There ought to be something though. It was a simple matching operation. Perhaps when he told her the name of the Go player, she would ask him what skills he had.

And in the meantime, she could at the very least provide him with a better scarf. Maman always had a stack of extras. “You never know when you might see a neck in need of warmth,” she’d said no fewer than eight times.

She hurried home, checking over her shoulder to be sure no one was following—cold or not, she wouldn’t have the fellow finding out where she lived. In the door, up the stairs. Noting absently the squeaky stair, the missing rung, all the markers. She kept her stride open and long as she moved to 3E. Three of E. Three of—no.

Just 3E. No more equations there.

She let herself in and locked up behind her. With one hand she turned on the low gaslights while she dropped her handbag on the table with the other. Then she turned and made it two steps toward the bedroom doors before she stopped.

The scarves were all in Maman’s room. Behind the door that she hadn’t opened in a week. The door she’d not really planned to open again until someone called her on her cowardice. In a month or two. Or three. Or four.

She hadn’t said anything to Red Holmes about the scarf. He wouldn’t know if she changed her mind.

But she would know.

Margot stood rooted to the spot for five seconds. And then ten more. And another thirty before she drew in a long breath and forced herself forward. Right foot—one. Left foot—two. Another halt.

“You’re stronger than this, Margot.” She clenched her hands into fists and wished she hadn’t spoken aloud—it made the flat seem all the emptier. Just go.

Go—white stones and black, the outlines of squares. Strangers in the park.

Go-Go—innocent little eyes in deepest brown that wouldn’t look upon their grand-mère again.

Go!

She rushed forward—one, two, three, four, five—and gripped the doorknob. Pushed it open.

Cold air wafted out, and on it rode the light, floral scent of Maman’s soap. Lily of the valley.

She blinked and fumbled for the knob that would turn on the low lights.

It looked the same as it always had, each and every time she’d come in here. Someone had made the bed. Righted the disorder that had been caused when they came to remove her. Dot, she’d bet. Or Willa. Lukas wouldn’t have had the heart.

But it didn’t look like Dot or Willa. It looked like Maman, smelled like Maman. She wasn’t sure if it brought comfort or pain.