Martin is studying me, however, with what seems to be intense interest. Something about what I said has drawn me to him an inch or two. And then the moment passes.

“How unfortunate,” he says.

We are quiet as his reply, sincere but distanced, settles about us. The clopping of the horse’s hooves outside the carriage is the only sound.

After a few more minutes the carriage comes to a stop.

“I’m afraid we will have to walk the rest of the way to the boardinghouse where Kat and I have been staying. The hill here is too steep for carriages and the cable car doesn’t go up this street. San Francisco is like that.”

“I don’t mind walking.”

“You can leave your bags inside the cab. We’re coming back to it.”

We exit the carriage. Ahead of us is a steeply inclined street packed on either side with three- and four-story townhomes, and whose end, if there is one, is concealed in mist.

We begin to ascend the hill like a seasoned couple who have strolled it a thousand times already.

“Kat and I have been staying at Mrs. Lewis’s the last four months, and she’s been looking after Kat for me when I’ve been working,” Martin says as we walk. “But I’ve just taken ownership today of my own place. We’ll collect Kat and then make our way there. I need to get back out to my clients, so I want you and Kat to get settled in right away.”

I had momentarily forgotten that Martin works for a life insurance company on the road, not from a downtown office. “Of course,” I say a second later.

We pass a few people on the street who nod their “good evenings.” The steady incline is making me short of breath. I fairly whisper my own greeting in return.

We arrive at a large, four-story structure with forest green windowpanes and trim. Martin withdraws a set of keys from his pocket and slips one into the lock, and we step inside. The foyer opens to a hallway of doors to the first-floor rooms and a staircase to the second floor. Martin raps at the first door on the left.

The door opens. Mrs. Lewis—gray-haired, matronly, and plump—looks me up and down. Martin apparently told her who it was he was fetching from the ferry terminal and for what purpose. The woman looks deep into my eyes, as if wanting to divine how I became acquainted with Martin when she has never seen me with him. Not once. And yet here I am newly married to the man.

“This is my wife, Mrs. Lewis,” Martin says. “Sophie, this is Mrs. Lewis.”

“How do you do,” I say, as confidently as I can.

“Pleased to meet you.” But Mrs. Lewis is clearly something other than pleased. Flummoxed, perhaps. Baffled.

The woman turns to call out over her shoulder into the depths of her front room. “Katharine, your father and . . . your father’s here.” She holds out her arm for the child to come. The little girl appears and stops at the woman’s side.