wrong.

"Fine. I suppose if you're willing to put me up for the night, I can't complain."

Henri stepped from the car and then turned to lend me a hand getting out. "Good. I can send Arthur around to your place, if there is anything you cannot do without, and I will provide the rest."

I thought for a moment and then shook my head. "No, there's nothing I need."

Henri led me inside and upstairs, past his study and down the hall to a plain white door. He opened it to reveal a spacious bedroom.

"This room and the attached lavatory are yours for as long as you wish," he said. "Make yourself at home. I will fetch you a set of sleepwear."

He excused himself and left me alone.

I took in my surroundings: lavender walls with white trim and dove-gray accents; clean hardwood floors and dark, elegant furnishings. A painting of waterlilies, replete with purple and reminiscent of Monet, hung above the bed.

It was a room to rest in.

Henri returned. I couldn't say how long he'd been gone, or how long I'd stood there. He left me again, and I ran a bath to wash the pomade from my hair and Paul's touch from my skin. When I had finished, I lay down and surrendered to a weariness that demanded something deeper than sleep.

***

The ugliness with Paul aside, I had made more use of my gift than was good for me, and the piper, as they say, must be paid.

In my mind, I thought I would accept Henri's hospitality out of politeness, spend a single night in his house, and return to my solitude and business as usual the following day.

Instead, a fever and delirium took me, which lasted for some weeks.

In my lucid hours, I apologized and hoped to die, as I lay against pillows and clean sheets, changed daily; in my nightmare state, I know not what I said or did.

Sometimes I woke to Henri at my side, pressing a damp cloth to my brow; sometimes it was Arthur, or a woman I didn't recognize. More than once I thought Dr. Katz leaned over me.

At last, my fever broke, and I came to myself on a warm spring day, with a light breeze teasing the gauzy curtains at an open window.

I don't know how long I lay there, my mind blissfully blank as a raw canvas, before the door opened and Henri entered, bearing a tray.

Seeing me awake, surprise and pleasure lit his face. He set the tray aside and came to me, taking my hand in his. My fingers looked so thin and white against his own — almost skeletal — that I shuddered to think how the rest of me appeared.

"Alec."

My name was all he said, as if hoping I would recognize it.

"Henri."

My voice sounded thin and dry. I cleared my throat and coughed feebly.

"What day is it?" I asked.

"Monday."

I furrowed my brow at him. He smiled.

"Monday, the twelfth of April, the year of our lord, nineteen twenty-six."

April! The auction had been in the third week of March.

"My work..."

I attempted to rise. Henri held me back. The weight of his hand was enough to prevent me from sitting up.

"Alec — rest. I understand better than you think, and you have been very ill. Be gentle with yourself."

I surrendered and lay back again. "I've trespassed on your hospitality. Forgive me."

Henri smiled. "Think nothing of it. You must excuse my forwardness, but when you fell ill, I sent Arthur to collect some things from your home, including your address book and calendar. I called the families you tutor and informed them of this disruption in your schedule. They were most understanding."

"You are too kind to me. I don't know how I shall repay you."

"You shall not."

"But surely I—"

He held up his hand and pressed his lips together, as he did when searching for the right words to express himself and be understood.

"You owe me nothing. My time and money are neither gifts nor loans," he said. "They are simply provisions. It is mere good fortune to be born into great wealth, and my privilege to provide for my friends. Think: if our places were exchanged, would you not do the same?"

He was right, and yet I still hesitated to take him at his word. "Don't you worry that your friends will take advantage?"

He smiled. "That is why I choose them with great care. And yes," he added, perhaps sensing my lingering uncertainty, "I count you among them, Alec."

I hardly knew what to say to this, but thankfully Henri did not let me flounder in awkwardness for long.

"Here," he said, retrieving the tray and setting it on the bed, "I've brought you some broth. But now that you're awake, I'm sure you'll be wanting something more substantial. I will ask Marguerite to make some soup."

"Margeurite?"

"She is Arthur's wife, and my housekeeper and cook. I shall alert Dr. Katz, as well. He will want to know you are awake."

"So he was here," I murmured. "I thought I dreamed him."

"I got his name and number from his card, which Arthur had the foresight to retrieve. We did not get along at first, but we've come around to one another."

The thought of them together made me smile: Dr. Katz had a brusque forthrightness that I imagined would rub like steel wool against Henri's continental elegance.

The good doctor came at once, fussed over me for half an hour, and left with clear instructions I was not to exert myself in the slightest until he gave his approval. Tired by the time he left, I could not have disobeyed him if I had wanted to.

For his part, Henri insisted I remain with him until I had made a full recovery. I wondered if he would soon regret befriending me, but if he did, he gave no sign of it, and cared for me better than any nursemaid.

By the end of the week, Dr. Katz grudgingly permitted me to venture forth on short walks in Washington Square Park. Marguerite's cooking did me equal good, and soon I could look at my reflection and see a man I recognized.

I learned that she and Arthur did not live with Henri, as he preferred his privacy and had purchased a second house for them nearby. Arthur kept the car there, as well as more of Henri's collections. I found this arrangement to my liking, and enjoyed the quiet hours when Henri and I had the place to ourselves.

Henri told me stories of France before the war, of his boyhood in Bordeaux and years at university, and of his travels in Europe, the Mediterranean, and North Africa. I relayed my own history, and though far less interesting than his own, he listened with careful attention.

I avoided mentioning Paul at first, but gradually I revealed it piece by piece: our boyhood bond, the bloom of affection; how I hadn't seen until too late that I amused him.

Henri asked no questions, but his expressive features displayed his understanding. He allowed me to tell what I wished, and to withhold what must remain unsaid.

He made me feel at home, but by the end of a fortnight, I feared to overstay my welcome. As we sat opposite one another over a dinner of roast chicken and braised greens, my preoccupation drew his attention.

"You are quiet tonight," he noted, a slice of chicken speared on the end of his fork. "Is everything all right?"

I smiled and rested my utensils on my plate, having finished my meal. "Yes. Very much so. In fact, I was thinking it's about time I left you in peace."

To my surprise, he looked unhappy with this idea. "You are not imposing."

I laughed. "I can't stay your guest forever. Besides, I've got to get back to my life, such as it is."

Henri set down his fork and frowned. "I disagree. I think you had better not go."

My humor faded. His manner seemed strange. "What's this about?" I asked uneasily. "Did... Did Dr. Katz tell you something he hasn't told me?"

"No, certainly not. I would not withhold such information. However..." He sighed. "I did not tell you in the interest of your peace of mind, but perhaps I have waited too long."

I leaned forward. "What is it? Please tell me, Henri."

"I sent Arthur to your house several times to retrieve clean clothes and other of your personal items, and to check on the security of your house. On his second visit, he discovered that someone else had been there, perhaps to look for you."

"Paul."

"Most likely. When Arthur alerted me to this, I went myself. Your things were in order — nothing taken, nothing disturbed — except for one item."

Dread tingled along my nerves as a terrifying certainty settled upon me like a vulture shadow. "The painting."

He nodded. "Yes. I regret to tell you, but it is gone."