Sophia laid her fork down slowly. She sat back against the pillows. Rolled a tired glance in her father’s direction. She saw his face reflected in the pane, a dim, dark, patchy picture of him, the eyes unreadable. And she realized wearily: This was the way they were going to talk about it. This half-spoken, elliptical way. The way they talked about everything. As if the truth were understood between them and need not be spoken aloud. As if the silent subtext were common knowledge. Her whole life she had assumed that this was how people in families did communicate with one another. Yet just now, she found it terribly frustrating. Because she didn’t know the truth. She didn’t understand it at all. She had almost killed herself because she didn’t understand it. And she was so tired now. She was tired of subtlety and Endering machinations. She kept thinking about Richard Storm.

“Not really,” she answered him thickly. “He said he pulled Jessica off at half a million.”

“Yes,” he murmured, as if to himself. “Funny he would do that. Impertinent. Funny.”

“You didn’t want to pay that much for it, did you?”

He only shrugged in answer.

Then there was a long pause. Sophia was so tired of this, so depressed. She did not want to start the whole business again. But it seemed inevitable somehow too. Speaking carefully, she said, “Who finally got it?”

Sir Michael once more lifted his broad shoulders. “Some mystery to it apparently. Fellow delivered a check in the name of some foundation. Children of Hope, I think it was called. The check was perfectly good. But the foundation doesn’t seem to exist. No one knows who the man was. No one’s ever seen him before.”

She looked at him standing there, looked at him a long while. Children of Hope? she thought. And that turned out to be the Devil from Hell? She had almost hanged herself, thinking it was her father, and it was some nonexistent organization? Children of Hope? But then why had Sir Michael wanted The Magi so badly? Did he know, had he heard about the murdered Resurrection Men? Why hadn’t he spoken to her directly, saved her from what she’d tried to do to herself? Storm had saved her, a stranger. Why hadn’t her own father?

“Daddy …” she said.

“Anyway, it was just a whim,” said Sir Michael. Coming around to face her, cutting her off. “Always liked Rhinehart, thought it would be worth having. Just a whim.”

She fell silent, hurt by the lie. He moved to her bedside. Took her hand in his large, spotted paw.