“Yes. Ms. Kessler.”

“That’s right. You look surprised to see me.”

“I was going to say the same thing.”

She laughed, a short, uninhibited burst of sound.

“Come in.” He stepped into the cramped entry and stood very close to her while she continued to speak. “Preconceptions are funny. Who were you expecting?”

“I don’t know, a maid, I guess.”

“No maid.”

A dark, wood-paneled library stood immediately to the right of the entry, but the rest of the place was remarkably light. He followed her down a narrow corridor of warm wood and white paint. Framed prints covered the walls, maps of medieval cities; the dead man’s taste, no doubt. She hadn’t yet put her own touches on the place, he noted, then realized he didn’t have a clue what her own tastes might be. As Robin would have told him, he was trying to construct a personality without yet knowing the person. It was a bad habit of his.

“The cook is deaf, and he’s not here now. I let the nurse go after my grandfather died, so it’s just me. Would you like coffee?”

The kitchen was bright, the windows admitting as much light as the massive plane tree in the courtyard would allow. Matthew hesitated. This was his first solo house call, and he wasn’t certain of protocol.

“Only if you’re having some.”

“Any excuse for a cup of coffee. Please sit down.”

Into two blue china mugs she poured stale coffee-he could smell it-from a cheap plastic coffeemaker on the counter.

“Milk, sugar?”

“Black is fine.”

“I’m glad you said that, because there is no milk and I don’t know where the sugar is.”

He took a sip and set the mug aside. No one in his family would serve coffee like that to his worst enemy. What was it with rich people and food?

“So who were you expecting,” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“ Tweed jacket? Gray hair and spectacles?”

“That’s right. Maybe a pipe.”

“Not on the job. Don’t want to get smoke on those delicate surfaces.”

“Of course. I was really just expecting someone older.”

“I’m working on it, every day.”

She laughed again, and he realized that he was going to have to resist the impulse to keep making her do that.

“Have you been with the museum long?”

“Three years. Not long. You can be there ten years and still be the new guy.”

“But you’re a curator?”

“Assistant curator.”

“That’s impressive for someone as young as you, isn’t it?”

He understood now. This wasn’t small talk, he was being interviewed. Was he equal to the job of assessing her grandfather’s work?

“Not really. They needed someone who knew Eastern Orthodox art, and that’s been my primary focus. I was at the Byzantine Museum in Athens for two years before this.”

“Interesting.” She seemed to tire quickly of her own questioning. “This coffee is terrible, I’ll make some fresh.”

“I’ve had plenty this morning.”

“You want to get to work and I’m dragging my feet.”

“There’s no rush.” He had to be careful. “It’s not an easy matter, exposing work that has a strong emotional connection to a complete stranger. It’s one thing to contemplate parting with it, another to watch some so-called expert sizing it up, reducing it to a piece of commerce.”

“Is that what you do, Mr. Spear?”

“I hope not. I was trying to see it from your side.”

“You’re very understanding. You must do this a lot.”

“No, actually.”

“The thing is, the icon is downstairs in this sort of chapel my grandfather built. It’s a very private place. No one went in there but him.”

“I see. Well, we, or you, could take it out of there and I could examine it up here. The light would probably be better, anyway.”

“Sorry, I hadn’t even thought about the light. I can’t imagine seeing it any kind of way but the way it is now, in that strange room. I guess that’s why I haven’t moved it.”

“Now you’ve made me curious.”

“I’m making too much of it. It’s just a little chapel, an old man’s indulgence. I mean, who builds a chapel in their home anymore?”

“Your grandfather was obviously a medievalist at heart.”

“Yes, he was.”

“May I see it?”

She looked at him blankly for a moment. She was tired, sleep-deprived probably, fully formed thoughts coming slowly to her upper consciousness.

“The chapel? Absolutely, I want you to. Then we can take the icon someplace with better lighting, so you can examine it properly.”

“Great.”

“OK.” She stood up, paused again. “I guess what I’m trying to explain is that this wasn’t a valuable artwork to my grandfather. It was a sacred object, to be worshiped.”

Matthew felt a tingling in the back of his skull, and an impulse, contrary to his nature, to reveal something of himself.

“That was its original purpose,” he said quietly. “That’s why it was created.”

They were the right words. She seemed calmed, though she continued to stand there.

“It’s odd. He was raised Catholic, but he preferred Orthodox art. It’s as if his aesthetic tastes led him into a different kind of religious belief. Which might make you doubt his sincerity, except I think all art, even secular art, was spiritual to him.”

He smiled, aware that no response was necessary.

“I hope,” she said hesitantly, “that religious talk isn’t offensive to you.”

“Not at all. My family is Greek, religion is in the blood.”

“I should have known that. My lawyer knows your godfather, or something?”

“That’s right.”

“Then Spear is…?”

“Spyridis. My grandfather still hasn’t forgiven my father for that.”

“Right.” She sat again, yet he sensed forward progress. “So you’re Greek Orthodox?”

“Yes, I mean, so far as I’m anything. My father isn’t religious, and I had only limited exposure to religion growing up.”

“And your mother?”

“She’s a believer, mostly, she and my godfather. Worry beads and calendars of the saints and all that. They took us to church at Easter, made sure we knew what it was about.”

“‘Us’ is…?”

“Me and my sister.”

“Is your sister religious?”

Where the hell was she going with this?

“No. She has my father’s scientific mind.”

“And are you of the scientific or spiritual mind-set, Mr. Spear?”

“I try to blend the two. My training is scientific, but there’s no real understanding of this kind of work without comprehending the religious purpose.”

“What a careful answer.”

“I write them down on my sleeve for quick reference.”

“In case you get grilled by some rude creature like me,” she laughed. “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to get to know you better. And I guess I’m stalling.”

“If you’re not comfortable doing this now, we can make another appointment. I confess I’d be disappointed, but-”

“No, it’s fine. You are being incredibly patient.”

“Please call me Matthew, by the way.”

“Matthew. Good. I usually answer to Chris.”

“Usually, huh?”

“Usually.”

“Is that what I should call you?”

He could take her long stare so many ways that he decided to ignore it. She carried both mugs to the sink and stood for awhile with her back to him.

“No, I guess not. Call me Ana.”

“Ana. All right.”

“Follow me, Matthew.”

The chamber was not large, maybe twenty feet deep by twelve wide, the darkness within accentuated by the brightness elsewhere in the house. The only illumination came from scattered streaks of blue, red, and yellow light from six small stained-glass windows. Matthew could make out a bench, candelabra, square panels on the walls. Details were visible on several of the near panels, figures in a crowd scene, a leaning cross against a gray-blue sky. Of the larger panel, directly opposite the arched entry, he could make out no details until his companion turned a dial in the room behind, and the Holy Mother of Katarini slowly emerged from darkness.