“I’m Karolina. Karo, that’s mainly what people call me.” Then she’s across the office again, rummaging through a cabinet. “Let me just dig up your keys and we’ll be off on the grand tour.” She pauses, looking over her shoulder again. “You met Sadie already, didn’t you?”

Maeve turns, startled to find they’re not alone—the clerk from the night before is seated on the couch. Of course. She’s the director’s assistant. Who else would be asked to stay up half the night waiting for a late arrival?

The girl rises to her feet, but her bearing has changed. Last night’s gushing nervousness is gone; Maeve is surprised at how openly the girl seems to assess her, looking her up and down with the distrustful eye of a seamstress or a rival pageant contestant. A rejoinder, she realizes, for the cold shoulder Maeve gave her on arriving.

Karo keeps on. “She’s my doctoral student—I found her in Venice, at the Biennale, and coaxed her to come work as my assistant for a year before returning to her dissertation. She tells me you had a rather inauspicious beginning to your time with us.”

The girl steps forward and diplomatically extends a hand. “Sadie Kwon,” she says. To Karo: “We were…too tired last night for social graces.” A practiced smile.

She’s neat-looking, and well groomed, but there’s not much joy to her. The doctorate makes sense. In the light of day she looks more like a bank teller, Maeve thinks, than a dancer. She takes Sadie’s hand and gives it a squeeze, trying to emulate Karo’s warmth. Embarrassed now at her frigid reaction the night before. “Yes, I guess I arrived as the weather was turning,” she says. “You must love it, being here in the mountains full-time. What a treat—”

But Sadie just nods and breaks her grip. “Every new opportunity sounds exciting in Venice. It’s all artists and parties. You know, you’re networking all the time.” She steps efficiently to the desk and begins sorting through mail on a tray.

“I’m so sorry,” Karo says, still searching through her cabinet. “I always fumble the studio keys somehow. Sadie”—her tone sharpens almost imperceptibly—“Sadie, did you not make up Maeve’s welcome package?”

Maeve looks around, hoping to extricate herself from the discussion. There’s the couch to one side with an aerial-view photo mounted on the wall over it. Black-and-white, a vintage shot, its title in that squared-off 1960s typeface: HIGH WATER CENTER FOR THE ARTS. She swipes a brochure from an end table, turns to sit down, spreads the site map out flat against her lap. Orienting herself.