The crossing was difficult. The only woman aboard, she felt exposed— naked—to the gazes of the crew. The captain, a fatherly Greek, apparently understood the situation and gave orders. After that, there was no more overt leering, although the men’s sidelong glances could not be misinterpreted. Yet, all that was hardly more than an embarrassment. Far worse was her growing sense of guilt over Philippe’s sacrifice. And there was Malik. By now, he must have accepted her death, must be grieving for her. Should she let him know that she was alive? Just a note?

No. Better for now that he know nothing at all.

In New Orleans, she filled out papers for status as a foreign student. She found a hotel that had child-care facilities, then went out to find a jeweler. The town did not match her picture of America—certainly not the America of Dallas. It was more Mediterranean, rather like Marseilles.

She passed the shop on Royal Street three times before going in. The name on the window was Jewish, raising prejudices with which she had been instilled since birth, but she liked the look of the place. The jeweler rose from a table to greet her, his loupe perched above his right eye.

“I want to sell some jewels,” she said simply, and emptied her case on the counter.

The old man looked for a moment, then said, “This is quality. This is beauty. May I ask your name, ma’am?”

“Sorrel.”

“Sorrel. Harvey Rothstein. A pleasure. Your name is French?” “Yes. I’m French by marriage.”

“I see. Well, Mme. Sorrel.” He lowered the loupe and inspected the jewels. Now and then, he sighed with pleasure. At length, he said, “I will buy these, even though I’ll have to borrow to do it.”

He named a figure. It seemed terribly low to Amira. She bargained. He raised the price, but not greatly. “You won’t get more,” he told her.

Something about the man, his open admiration of her jewels, made her trust him. “Very well. I’ll take it.”

“Come back tomorrow morning. I’ll have a cashier’s check.” He looked at the jewels for a moment more. “Mme … Sorrel, you must know that I’m offering only a fraction of what these pieces are worth. That’s only fair— first, because I must make a profit; second, because there are certain … risks involved. But this one, no.” He pushed the pigeon-blood ruby toward her. “That’s not part of the price. I recognize it, and so would any other fine jeweler in the world. Keep it. Forgive me if I predict that there will be better times for you, and you will have it then.”