Claire lay in bed thinking of the sinful dessert served at dinner. She licked her lips and regarded the canopy of her girlhood bed, remembering the taste of the decadent mousse. The distraction of the strange events of that evening lured her mind away. Her bed seemed so small, so unfitting, and it shrank with every visit. Yet her father refused to change a thing in her old room. Perhaps he yearned for the past more than he disregarded it. But given his indifferent attitude toward her, she thought the latter. Claire rested her head on her arm and pulled the blankets tighter about her shoulders. She was crushed.

Fighting to find a comfortable way to lie on the narrow bed, Claire faced the other side. The moonlight streamed through the window. It glared so brightly Claire wondered how she could quiet her thoughts and get any rest with a spotlight on her. She threw the covers back and made her way to the window. The sky spread out clear and the ground lay drying in a vigorous breeze.

Now that she had risen, the craving for another dessert nagged her. She resisted, feeling like a stranger in her old home. She suspected she wasn't welcome to walk about as in times long ago. Besides, she'd learned Carsten lived in the house and he had no business seeing her in her dressing gown. She needed to settle her mind so she could sleep. She sighed, focusing on the small ticking clock on the nightstand. It read three o'clock in the morning. Sleep seemed very unlikely.

Something sweet would surely console her worries, or at least provide a distraction from them. Since she came home to New York, Aunt often wondered openly at how she kept so thin with her appetite. Claire's stomach growled and she no longer fought the urge. Sleep would most certainly elude her with a mind so full and a stomach so empty. Claire spun around and pulled on her dressing gown. She tied the sash, adjusting the fabric of the filmy garment to be sure she was well covered. Exiting her room, Claire moved down the hall like a gazelle. Her eyes nervously scanned the upper hallway, hoping no one would pop out to see her.

The house was dark, with only a few lamps still lit. She rushed down the stairs, concentrating on the treat that waited for her in the kitchen. But the softly mumbled tones of a man's voice halted her. It was Carsten's. Claire peeked back over her shoulder and saw that no one stood in the hall. As Claire carefully walked back the way she came, her eyes settled on the open door of her father's office. A puddle of light spilled into the shadowy hall. Carsten spoke again in words she didn't recognize, perhaps his native tongue. Claire peeped through the opening.

Inside, the room was dimly lit by a small lamp. Carsten stood behind her father's impressive desk, which was situated to the left of the door. The rest of the office was like a sitting room and library, where her father met his appointments in ease and comfort. Carsten stood half inside of what resembled a phone booth. A cloud of smoke formed a halo above his head. Claire didn't remember anything like that in the house as long as she had lived there. It appeared to be constructed inside the wall behind the bookcase as its own secret compartment. Papers and photos had been pinned to the wall. A small shelf littered with scraps, a radio and an odd little typewriter served as a desk, complete with a paltry stool. Carsten spoke into a black phone hung on the wall above the slipshod workspace her father provided him.

Claire spied on Carsten, carefully hanging back so he wouldn't notice her. He stopped talking, listening to whoever was on the other end, and puffing on some rank tobacco. She held her breath, afraid he would hear her draw it in as the smell choked her. Then he spoke again. Claire darted away, fearing he would catch her spying on him. Her slippers whispered against the wood floor, though they seemed loud in her panic. She went back to her original plan, passing through the narrowing hall toward the back of the house.

The kitchen was the darkest room of the house at night. Claire pushed through the swinging door, coming to an abrupt stop. She felt along the cold tile for the switch, flicking it on when she found it. Claire walked to the counter at the far end. Her eyes blankly searched the sterile surface.

The little she knew of Belgium came from what she read in the rags after the country fell to the Nazis. Belgium claimed a mix of French and Flemish people, with a small population of German expatriates. Their language proved just as diverse. Claire's gut tightened. After overhearing Carsten on the phone, she was sure of one thing: he did not speak Flemish or French or any such mix. He spoke German, or what she understood to be German.

