She lived in a narrow brownstone one block from the river. The immense buildings of BU loomed above her street, making it feel both protected and closed in by the institution, the way much of Boston felt protected and closed in by its many universities. She buzzed him in, and he climbed the staircase to the second floor, the polished wood of the banister and walls gleaming from the reflected light of a brass chandelier. He knocked, and from somewhere inside, he heard her call out, “It’s unlocked.”

He entered into a long, dark hallway, and followed the light into the living room. There, seated on a cluttered red sofa, was a hugely fat yellow cat. It looked at Desmond as disdainfully as Rosemary had the first time he’d met her, slowly roused itself, and, with a sullen backward glance, disappeared through an arched doorway. “Take a seat,” Rosemary shouted.

Easier said than done, Desmond thought. Most of the furniture in the round, candlelit room was covered with newspapers and books spread open. Not quite what he’d expected, given Rosemary’s meticulous appearance, but he brushed some cat hair from the overstuffed sofa and sat. There was a bay of curved windows opposite him, and through them he could see a towering wall of scattered lights in what appeared to be a building of classrooms. It was as if an ocean liner were parked outside. An open copy of his Lewis Westerly biography was sticking out from under the sofa, and embarrassed by the sight of it—it was open to page 107—he tapped it out of sight with his foot.

Rosemary emerged from the kitchen with a wineglass in one hand, waving lightly at the air around her head with the other. “Fucking toaster oven burns every fucking thing I put in it. I was trying to play the hostess and defrost some cheese things the previous tenant left in the freezer and look what happens.” Desmond stood, but she motioned him back into his seat. She had on a man’s red silk bathrobe and a pair of red velvet slippers. Her hair was loosed from its usual tight bun and fell around her shoulders, dark and sleek. “I’m sorry about the mess,” she said. “I haven’t had many visitors here so I’ve let the place go completely to hell. It’s been quite thrilling to watch the deterioration. Next I suppose I’ll leave out containers of rotting food and dirty undies. It came furnished, so I had to mark my territory somehow.”

Desmond handed her a bottle of wine. “I didn’t give you much notice.”