Elizabeth kept her hand outstretched for a moment longer. Then she withdrew it and propped up her cheek again. The room, the white tabletop, the forks and knives, glasses and plates swam in her tears. The only motion of concealment she made was to turn her face a little into her palm, half covering her mouth. Otherwise, she wept resistlessly and almost silently, without attempting to find her handkerchief or even take her napkin from the table to wipe her eyes. She went on crying—for a long time, or so it seemed—while the Stricklands stood still in the middle of the kitchen, watching her, and not looking in the least astonished that a grown woman should cry because she was refused a glass of raspberry soda.

The sign, high up in the main hall of the airport, was decorated with an enormous cardboard watch and said in English

WELCOME TO GENEVA

PATEK PHILIPPE

“Anyone would think they were expecting some foreign dignitary,” said Cyril.

Elizabeth smiled, and put her hand in Greta’s. They were sitting on a sofa covered with hard red plastic. Unnerved by the climate of departure, they spoke disjointedly and were rigidly silent when a flight was announced. Elizabeth had buttoned up her black coat and put a scarf around her neck. Like most of the people in the airport, she looked inordinately sunburned for the raw gray day.

“At least, there’s no fog,” Greta said. “Though the bise is still blowing.” The drear, chilly wind had gone on for days. “Do you have your pills?”

Elizabeth touched her handbag. “I took one just before we set out. There are only three left, but I’ll be able to get more tomorrow.”

“I hate the idea of your going back to work.”

“It’s the best thing, isn’t it?”

An elegant woman walked past with a poodle on a leash.

“We should have brought Aurélien,” said Greta. “He would have enjoyed it.”

Elizabeth felt reconciled to the journey; like someone facing an operation, she only hoped she would behave well. She could not envisage her arrival or make plans for the resumption of her ordinary life. For over a week now, she had been managing to contend with each separate circumstance as it arose, and could look no further. The flight to New York at that time took sixteen hours, and she was ready to be overwhelmed by the prospect. Having taken the pill to stave off the worst of grief, she could not expect to sleep and must spend hours staring, upright, at the sky that was now to be associated with him always.

“Attention,” the voice said. They got to their feet, and Cyril picked up her overnight bag. They walked past glass cases filled with clocks and watches, and metal stands stacked with chocolate boxes.

“Would you like something?” Cyril asked her.

“Nothing. Thank you. Really.”

“Let me get you some chocolate.”