The staircase was wide, the risers low, the climb an ascent of infinite shallow steps. His shoes thumped softly on thick wooden treads—the solidest construction he’d ever seen. No wonder the thing had lasted centuries. He passed the second floor, catching a quick glimpse of hallways leading to a series of side rooms—he’d explore there later if time allowed.
On the topmost floor the staircase ended in a wide landing, its cream-colored walls punctuated by large rectangular shadows—spots where portraits had once presumably hung in more extravagant days. A broad doorway led off the landing into a wide, dark-paneled balcony, its railing topped with elaborate carved flowers. Four partially open doors led off the balcony and several more were closed. Crossing to the nearest open door, Aaron swung it wide. It glided on silent hinges to reveal a small room. Furnished with desk, computer, and bookcases, it could have passed for a modern study if not for the narrow mullioned window and the carved wreath on the ceiling. Back to the balcony. The second door Aaron opened—a narrow jib door barely distinguishable from the wall’s paneling—revealed a twisting servants’ stair—a steep, dim descent that had once led, presumably, to the necessary rooms at the root of the house: kitchen, scullery, wine cellar. But the third door revealed a broad and more elegant chamber, brightly lit, with high windows and its own large hearth. The hearth was empty, the floor strewn with boxes. Evidently the Eastons hadn’t yet fully unpacked. Aaron could see that an open door beyond the sea of boxes led from the back of this room to a second large chamber, also filled with boxes, beyond which he could glimpse a doorway to a third. The suite of rooms, now impassable due to clutter, had obviously been designed in the style of the apartment of a nobleman or noblewoman: an anteroom, followed by what would have been a bedroom, followed by the closet, the most private of domestic spaces, a room for Shakespearean intrigue—Hamlet killing Polonius through the arras, Lady Macbeth sleepwalking. Whoever had built this house, Aaron thought, had either held high social station or aspired to it. If he guessed right, there would be another matching apartment opposite it—the lady would have had her own set of rooms, the lord his.
And sure enough, the fourth door off the landing revealed the largest space yet. This anteroom, clearly now in service as the Eastons’ sitting room, was topped with carvings that matched those in the first anteroom Aaron had seen, and was lit by three grand windows. In the center of the high-ceilinged room were a sofa, a few chairs, and a low table scattered with magazines and used dishes. Beyond it, a wide, open doorway led to a room containing a casually made bed and, everywhere, traces of Bridgette: a scarf dangling from the dresser top, two pairs of high-heeled shoes askew on the floor. Set in the far wall of this second room was a closed door—presumably the entrance to the inner sanctum—another elaborately carved closet, Aaron guessed, if it hadn’t already been converted into a modern master bathroom.
The door in the far wall opened. “Oh,” said Bridgette.
She wore a bathrobe. Her loose hair was bright against the green silk. For a moment she stood, disoriented, the centers of her blue eyes dark. A woman unguarded and afloat, unsure whose life she was waking to.
Then, swiftly, her expression tightened and turned wry. “Aren’t you supposed to be working downstairs?”
The house was silent. He had no idea whether Helen had returned from wherever she’d disappeared to. Before him, Bridgette stood, her composure restored, one hand set on her hip.
“Apologies,” Aaron said, keeping his expression neutral. He couldn’t help noticing the flow of the silk down Bridgette’s body. The places where it clung.
“Are you looking for something?” Suspicion warred with something kittenish in Bridgette’s voice.
He told her the truth. “I was checking the number of rooms.”
“Why?” she countered, a smile forming on her lips.
“We’re interested in what sort of household hid those documents. How wealthy, how large.” The we was a mistake, Aaron realized; she’d assume he’d snooped at Helen’s request and would surely mention it to Helen. “Actually,” he added with a small smile of his own, “I’m the one who wanted to know. I think getting the basic layout of the house may be helpful. I didn’t think anyone was home.” He lowered his voice. “I hope you’ll forgive me?”
She pursed her lips as though considering this. “Sotheby’s is coming,” she said softly. “You’ll have to wrestle with your curiosity someplace else. Outside of my bedroom.”
He was grateful that he didn’t blush easily. “Of course.”
Her blue eyes were wide set, the elegant planes of her face lovely. He could make out her nipples under the robe.
“You do seem extremely curious,” she added, a lilt in her voice.
The power was his to claim or forfeit. He remembered himself, returned her stare, and waited until their eyes had been locked for several seconds. He said, “I am.”
He turned and left the room. And crossed the landing with the sensation of waking from the trance he’d been in since receiving Marisa’s second e-mail. This, he thought, was who he was. A man who knew when to leave a woman to absorb his words.
He was fairly certain that he had no particular interest in Bridgette beyond playing the game. But he sure as hell could play.
He descended the staircase at an unhurried pace. Whatever repercussion he might face for going upstairs, he’d keep his cool. It was a commitment. A religion. Aaron Levy, high priest of chill. He took the steps deliberately, savoring the steady working of his leg muscles, and he determined to answer Marisa’s e-mail with dry wit—after waiting at least one day.
Downstairs, Helen was at the table. As he entered she looked up distractedly, seeming not to notice that his footsteps had come from the wrong direction. The papers before her were in disarray, as though she’d abruptly discarded caution and shuffled them with her own hands. He glanced at his watch. The assessor from Sotheby’s would be here in forty-five minutes.
Helen’s face was taut. She addressed Aaron as though they’d been in the middle of a conversation, and it was a moment before he could follow her meaning. “The next eleven documents are all dated in the six months after the Yacob de Souza letter. And each one is in her handwriting and bears her initial.” With wavering fingers, Helen gestured at the pages fanned across the table. The motion was clumsy, and he resisted an urge to snatch the fragile papers away. “Letters,” she indicated. “Lists. Another sermon. Two orders for books. So Aleph didn’t stop scribing for the rabbi, if I’m understanding this correctly. They didn’t replace her, at least not in the half year after that letter from Amsterdam. But now look at this.” She waved him toward a page covered heavily in a broad and unfamiliar handwriting.
It was a letter from an Amsterdam scholar he’d never heard of, dated only by the Hebrew 5 Shvat, 5424, and written in an elaborate, scholarly Hebrew. Aaron skimmed, understanding half of what he read. The subject was a disputation about the nature of time in the Torah. Evidently some third party had asserted that the Torah’s chronology contradicted itself, and the writer was launching what promised to be a lengthy elaboration on the meaning of phrases such as thousands of years.
Helen was waving impatiently.
“I’m reading as fast as I can,” Aaron protested.
“Skip to the fourth paragraph.”
He started the paragraph, near the bottom of the page. For G-d is not bound by nature but is its creator and alters it at will, so the understanding of the sun’s movements and the cycling of the seasons rests beyond man’s—Aaron puzzled over the next words, something about either understanding or wisdom.
“The margin!” Helen commanded.