In Marianne’s enthusiasm, Benita detected a double standard. Marianne was a born matchmaker, especially for those she had taken under her wing, which applied to both women. But she had much higher expectations when it came to a second marriage for Benita, whom she steered toward members of her own circle—distinguished survivors of the resistance, for example, vetted already by their politics and social standing. So why was she content for Ania to marry an elderly peasant? Ania’s husband had been a resister, too. Was it because he had been Polish? Or was it something about Ania herself? After all, Benita was no less a peasant than Ania, as Marianne had made clear when they’d first met. Whatever the root of her bias, Benita knew Marianne would be ashamed to acknowledge it.

At times, Benita still found it comical that she and Marianne were roommates. How impossible this would have seemed to her that long-ago night at the countess’s party. The von Lingenfels and the peasant, the odd couple of the castle. It would have made her laugh.

No one lived in Burg Lingenfels anymore—it was too cold, too big, and too remote. And it was still without running water or electricity. Marianne had always hated Ehrenheim; she liked their new home as much as Benita did. It was closer to the DP camp where she spent so many hours, near the train station, and an easy trip to Munich. Their new Bürgermeister was an old friend of Albrecht’s. And there was plenty of space in the flat. What is the point of two widows raising their children alone? Marianne had asked when she first proposed the idea. The children are like siblings now, why tear them apart? Left unspoken was the fact that despite the restitution—finally—of Connie’s pension, Benita and Martin depended on Marianne’s largesse. Left to their own means, they would be living in some colorless and cramped new apartment block on the outskirts of town.

“Benita,” Marianne called, tap-tapping down the long hall of their flat with her particular, Marianne-ish determination. “Benita!”

“Coming!” she called.

Benita folded the letter she was rereading and pushed it hastily into a small wooden chest. What is that? Marianne had asked when she first caught sight of the chest, as if it were one of the mangy feathers or dead butterflies the children used to collect at the castle. Something I picked up at the Christmas market, Benita lied. Marianne had tilted her head to the side in a show of critical bewilderment—it was an odd little thing, carved of rough wood and unpainted—but she had accepted the explanation. Marianne did not expect sound judgment from Benita anyway. And for Benita, the chest had one simple purpose: it locked. She turned the key and slipped it behind the mirror on her dresser.

When she opened the door, Marianne was wearing something Benita had never seen before: a dress with ribbons at the cuffs and throat. It was pretty, but too frivolous for Marianne. Another item resurrected from Albrecht’s sea chest. Marianne was diligent about reusing all her old things. The woman had no vanity or fashion sense.