On the second floor of the main house, Claartija deJong slept too. She dreamt of her parents and her brother; and in her vivid dream all of them were together in a car, driving through a tunnel in the Alps.

Orfeo Raskolov was the only one else awake. He’d gotten up with the dawn and was just now strolling along the path toward the main house. The first sun of the day fanned weakly through oyster clouds. A crow cawed somewhere overhead. He saw Kevin walking toward him on the path, a plastic bag in hand. The sun shone on the clear plastic, and Orfeo Raskolov knew immediately what the bag contained.

And so they all left Trachis Inn that day. First Mr. Liang went with Mrs. McIntyre to join his wife in Trachis Harbor. Then Orfeo Raskolov, who’d packed his bags that morning and took a taxi to the noon ferry. From there he was flying home to Sofia. Ana Gathreaux decided to leave as well that morning. There was no avoiding her life anymore. So what if they’d found nothing of Russell’s, or almost nothing—the blue Mont Blanc, she decided, might have been his after all. Before she left, Pars Mansoor came to her cottage to say good-bye. He was taking a later flight that afternoon, returning home to Berkeley. They hugged perfunctorily on the deck, and then he placed something in the palm of her hand.

What is it? she asked.

The stone was purple; she vaguely remembered him toying with it days earlier on the bus.

I’ve had it since I was boy, he explained. It’s from Shiraz.

I see. She smiled and held it out to him.

It’s for you, he said.

I can’t take this, she protested and tried putting it back in his palm.

He held both hands in the air.

No, no, he insisted. You keep it for a while; then, when you’re ready, you can give it back.

I can’t, she objected.

He crossed his arms and said: You must.

He stepped toward her. He took the sides of her head in his hands and kissed her forehead and said something in Farsi she couldn’t understand—though it didn’t seem to require translation.

The last to remain were Claartija deJong and Diana Olmstead. They watched the others depart from the inn, one and then another, all through the windy afternoon, with hugs and waves and leaves swirling on the drive, but no promises of seeing each other again, for what could possibly be the occasion?