She sat in her apartment in the large, romantic old mansion at number 2, Schwindgasse, sewing a button on one of Kira’s dresses. How smoothly life had flowed, since her arrival, haggard and distraught, with seven suitcases and two small children, last May. She felt as though the Steiners, senior and junior, had taken over her entire life, shifting her burdens to their more capable shoulders and making sure that she and the children would have nothing left to worry about. She hadn’t wanted to explain anything, even to Maryse. The pain had been almost unbearable. The parting—Nicky’s sobbing, Kira’s strange, silent tears, Misha’s turning away, his chin trembling—had been like a physical wrenching. She’d kept it all in during the train voyage. But in Vienna, once the children were asleep and she sat ensconced in an overstuffed velvet armchair, facing Wolf and Maryse, the tears had come. Maryse had quietly left, so that Wolf could be alone with Lily, holding her and listening.
