Silence in the hall. Around me the great wooden beams seemed to flex and settle. Again that strange sense of a living house, breathing. At the far end the door to the kitchen was open. And a sound from closer by. A soft object lifted from a hard surface.

“You may keep your shoes on,” I heard Bror call after me.

“Thank you!” I shouted. I took them off all the same.

The second door on the left was ajar. A shadow crossed the doorframe. There was Arno, shoes in one hand, a small overnight bag in the other. His face betrayed him: something hasty and furtive, though he tried to smile it away.

“Hi, Arno,” I said. “Good to see you.”

“Hei.” He stood facing me, pulling the door handle toward him.

“Did you just . . . ?” I said, unsure if I’d imagined it, but he stepped past me and down the hall, was on the porch now stepping into his shoes, waving to his mother.

I turned toward the door to the second room. Imperceptibly ajar.

In the courtyard Arno was climbing into the car, was embracing his mother. Bror was smiling down on them, benevolent and kind, his arms held wide.

What did Arno not want me to see? The door had not clicked shut. Tempting to lean against it, just to see. But if it gave, what then? Because when Bror turned I would be in his line of sight.

I heard Bror slam Arno’s car door shut. I turned to watch him. He said a few words to Arno’s mother and waved her away. Now he was striding toward the house as the red cabriolet arced out of the courtyard and along the track toward the main road.

I stood in the hallway, waiting, arms folded across my chest.

“What did you mean by ‘something wonderful’?” I said as he crossed the threshold. “Was it Licia?”

He gave the broadest of smiles. “How is her breathing?”

“Cured,” I said. “Almost.”

“Then why do I see trouble in your eyes?”

“Was she living here with you?”

He laughed gently. “There would be a cruelty in that, would there not?” He put a steadying hand on my arm. “For Alicia Curtis to have been here, and for you to have been here, and for me not to have told you? Surely you do not think me cruel?”

The idea was absurd. And yet . . .

“Who was she with?”

“Good people.” He must have caught the look in my eye.

“Why did she leave us?”

He smiled, but his eyes flicked to the side as he gathered his thoughts. “Wouldn’t you rather hear the whole thing from her?”

“She hasn’t spoken.”

“You must have faith, Cal. I guarantee that Licia will speak. And soon.” He placed his hand on my arm. For a moment I felt truly understood. He was so good at this, and yet . . .

I said, “Has she spoken to you?”