He knew at once it was the right question—he almost began to understand. He saw how she looked down, began to walk off, along the bridge, so that he had to follow behind her.

“No,” she said. “No, the thing is …” She stopped. They stood in the wind face to face, hands in pockets, both shivering now. “The thing is, I’ve done a few favors for the resurrectionists before. They’re so awfully … decent, you know. Germans mostly. Very earnest, idealistic. Trying to set things right about it all. They like to bring works into England, because the laws on ownership here are much more stringent. Most countries, if you buy something in good faith, it’s more or less yours, but here, if the work is stolen, the original owner has the stronger claim. So sometimes, when things were difficult for them, I’ve offered to help because … well, because …”

And Storm finally got it. Spoke it without thinking, “Because you’re trying to make up for your father,” he said.

She made a noise. Looked up with her lips parted in surprise and her head faintly shaking. Made a whispery “Oh,” of such relief and gratitude that it went right through him. He reached for her. Drew her to him, drew her head against his chest.

“You’re right,” he said. “I am freezing.”

“There’s been nothing for years,” she told him. “Nothing definite. But I’ve always known.”

They were in the American Bar now, at the Savoy Hotel. Shoulder to shoulder in a corner banquette. He aching towards her, muzzy with her scent, with the light in her hair. In a confusion of guilt and desire: He had to tell her, to tell her the truth before it went too far. But he was still listening, thinking, trying to work it out, his Diet Coke undrunk before him.

The piano man was hammering out “If Love Were All” as if it were a march. But the piano was on the other side of the large room. It was quiet in their little section. The lights were soft. The waiters, the other diners were far away among the neat laquered tables and the huge stuffed chairs.

Sophia was gazing at nothing. Rolling a G&T between her palms, the ice melting. She seemed almost dazed, resigned to the flow of her story.