“I know. He has vaguely the right qualifications—and so have thousands of other men. No, Gini. It’s too neatly convenient, and it’s too damn far-fetched.”

“Far-fetched things do happen. Open any newspaper any day of the week—they’re full of far-fetched stories. Besides, is it that unlikely? Suppose Star was their child, and suppose he was fostered out or put in a home shortly after birth—he would have the right to be given his parents’ names when he reached a certain age. He could have tried to trace them.” She paused, then shook her head. “No. You’re right. It doesn’t stand up. How could he have traced them? Lazare and Cazarès have been very careful to cover their tracks.”

“I agree.” Rowland shrugged. “Even so—I thought it was at least worth instigating some inquiries. But I don’t seriously believe that is the connection between Lazare and Cazarès and Star. I wouldn’t even have considered it, but at the time—I’d had two nights with very little sleep. I was thinking of Cassandra, and I couldn’t forget the way I found her, how she looked…” He glanced away. “For that, and other reasons, my judgment was impaired, and I’m well aware of that.”

“What other reasons?”

“Work. Pressures of work. I’m still coming to terms with a relatively new job—a desk job, which is something I’ve never done before, something Max talked me into.” He hesitated, then turned back to face her. “Coming to terms with other changes in my life. And resisting them, of course.”

For a moment he thought she had picked up his inference; then he realized she had not. But something he had said had made her suddenly thoughtful. She picked up her fork again, then put it down. She had eaten only half her food. She pushed it aside with a gesture of apology, then seemed to forget it. She raised her eyes to his.

“Do people resist change? You think they do? Why, Rowland? Because they’re afraid?”

“Perhaps it’s fear. Change can be for the bad as well as the good,” he said in a guarded way. “So they cling to the known. Avoid the possible abyss.”

“Do you think—do people resist change in others, or just in themselves?”

He could see the importance of this question to her: “Yes, I do,” he said quietly. “In themselves, and in others. Both.”

“Why? Why do they do that?”

“Gini, for a hundred reasons—you know that. Because of the unpredictability of change. Because change can seem like betrayal, a treachery to people’s former selves.” He broke off, and Gini could see that he had suddenly brought himself up close to some experience painful to him. She saw the decision not to discuss it, or impart it, mask his face. “It’s pointless to resist,” he went on, after a while, in a quiet voice. “If the change involved is deep—not frivolous, superficial—I’m not sure that it even can be resisted. It will happen, like it or not. And sometimes”—he looked away again—“sometimes, if the change is very rapid, by the time you acknowledge it’s happened, it’s too late.”