THE MORNING BROUGHT WITH it a sense of regret and dread. She’d felt so sure, last night, that she’d been doing the right thing—that a baby would be the answer. But she’d fallen asleep to dream, yet again, of Zachari—of his eyes, the way he’d looked at her across the room at Madame Hélène’s. Between the two of them, in the dream, was a mass of women, frenziedly grabbing at dresses and shoes. Fighting over them, ripping them, flailing at each other with nails and fists and teeth. There was no way to get through to him.

And then she stopped dreaming about Zachari and instead dreamed of herself carving the name Josephine into the bark of the great oak tree, the knife slipping and cutting her hand. Pulling out her handkerchief to dab at the blood, and then glancing back up at the tree to discover that the name had vanished.

Over breakfast Genevieve hid herself in the latest issue of La Vie Parisienne and gave one-word answers to each of Robert’s cheery questions and remarks. After a while he gave up and sat peering at her in silence. This was what she’d wanted—his silence—but it didn’t make her feel any better. He was so confused and despondent. Who could blame him?

Getting up to leave for the office, he hesitated at the door.

“What is it, Robert?”

“Well, that’s rather what I should like to ask you.” He raked his hand nervously through his hair. “You’re so changeable, Genevieve. Last night you were…But now this morning…”

“Is that surprising? I’ve only recently lost my mother.”

“Yes, of course. Of course.” He was peering at her again. “Only…”

“What?”

“If there was anything else—anything I ought to know, I mean. Well, you would tell me, wouldn’t you, darling?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She turned her gaze down to the magazine, flicked irritably at a page. “Are you dining out with Harry tonight?”

“Yes. I suppose I might be late. You’d better not wait up.”

“Fine. I’ve arranged to go out with Lulu in any case.”

“Good,” he said—though it didn’t sound as if he meant it. “By the way, Genevieve, I’d appreciate it if you’d look up the number of that bronze cleaner. He’s had the horse far too long, and I should like to call him.”

As soon as the front door closed, Genevieve went to the little telephone table in the hall and shakily asked the operator to put her through to Paolo Zachari’s shop. At length, there was a click at the end of the line and the familiar, vaguely insolent greeting from Olga.

Slamming the receiver down, Genevieve stood chewing on a nail and staring distractedly into the salon, where Céline was dusting the ornaments on the mantel.