Allam wandered through the shop, lifted objects, turned them every which way, inquired about provenance. He was curious, appreciated the worn splendour of old things. He inspected three railroad watches in a display case. He spoke knowledgeably about the jewellery business but did not elaborate.

What was clear was that Allam, like Tom, wanted to believe that the truly beautiful objects were those that had been cared for lovingly—a hundred, a hundred and fifty, two hundred years in the past.

Early on, when he’d started up his business, Tom had convinced himself that he could tell which objects had been possessed by caring owners. There was an intimacy to acquiring something others had owned and loved. A sense of personal history passed on. Each owner had been a custodian, a temporary guardian. Each object had been entrusted to someone’s care. The nineteenth-century dough box, for instance, purchased during the summer. How he wished Ida were alive to see it. Table height. Solid pine. Thick legs squared by an artisan who had taken pride in his work. The lid—almost the length of a door—was thick and heavy, with smoothed, rounded corners. With lid removed, the box—more like a table, really—was deep, and Tom was certain it had been in the daily service of someone who’d baked bread for a family with a dozen children, and extra farm workers, too. No nails pounded in, thick boards held together by rounded wooden pegs. How many hundreds or even thousands of loaves had risen inside the dough box over time? He was reluctant to sell the piece and considered bringing it home. For now, he had a discreet sign on top: Not for Sale. By keeping it in the shop, he could share its beauty with others. If he did decide to sell, he knew it could be used in several ways: for objects stored, objects secreted away. And certainly as a dough box, if anyone baked that quantity of loaves anymore. He watched Allam run a hand over the surface. He watched him admire the grain of wood, the polish, the overall perfection.

“Rig’ma’role,” said Allam as he returned to the chair by the desk. He spoke with precision, articulated as if each consonant was a word of its own. “I am liking the name you choose for your shop, Toe-mas. I once had a dream of creating a sign in a shop window that would read ‘Master of Complications.’ Lives have complications, you know that. The people want to discuss, sort problems, stay alert. Always, it is necessary to stay alert.” Again, he did not elaborate.

Tom, sensing tragedy, did not ask. He knew little of Allam’s background, but wondered if he might be interested in coming to Cassie’s to meet the others. It wouldn’t hurt to offer information.

“Earlier this week, Allam, I attended a discussion group. A meeting—small group. Five people turned up. Four women and me.”

“For what was this meeting?” Allam looked wary but curious.

“Have you been to Marvin’s Groceries?”