Ana smiled tensely and took her change. The woman nodded thanks for the tip.

At the table, Pars was waiting. Ana set her tray down and looked at the plate of steaming dal. She’d pretty much lost her appetite.

Later, she brought Pars back to her loft. She hadn’t been there in two days. It was odd having Pars there; he seemed to provide some kind of protection, a force field. He paced the wooden floors, picked books off the shelf. Ana boiled water for tea. On the bookshelf were bound issues of The Auk. Pyle’s Identification Guide to North American Passerines. The Bird Collectors by Barbara and Richard Mearns. Bub’s Bird Trapping and Banding. Pars pulled out a copy of Cladistics.

He’s got an article in that one. Ana pointed with the teapot.

Russell does, she added.

Really, Pars said.

She brought the tea to the kitchen table. Pars sat with the journal. The pot steamed in the cold sunlight. There were shoes in the corner. Weejuns. Size eight. Out the window the traffic on the bridge was an alloy of fluid steel.

Where are you staying? Ana asked.

A Holiday Inn.

I didn’t even know there was one.

I think it’s on Lafayette, he said.

She set two brown cups with saucers on the table and began pouring milk into each, then stopped herself.

Oh crap. I forgot. No milk.

It doesn’t matter, he said.

She took the cup and dumped it in the sink, came back with a small glass and sugar bowl.

You remember?

Yes, she said. Russell was very particular about his tea. Two bags of Typhoo, three minutes in the pot. Milk first. Tea on top. I remember.

She poured the tea into his glass, and then filled her own cup.

Pars spooned sugar, two, three, then four teaspoons into the glass.

He looked up at her guiltily while stirring.

It’s a family habit, he confessed.

He removed the Strand bag from his coat pocket and pushed it across the wooden table.

This is for you, he said.

She put her cup down.

Please, not another gift.

Okay. Consider it a loan.

She took the book from the bag—Selected Poems of Hafiz—and opened the cover tentatively.

In Iran, Pars explained, there’s a tradition of using Hafiz for telling fortunes. A bit like the I Ching. Except with Hafiz, he said, you open to any page and it gives you the fortune.

Convenient, Ana said.