Ulmann produced a small gift box. Inside was a gold ring. Batya’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of the two intertwined Hebrew letters; at the center of each a tiny diamond chip indicated that the letters were bet and not vet. The identical initials of both their names.

“Please tell me you want me to speak with Moskowitz,” he said, and slipped it on her middle finger. “I’m so lonely without you.”

Her heart was too full to answer. She’d never been loved. She hugged him. “Thank you. It’s beautiful!”

“I saw you with your dance partner. I want you to be like that with me.”

She rested her head on his shoulder as she did in a dance and, checking that he could watch her in the mirror, closed her eyes as if in a romantic trance. “It’s just a game. Pretend.” She raised her hand, the ring turned toward him. “This is real.”

“I want you all for myself.” His fingers combed through the mass of her hair as though he were admiring spun gold. “Be my Batya.”

“You know what I must do first,” she said, making her voice as gentle as she could. “As soon as I finalize arrangements for my family—”

“No more waiting,” he said.

She could no longer put him off. Nor lose him. If only she could earn money while living with him, she might still save to pay for her family’s passages. Even in the poverty of San Telmo they would be living no worse than they did now in Russia. “Will you let me work in your store?” she asked. “I’m good with numbers. I can draw the salary you’re now paying your saleslady.”

He scratched his head. “Isabella, she worked for my father. She knows all the customers.” He paused. “But she’s not young and said something about wanting to live with her son in Córdoba. I’ll speak with her.”

“Thank you,” Batya whispered. Their lips met, and when they parted, she looked into his kind eyes, her heart light with possibilities and heavy with the unresolved issues.

“I’ll talk to Moskowitz in the morning,” he said, grinning as he left.

Batya had just hidden the new ring—she couldn’t risk answering questions before Ulmann had negotiated with Moskowitz—when there was a knock on her door.

When she opened it, she was astonished to see Sergio. For months she’d seen him only during the day. Now he came late at night as a client in her chamber.

Batya closed the door behind them, and he glanced at it as if to ensure that it was secure, then pulled out of his jacket pocket a wad of gray-colored money—hundred-peso bills. “I had to pay Moskowitz a third of my winnings,” he said, “so it’s only fair that you get half of what’s left.”