He never told her that he loved her, but now and again she tended to sense a unique devotion. "You are definitely a woman to die for,” he said. "Or definitely a woman to kill for." As for her own sense of devotion, she supposed that these were spellbound weeks, as involving as any dream. She loved watching him from a distance as he moved across the dunes with a gray fedora and a stick he had picked up at random. She also loved to watch him sleeping, with his uniform draped across a chair.

They only quarreled once, toward the fogbound evening of the last day. He had left her in the afternoon, meeting a carriage and then going into the city. When he returned she was waiting by the window on a velveteen sofa. She had finished his bottle of sherry, which left her tired and slightly ill. She was also finally tired of the stillness and the predictable church bells.

"So. Was your day a success?”

He smiled but didn't respond.

"Because mine was a dismal failure."

He had entered with an attaché case, an elegant one that she had never seen before. He laid it on the table beside her and withdrew a flask of brandy. "I'm exhausted, Margaretha. Don't play games with me now."

"Not playing games, darling. It's just that I think I have a right to know where you went."

He tossed back a mouthful of brandy. "I met someone."

"What sort of someone? A juggler? A clown?"

"An associate."

"And what did you discuss with this associate?"

"Business."

"What sort of business?"

He took another mouthful of brandy and settled into the chair. She continued to watch him until he shut his eyes, then idly reached for the attaché case and opened it. It was heavier than she expected, with dozens of handwritten pages and what looked like a sheaf of blueprints. There was also a pistol, a woman's pistol with a pearl grip.

"What do we have here?" she said playfully, spinning the chamber, fumbling with the hammer.

Spangler opened his eyes. "Put it back."

She bit her lower lip, aiming for an empty glass on the window-sill. "Is it loaded?"

"Put it back, Margaretha."

She swung it around, aiming for her own reflection in the mirror. "But surely just one shot wouldn't hurt anything, would it? Would it?"

Eyes registering no emotion, he got up from the chair very quickly, crossing the room like a cat. She tried to escape but he caught her wrist, twisting it back until the pistol dropped.

"Don't ever do that again, Margaretha. Do you understand, never again."