“I lost count of how many times I fell off that damn horse.” Sophie laughed but it was a sad sound. “As it turns out, horses are not a combination of mechanics and intangibles. They are the very definition of intangibles.”

“That is a good description,” Estelle agreed with a crooked smile.

“I miss him,” Sophie said, her voice breaking. “So very desperately.”

Estelle set the photo aside and put her hands over Sophie’s. There was nothing she could say that could fix the bleak desolation on Sophie’s face. And it was a reminder that Estelle was not the only one who had lost.

The agent took a shuddering breath. “It’s fading faster than I thought it would. His face. And I’m afraid I will forget,” she said. “I’m afraid I will forget what he looked like. I’m afraid I’ll forget his smile, his laugh, his voice.”

“You won’t.”

“But what if I do?”

Estelle let go of Sophie’s hands and stood, making her way to the small writing desk. She returned with a fountain pen. “Write it down.”

“What?”

“Write what you want to say to him on the back of this photo.”

Slowly, Sophie took the pen from Estelle and then pushed the blanket and the rifle to the side. She reached for the photo and centered it in front of her. “I don’t know what to say.”

“That would be a first.”

Sophie choked on another half laugh. She pulled the cap off the pen and pressed the tip of the nib to her fingertip. A smudge of ink appeared. She turned the photo over, her pen hovering over the blank square. And then she bent her head, the nib scratching quickly over the surface. She stopped and recapped the pen with deliberate motions and set it beside the photo.

Estelle gathered the photos and papers that were spread out on the rosewood surface and tucked them all back into the envelope. She kept out only the agent’s birth certificate and carte d’identité.

“Put that picture in here with the rest of them,” Estelle said quietly, holding out the envelope. “We’ll lock them all up in the trunk where the rest of our secrets live. And when this is over, you can come and fetch it back.”

Sophie pressed the photo to her chest, her eyes closed. After a minute, she tucked the photo into the envelope. “You didn’t ask what I wrote.”

“I don’t need to know. What you wrote is for your husband and for your husband only.”

Estelle put the envelope on the table and smoothed her palm over the flap. The clock on the mantel ticked into the silence, and, somewhere below, a door slammed.

“Does dead become easier than gone?” Estelle asked hoarsely.

Sophie didn’t answer, only sat back in her chair and looked up at the decorative plaster whorls in the ceiling.