“Hello, Genevieve. I’m sorry for telephoning, but I had to know that you’re all right.”

A breath. “I am now.”

The workshop smelled of rich leather, wood and dust. Genevieve saw a low table, its surface barely visible beneath a chaos of sheets of paper on which were pencil sketches of shoes—ribboned pumps, jeweled dancing slippers, shoes with odd, jagged shapes cut into them, shoes with laces twining all the way up to the knee of an invisible leg, shoes with toes tapering to a fine point and others with toes squared off in the most brutal manner. Shoes with spikes and others with tiny globes for heels, shoes that looked Oriental, shoes that looked like old workmen’s clogs. Some of these sketches were no more than a few lines, others were intricate and with dashes of paint here and there—bold yellows and oranges, subtle creams, deepest blues. Some sketches had notes scribbled at the side in a minute, illegible hand.

Wood shavings and stubby pencils with their ends chewed lay scattered among the debris, along with an old, messed-up tray of watercolor paints, some mangled brushes and paint-splattered rags. There were little squares of fabric—gold satin, green silk, a deep red velvet, which she recognized as the material he’d used for her shoes. Fragments of antique lace, scraps of something that might be black antelope and something else that might be ostrich skin. Gold-handled scissors with long pointed blades.

“What do you think?” asked Zachari. “Is it what you expected?”

“I feel like I’ve stepped inside your head.”

He laughed. “Is it a nice head?”

“It’s a mess. A nice mess, though.”

“I don’t let people in here, you know.”

“Thank you,” said Genevieve. “For letting me in.”

The walls were full of shelves, and the shelves were full of jumble. A jar of downy white goose feathers, some long gray feathers that could be seagull, a cardboard box with little yellow duck feathers glued onto the sides and one languid peacock plume. A tiny bottle of gemstones—diamonds or glass? Another full of pink crystals, and a box of delicate gold leaves. A bottle of little white pebbles that might have come from a beach. Brightly colored dyes in every color of the rainbow. A glass tube of what looked like mercury.

“I’m sorry about what happened the other day,” said Zachari. “I took a liberty, and I shouldn’t have. Not in public, at any rate.”

“You’re forgiven,” said Genevieve. “As long as you make me those shoes.”

His tools hung from hooks: A row of awls in varying sizes. Pincers, something resembling a poker, tape measures, some evil leather-cutting knives. Sheets of leather lay in a pile—brown, black and red. A workbench with a vise sat beneath the window, its heavy wood scarred and stained. A low bench had several hooks lying on it, along with some reels of thread and large needles.