“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You might want to watch where you’re going there.”

It was Tom the lodger, coming out of his room, a pile of books in his hand, stepping smartly back to avoid a collision.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see you there. Are you okay?”

“Small tip,” he said. “Make things easier for the future. When planning to propel yourself backwards through the air, check first to make sure the surrounding area is clear of human obstacles, okay?”

“Sorry,” she said again. But he was smiling. He was not a handsome man, fortyish, with sandy hair and mild brown eyes magnified by strong spectacles, but he had a surprisingly warm and open smile.

“Help you with the ladder?” he said.

“Thanks.” She watched him set the books down carefully on the floor, replace the ladder in the corner with one hand, and with the other reach for the pole to close the trapdoor; for a scholar, he had an unexpected fluidity of motion.

“I’ve been in the attic,” she noted, not especially necessarily, as they headed together down the stairs.

“I guessed so,” he said. “I heard something up there, and figured it was either one of you guys or a troupe of ballerina squirrels rehearsing Giselle. You might want to brush your sweater down, it’s dusty.”

“Thanks.” She swatted a hand across her front. “It would only be me you heard, anyway, because no one else goes there. My parents are too old, Emma’s too clean, and Sophie’s afraid of spiders.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked. “You sounded like you were hard at work.”

“I was.” Lulu hesitated. If she had not yet told her family about her great-great-grandmother’s letters, she would certainly not tell a stranger. “I’m looking for a recipe book my great-grandmother put together, in Massachusetts, in the 1920s. I haven’t found it yet, so I might have to come back.”

“Well, I wouldn’t get your hopes up for when you do,” he said. “Early-twentieth-century New England was not famous for its cuisine.”

“So they say.” It now occurred to her that she did not know which part of America he was from. “Where are you from, anyway?”

“California.”

“Really? You don’t seem like a Californian.”

“No? And what would a Californian seem like to you?”

She thought for a moment. “Noisier,” she concluded.

He laughed. “Well, I guess there are quiet ones there, too. If you wait till the shouting’s died down and then listen real hard. You know, you really might want to look in at the bathroom before you leave the house. I don’t want to be personal, but you are kind of dusty.”

There was a bare patch on the wall of Goncharoff’s Antiques, which until that morning had held a gilt-framed nineteenth-century portrait of a handsome woman in a silk tartan dress, with rich jewels and an expression of profound sadness.

“It’s the lady in tartan,” said Lulu. “I shall miss her.”

“I, too,” said Mr. Goncharoff. “For many years I would look at her and think, But the poor lady, what on earth in her life can be causing her such sorrow? And then one day I discovered the answer, and ever since then I thought, But the poor lady, how can her family have been so cruel as to have hidden from her her much-needed prune juice? But she is on someone else’s wall now, and it is for them to ask the question. Miss Atwater, the gentleman with the headgear has been into my shop again this afternoon.”