Josef stared at his painting uneasily. It had the oddest kind of mobility. The mosaics seemed to jump up; move out of place, even; shift, as if the painting didn’t want to stay on the canvas—as he didn’t want to stay in one place either. Why should he? If he pretended to agree to Elgren’s proposal, they’d allow him some freedom; then he could escape easily enough, he thought craftily. Bianka would be furious. He grinned: what a man-trap she was, and she knew it.

Now he sat on the edge of the bed, relaxing, eyeing one painting after another, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight that splashed through the windows onto the wooden floor. He’d been painting for hours. What a great day’s work, he thought. What a perfect studio. Who could ask for more? He almost dozed, his muscles relaxing in the summer heat.

In his mind’s eye he saw the room cozy in wintertime (without the windows boarded like last year), a rug on the floor to keep his feet warm (he’d insist on it), and a bright coverlet for the bed (Bianka could damned well make one). But there would also be her room—ah hah! their room—for sleeping and romping. And he’d gone scrambling through the countryside for the last time, half-starving, peddling his talent. This time he’d done himself well, outdone himself, set himself up for good.

The sunlight moved over the tiles in the painting. Josef watched, nearly hypnotized, dreaming of the comforts of the “good life.” Then he caught himself. Not that he intended to go along with any of it, of course. He was just playing around with the idea of staying before turning it down; exaggerating the benefits so he could feel doubly virtuous (and twice as crafty) when he finally got out of there, regained his freedom, and left Hosentaufs more or less the way he’d found them. There was no doubt in his mind that he would leave as soon as he got the chance.

A small ladylike knock came at the door. Josef’s face lit up exuberantly. “Come in.”

Bianka came into the room with the new shyness she’d developed since the “arrangement” arose for discussion. She left the door open—and at this, Josef laughed out loud.

Her face clouded. “Mama’s orders. Papa’s, too. It isn’t funny. They don’t know about us … last winter.”

Despite himself, Josef remembered the two of them hot and sweaty beneath the covers, though the room had been chilly enough. He said, “Well, come in anyway. You can come in, can’t you?”

She looked at him as demurely as she could manage under the circumstances. She had to show him that she could make a wife as well as a bed companion. Now she couldn’t afford to be bold.