A water spaniel, all wavy brown coat and droopy ears, occupied a flannel bed beside the stove. It raised rheumy eyes at me and sniffed. I wondered what would happen if it caught the smell of the wolf on me—some dogs seriously freaked—but it sighed and lowered it hoary chin onto its paws.

“This is Plum,” said Mariëtte. “She was the professor’s boon companion. Plum survived the incident in the boat. Someone found her roaming the shore, barking at the water, presumably where my father-in-law had gone in. She hasn’t been the same since the tragedy. I believe her spirit was broken that day.”

“Oh, please,” said the daughter, whose own accent was generically American. “That dog has always been a sad sack.”

“Bibi!”

Mariëtte had chosen a seat for me, facing the room instead of the scenery. A Christmas tree dominated one corner: a nonnative Scotch pine with bristling branches. The decoration was minimal: red ribbons, silver globes. A manger scene with pewter figurines—shepherds, angels, magi—was artfully arranged on a blanket at the base.

“Your house is very beautiful, Mrs. Chamberlain. And very festive.”

“Christmas was the professor’s favorite holiday. Bibi and I have sought to keep his memory alive by continuing his traditions. But it only makes his absence more pronounced, I think.”

The mother sat down across from me, so she could watch the radiant fields over my shoulders. Her daughter settled into a love seat to her right. The natural light brought out the vivid blueness of both their eyes.

“You’re joining us, Bibi?” said Mariëtte.

The daughter removed an electric cigarette from her shirt pocket. It looked like a USB drive the length of a pencil. As she inhaled from one end, a blue light glowed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Mariëtte Chamberlain served the coffee from a polished pot. The cup was bone china, as was the plate on which she had spread an assortment of cookies. They were certainly not home-baked.

It seemed necessary to begin with a pleasantry. “Do I understand that you’re South African by birth, Mrs. Chamberlain?”

Out of the corner of my eye I caught Bibi grimace.

Her mother’s lips tightened; she had difficulty spitting out a response. “No, I am Rhodesian.”

Seeing my distress, Bibi said, “You might know the country today under the name of Zimbabwe.”

It was possible Rivard had set me up, knowing the ire I would elicit referring to South Africa, but it was just as likely that Marc didn’t know about the bloody histories of the former British colonies. He’d never been interested in the past, anyone else’s past at least. His own grievances and grudges, on the other hand, were sources of endless preoccupation.