She knew the message the heron carried was for Lea, but she took it anyway. It was slick with salt and sand, diverted by the heron’s migration. Ava unfolded the paper to find the hand-drawn blue map that led to Beehive House. She began to weep, and the heron held his wings around her. The map would lead her closer to the end of her existence. She was made to fulfill her obligation to Hanni, but how could she let go of this world?

She told the heron he must hide, so she alone could see him, then she folded the map into her pocket. She brought Julien’s message to the attic, but rather than deliver it to its rightful owner, she hid it in a bureau drawer.

Once the weather was fine, Weitz ventured into the fields on Sundays to paint out in the air. Lea often accompanied him, after promising Ava they would not go too far. On their painting days it felt to Lea that Julien was with them. She said his name sometimes as they walked along, just to hear the way it sounded in the deep forest. She and Weitz took their lunch at the edge of the woods, usually an apple or a slice of bread cut from the loaf Ava had sent along. Then Weitz painted, and Lea lay in the grass in the sun, one hand thrown over her eyes. Through the weeks the two had grown close. People said the war would soon be ending, that they would soon be safe, and that crossing the border was easier with fewer guards to protect the crossings. Lea often thought about what her mother had commanded her to do. All things must end.

“Would you kill someone if you had to?” she asked the old man one Sunday.

He glanced at her, before returning to his painting. It was the time of year when huge migrations of birds were crossing over the mountains from the south. “What wrong did this person I’m to murder do to me?” he asked. “Did they kill my son?”

Lea turned to him, propping herself up on one elbow to study the old man. She should probably not have asked his opinion. He was painting the clouds from the inside out.

“Did they kill my wife?” he asked.

“You don’t know the reason,” Lea admitted. “You are just to do as you’re told.”

“Then I’d be a fool or a lunatic,” Weitz said.

Or simply a girl honoring her mother.

“Would you do it if I asked you?” she wanted to know.

He glanced at her again. Talking about murder was a reasonable conversation in the world in which they lived.

“No,” he said.