“Paulus,” she said softly, but she knew better than to approach him in his distraught state. “Paulus, please talk to me.” And then, because she knew what he needed at this moment, “I’m worried about you.” A pang of remorse flew through her like an errant arrow. In one way or another, she had been manipulating people all her life, but Paulus was different. He was as vulnerable as a newborn once you got to know him. She did not love him, but she liked him, whereas most people pitied him. Their mistake.

He stood facing the sink, his back to her. His pale, long-fingered hands gripped the edge of the sink as if for dear life. He stared out the window at the garden she had created out of the postage-stamp-sized patch of ground.

“Do you grow vegetables as well as flowers?” he asked.

“Tomatoes and cukes,” she said.

“Did you ever try beans?”

“No.”

“You need poles for beans. They grow vertically, so you don’t need much room. You should try growing beans.”

“Okay. Would you help me?”

He turned suddenly, his face pale and stricken. “I’m the one who needs help.”

“Then let me help you.”

He blinked, as if slowly and carefully digesting her words. “I want to stay here.”

She smiled, nodding. “All right.” Sounding too eager would be a mistake. She sensed they were on a knife-edge. He could come toward her or bolt like a rabbit for his metaphorical warren, and then she would lose him. Trust was the only thing that mattered to a man whose life revolved around routine.

“You won’t mind?”

She ventured a smile. “I haven’t so far.”

That made him laugh, and she knew they had stepped off the knife-edge onto what he felt to be solid ground. He let go of the sink at last, crossed back into the living room, and sat on the sofa that was also his bed. She could see how much comfort it gave him. He always sat in the same spot—the corner where he could rest his left arm along the sofa’s arm.

She sat on a chair facing him, not wanting to insert herself into what she knew was his private space. “Paulus, I think it might be time to tell me what’s troubling you.” She paused for a moment. She was running purely on instinct. “Is it your subjects? Are you worried about them?”

“I am.”

His voice was so soft she had to lean forward to hear him. “Are they in danger?” She matched the volume and tone of his voice.

He stared down at his hands, which hung between his knees, the fingers twining and untwining as they had in the kitchen. “I don’t know.” Twining and untwining. “I’m terribly afraid he might be.”