ONE AFTERNOON IN June, when Marya had been Maximilian Fein’s lover for less than a week, she happened to encounter Ernest Slater on the steps of the graduate college. She saw how his eyes moved swiftly over her, how his mouth shaped itself into its usual ironic pose. She noted for the first time his disconcerting youth—his air of being somehow unfledged, not yet entirely formed, despite his high intelligence. She noted too the narrow wedding band on his left hand.

He had a sharp eye, did Ernest. What was that remarkable old book she was carrying? could he see it?

“Musaeum hermeticum—in an 1820 edition? How did you get hold of this?” he marveled. He leafed through it, examined it closely, taking his time while Marya stood close by, her cheeks smarting. He said, “You must be researching medieval alchemy: it is a fascinating subject. Making gold out of base metals . . . making something precious out of something quite worthless.” When Marya said nothing he went on, rapidly, “I’ve never known it to be his custom to lend out books, any books at all, let alone something of such rarity—Fein, I mean. This is his book, I assume?”

Marya had no choice but to say yes. She said it quietly, almost inaudibly. Without either the sense of triumph or the frightened guilt she felt.

IT WAS MAXIMILIAN Fein, of all persons, who told Marya she must try to locate her mother before too much more time elapsed. Fein, with his reputation for being cold, self-absorbed, resolutely unsentimental.

But I have no idea how to locate her, Marya said at once.

Of course you have some idea, Fein said. Don’t be childish.

Marya was deeply shocked, offended, rather angry. She did feel like a child caught out in deceit. She had thought—in fact she had been quite confident—that her lover would assure her she was better off without such a mother; that things had certainly worked out for the best, with a creature like Vera Sanjek absent from her life.

Marya repeated, less certainly, that she wouldn’t know how even to begin any kind of search. Her mother had been missing for so many years . . . she had made inquiries about her, now and then . . . it really didn’t seem to be her responsibility, did it, and not her mother’s . . . ?

And in any case, Marya said, her aunt and uncle would be insulted.

She loved them, she said. She didn’t want to hurt them.

Fein was putting his glasses back on, adjusting them in his slow, rather distracted way. He seemed suddenly indifferent to their conversation, as if the subject had been dropped.

I don’t want to hurt people who have been good to me, Marya whispered, when . . . when she abandoned me . . . my brothers and me . . . when she’s worthless . . . she doesn’t deserve. . . . I’ve been told even that she was probably sent to prison for a while, she may even have died there for all I know, she’s really nothing to me now.