Before Iris could ask what she was supposed to understand—she thought she knew, but she wanted to hear him say it—Sasha made a tiny, sad smile, smacked his palm against his thigh, and stood up.

“I’ve got to be back at the embassy, I’m afraid. Say, when do they let you out of here? I’d go nuts, if I were you.”

“Soon, I hope.”

He stared down at her face, and for a moment Iris thought he might bend down and kiss her. Then he did—so swiftly that later she’d wonder if she only imagined it.

“See you tomorrow?” he said.

BUT HE DIDN’T COME back the next day, or the next. Iris stared at the vases of flowers, all lined up on the metal nightstand next to the bed, and wondered if Sasha regretted that instant of intimacy. Maybe he’d realized he’d shared too much of himself, or worried he’d led her to think he was in love with her, when of course he wasn’t. How could he be? They hardly knew each other.

On the second Friday after the accident, Ruth carried in a pair of crutches and announced that the hospital was kicking Iris out to make room for some poor slob having his appendix removed. She helped Iris change into a dress, brushed her hair, applied some lipstick. She packed up Iris’s things, including all the vases of flowers—she shoved them all into one vase, as if they weren’t important—and carried them capably out the door and down the corridor to the taxi waiting outside the hospital, while Iris hobbled along beside her, small and mortified and crippled.

SIX MONTHS HAD PASSED since Iris and Ruth arrived in Rome, and still Iris caught her breath whenever they turned the corner of Via dei Polacchi and their apartment came into view. They were here because of Harry. Last September, on the first anniversary of Mother’s death, Harry had sent a telegram that went something like

HAIL SISTERS STOP STATE DEPT REQUESTS YOURS TRULY REMAIN ROME ANOTHER YEAR STOP HOW ABOUT YOU JOIN ME STOP YOURS EVER HARRY