She said this self-consciously, but she desperately wanted to play. She looked at Alex long enough to form a thought, then sat; and her hands sure enough found their way without embarrassment. Alex listened: she played Debussy. Not an especially difficult piece, well within her range; but she performed with great feeling. What affected him was her choice. It was short; and he nodded approvingly when she’d finished.

“‘La fille aux cheveux de lin,’” his voice trailed. “‘The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.’ Will used to call it ‘The Girl with Horse’s Thighs.’” Lucy laughed. “I forgot how pretty it is. Can I hear it again?”

She was happy to comply; and the years eroded. It was his wedding day; he was marrying Anna, whose hair Will had said was like “wind in the cornfields.” He’d played this piece for them in the church of Anna’s Yorkshire village, told Alex to hold very tight to her if he really loved her. Alex found himself wondering what Will might be telling him now, through Lucy—not to repeat the mistake and lose hold of her? Her hair was dark silk and she couldn’t have been physically less similar to Anna, but he felt the thinness of a veil he’d never have imagined even a day ago, and it surprised him. He walked over to her and kissed her hair. “Thank you.”

LUCY WAS SCRAPING PLATES AND ALEX TYING UP FISH BONES IN THE rubbish when his cell phone rang. He was regretting switching it on today, but he couldn’t get back to the hospital, so he gave her a sanguine look and answered it. “Alex Stafford.”

“This is half. We’ve been right through it, and half of the pages are missing.” It was the voice of Alex’s verbal fencing partner on Friday night, with its slightly assumed Kentucky-sounding lilt.

“I have no idea what you mean. That’s everything I have. Perhaps you’d like to check in the books you undoubtedly relieved us of.”

“Then you haven’t found it all. The ultimate sheet here is clear: ‘halfway through the orbit.’ This is half the documentation. I imagine the rest is the writing we’re really looking for. Now think for me, Dr. Stafford: a lot depends on it. Where would the rest be?”

“What is it you’re hoping to find? The hem of an angel’s robe?”

“Mockery sits too lightly with you, Dr. Stafford. Consider the equation I’ve just put to you. You know me already for a man who’ll go after what he wants. I’ll call you this time tomorrow. Have an answer.” He hung up.

Lucy searched his expression, had heard some snatches of the voice, knew at once what it implied. “Did you give them everything?”