“Linger a while,” she repeated, whispering, “thou art so fair …”

And she imagined how things could be later. It was stupid, but the picture just appeared in her mind: she saw Abel and Magnus shoveling snow together … in twenty years, in thirty. Magnus had grown old, his broad back still strong but bent from time, his hair nearly white at the temples. And Abel … Abel was a different Abel, an adult one, one who was absolutely self-confident and didn’t let his eyes dart around the dining room at lunch, as if he were caught in a trap.

“Nonsense,” she whispered. “Thirty years? You don’t stay with the person you meet at seventeen … What kind of fairy tale are you living in, Anna Leemann?”

And still the picture seemed right.

“Look at that,” Linda said, stepping up behind her. “They do get along, after all.”

“There are fresh cookies!” Micha said and held a plate out to Anna. “And we have to stay. Linda just realized that the dryer is broken! Totally broken! We’ve already hung the clothes on the line in the basement … I’ve been standing on a chair helping … and tomorrow, everything will be dry for sure, but tonight we’re allowed to sleep here. What do you think of that?”

“I don’t know,” Anna said slowly as she turned toward Linda, “what Abel will think of that. Is the dryer really broken?”

Linda shrugged and nodded. Anna went down to the basement and tried to turn it on herself, but Linda and Micha were right. The machine was silent; it didn’t work. Anna unplugged the cord and plugged it in again—without success.

When she came back from the basement, Abel was brushing the snow off his parka while Micha was dancing around him, still balancing the plate of cookies, singing, “We’re staying, we’re staying, we’re staying overnight! We’re drying! We’re drying! We’re drying on the line!”

Abel lifted his arms defensively. “Will you stand still for a second?” he said. “Micha. We can’t stay overnight. We have our own home, and it’s not here. We can come back tomorrow and pick up the damn laundry then.”

“Damn is a word you’re not allowed to say,” Micha declared, folding her arms. “And did you look outside? It’s snowing again, and I’m sure there will be another storm! Please, Abel! Please!” She put down the plate on the floor and clung to his leg. “Please, please, please! Only this one night! I still want to play the piano a little bit and decorate the cookies and everything!”

“Do you have to go out tonight?” Anna asked in a low voice.

Abel covered his face in his hands. This time, he left them there longer, and she saw him try hard to make a decision. She actually thought she saw him curse silently behind his hands.

“I’ll just end up saying yes again,” he whispered. “I’ll end up saying yes to so many things, I’ll forget the difference between yes and no—and I’ll lose my mind.” He looked at Anna. “Keep my mind for me. See to it that nobody steals it. I might have to go out tonight. I don’t know yet.”

Was he waiting for a call? She didn’t ask. He was not an answerer after all. He was everything else. A seller of white cats’ fur. A storyteller. A stranger, still.

“You can sleep in the guest room,” she said. “The two of you. There are two beds.” And, in a much lower voice, “The key is in the door at night, inside. Take it with you so you can get back in. You’re not a prisoner. This is not a trap … just a broken dryer.”

• • •

And then they sat at dinner like one big family. The lamplight was warm, and the kitchen smelled of potato casserole. And Micha talked with her mouth full about how she had baked cookies and how she could almost play the piano already.

And Linda smiled. And Abel wasn’t fidgeting in his chair like he had been at lunch. Once, Anna took his hand under the table and pressed it very quickly, and he pressed back.

“Abel can make potato casserole, too,” Micha said and put her fork down. “He can do anything … pancakes and pasta and cake. Even birthday cake. With candles on top. We’ll have one pretty soon and maybe with strawberries because it’s nearly spring. Or we can have frozen strawberries. Abel can make strawberry cake!”

“He seems to be a real saint, that brother of yours,” Magnus said drily.

The conversation stopped.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Anna hissed. “Why the sarcasm?”

“What’s sarcasm?” asked Micha.

“Sarcasm is when someone says the opposite of what he means,” Abel said in a low voice. “So, in other words, I’m no saint. I’m the opposite of a saint. He’s right. And the opposite of a saint doesn’t belong here, I guess …” He pushed back his chair, his hands on the edge of the table, and Anna put her hand on his.

“Stay,” she said. “Please. Please. Magnus is just joking. You see, Micha, that father of mine is really good at shoveling snow and feeding birds and curing sick people, but he can’t even scramble an egg, and, compared to that, anyone who can make potato casserole is definitely a saint. To be honest, Magnus couldn’t even tell the difference between a snow shovel and a potato.”

Micha laughed; and Magnus laughed, too; and Linda tried to laugh with them. Only Abel didn’t laugh. But he didn’t leave either.

“I’ve already made up the beds in the guest room for you,” Linda said.

“Do you want us to help with the dishes?” Micha asked. “I’m really good at washing dishes …”

Linda shook her head. “Our dishwasher is also really good at washing dishes. Sleep tight.”

And Anna watched Abel and Micha go up the stairs, hand in hand, like a picture on an old-fashioned postcard—as if everything was still all right, still perfect. But nothing was all right anymore, she could feel it. And later, she wondered if it was at that very moment that Abel decided he had to go out. If maybe it didn’t have anything to do with a call. Maybe he wouldn’t have left the house that night if Magnus hadn’t made that stupid remark. And maybe things would have turned out differently as a result …

She lay in her bed reading for a long time, not able to sleep. The cell phone on her desk rang, but she didn’t answer it. Gitta, she thought. Who else.

They’d said good night to each other, she and Abel, good night and no more … a little like strangers. She’d heard him whispering with Micha for a while, but now everything was quiet. Finally, she tiptoed over to the guest room and opened the door. Light from the streetlight outside dripped into the room like rain. One of the beds was empty. They were lying on the other one, together, Micha rolled up like a kitten in Abel’s arms, fast asleep. And Abel? Was he sleeping as well or was he just pretending?

She stood there for a moment, looking at Abel. His face was so close yet infinitely far away. The shadow of the bed and the figures on it fell on the wall like a weird, distorted creature. An animal crouched low, waiting to strike. A wolf. She closed the door without a sound, crept back to her room, and crawled under her own covers.

He stood on the pedestrian bridge, looking out over the ice. The flakes had ceased to fall, but the river was covered with snow; even that thin layer of ice in the middle, where the fishermen had broken holes for their hooks, had frozen again—a network of invisible traps cloaked in snow, deceiving, dangerous. He knew where the frozen-over holes were; he knew where the ice was thin—he didn’t need to see it.

He pulled his scarf tighter. How cold it was! This winter was colder than any winter he could remember, and he’d seen many winters. To be precise: sixty-three of them.

The lights of the restaurant-ship were groping their way onto the ice, timid, as if they were afraid of the cold. He looked at his watch. Nine thirty. He was too early. She wouldn’t be here till ten. She had this unpronounceable name … Milowicz? Mirkolicz? He’d been surprised when she’d called him. Maybe she didn’t know anything. Maybe this meeting would be good-for-nothing. But maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe together, they could find out something.