Trude nodded her head curtly, rejecting Benita’s familiar tone.

Had she felt snubbed by their recent encounters? Benita resolved to be particularly self-deprecating and complimentary. “How long it’s been since the days of Fräulein Brebel,” she said. “And you look wonderful. Not a day older.”

“I certainly look days older.” Trude sniffed, shaking her head. “Come this way—Horst is in the parlor.”

Benita followed.

Had Trude not liked her as a girl? She could not remember. But often someone had been sweet on someone who was sweet on Benita and this had made for hard feelings . . . Maybe Trude had hankered after Paul Henike? Or Axel Pittman? Those years were a great meaningless fuzz in Benita’s mind. Following the woman’s stiff back down the hall, Benita reproached her teenage self. What had she done back then? And why had she cared so little?

In the parlor, Horst rose from behind a messy desk. He was a thin, balding man with stooped shoulders and a tired air, quite like Lotte’s imitation.

Benita extended her hand. “So nice to meet you,” she began. “Frühlinghausen is lucky to have your store.”

Trude made an impatient gesture. “Ach, sit down, sit down.” She waved away Benita’s words.

Stung, Benita complied. So did Horst. It was clear who was in charge. Horst offered an apologetic smile.

“So Frau Gruber—pardon—Frau Fledermann is looking for a position as a clerk,” Trude stated flatly. “What are the days we need help on our schedule?”

“Well.” Horst rustled the papers on his desk. “We could work around the times Frau Fledermann has available as—”

“Come, Horst,” Trude broke in. “What are the hours on the schedule in front of you?”

“I’m very flexible,” Benita offered. “I’m sure I could—”

“Do you have experience with a cash register?” Trude interrupted.

“Not with a cash register, no,” Benita began. “But I could learn—”

“So you don’t know it already?” Trude asked, as if this were preposterous.

“No.” Benita shook her head.

At his desk, Horst cleared his throat.

Trude let out a sharp bark of laughter. “So then—surely you did not think we would hire you out of charity?”

Benita looked at her. Her face was the embodiment of Frühlinghausen, all the meanness and small-mindedness Benita had always despised—only transformed from an indifferent force to a specific, ugly power, a highly evolved venom to which she was uniquely susceptible. “No,” Benita said with as much dignity as she could summon, and gathered her bag and hat. “I know you have none of that.”

She walked through the town like a blind woman. And in her humiliation, she did not notice the telltale signs that Gephardt had returned—the hat and boots in the doorway vestibule, the dirty plate and napkin on the table. She made her way upstairs without even removing her coat.

In her small room under the eaves she was greeted by a surprise: an unfamiliar steamer trunk, an old suitcase, and a carpetbag she recognized.

The sight jolted Benita, momentarily, from her misery. Her belongings. She had asked Marianne to pack them for Gephardt to retrieve; his mother lived not far from Tollingen. Marianne had objected. Wouldn’t Benita come herself so they could have a chance to visit? But Benita had remained steadfast. And Gephardt, for all his usual crankiness, was oddly amenable to playing porter. Maybe he was curious to see where Benita had been living, or to meet this “Countess Marianne” (a meeting that was at once comical and horrifying for Benita to imagine).