Claire rolled her eyes, reminding herself she meant not to be so suspicious of her father. Mother fell ill through no fault of his. He'd tried very hard to help. Now, he threw himself into work and wallowed in his anger at failing her. There was no more to it. As for Carsten, he probably spoke on the phone with family. A young man, newly arrived to the States, would miss his connections. With all the hatred springing up for anything German, he would be an outcast. His loneliness would be that much more distressing.

Claire mechanically retrieved the leftover dessert. The cook had left a few small dishes already prepared inside the icebox. Settling at the work table, she found her thoughts skidding over to Carsten and the puzzle surrounding him. She took a spoonful of the delightful chocolate and rolled it in her mouth. What if he really was German? He did say he was a German who had been born in Belgium. But what if he was that kind of German? The papers warned about this kind of thing all the time. Her dread heightened, making her wish she still lay in her tiny bed.

Suddenly the kitchen door swung open. Claire's eyes went wide. She opened her mouth, ready to spill an excuse or a shriek. Carsten's intense ice blue gaze silenced her.

"Miss Claire," he said, sounding surprised. "My apologies. I did not mean to startle you."

"I didn't think anyone else was up." Claire focused on her chocolate. She stirred it with the spoon, feeling horribly exposed in her dressing gown.

"I thought you would be resting after your trip. You seemed very tired this evening." He stepped into the kitchen, pausing by the table. He placed his hand on the surface, hoping to regain her attention. "Is there more?"

"Ye-yeah," she said, remembering herself. She moved to help him.

"You sit. Enjoy your chocolade," he insisted. "In the refrigerator?"

Claire sat back down. She nodded to his question, finding herself mute. She shoved a spoonful of chocolate into her mouth. The quicker she ate, the quicker she could get out of that room. She knew he'd heard her in the hall. This encounter just proved it.

"I was just on the phone with my oma," he told her. "She's in England."

"Your family gets around," Claire said, forcing herself to swallow. She wanted to stab her eyes out with the spoon for being such a suspicious clod. The poor man was a refugee of war and had suffered enough already. He didn't need her making him into a boogeyman.

Carsten laughed. "Ja, that we do."

Carsten rummaged through a drawer for a spoon. His knowledge of the house felt invasive. Having found what he needed, he took the dish of mousse and, before she objected, sat at the table next to her.

"She and my opa used to go there for holidays. They liked it so much they moved there permanently. My parents would have followed, but they hated the idea of leaving Europe. They were very happy in Belgium."

"England is in Europe," Claire said, poking her chocolate with the spoon.

Carsten eyed her. "Het vasteland-the mainland."

"Of course, how silly of me." She smiled, making herself look at him. His use of Dutch was warming her to him. That must have been what he was using on the phone, and she was just mistaken. It sounded so similar. "Is she going to come to Boston?"

"Nee," Carsten said, cheerless. "She is not so well."

Claire frowned, seeing him focus on the chocolate like a discouraged kid.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said softly, feeling even more like a heel and even further drawn in by his despair.

"No matter," he said.

"She's all you have, isn't she?" Claire understood too clearly.

"That and this job-for now."

Claire played with the chocolate again. She felt like a real jerk for treating him with suspicion and shoving him off without knowing a thing about him.

"I'm sorry."

"You apologize for nothing of your doing," Carsten said, eating the chocolate he'd served himself. "I truly do see it as an opportunity."

Claire didn't know what to say. Everything that popped into her mind seemed too silly to speak. She filled her mouth with more chocolate and made some noise of agreement.

"So you like films and chocolade." Carsten smiled at her awkwardly, attempting to make conversation.

"Hmm?" Claire's eyes opened wide and she swallowed. "Oh-yeah-yes. My aunt keeps asking where I put it all, but I can't help it if I'm hungry all the time. I could eat two dinners some nights," Claire stopped speaking, hearing herself babbling on.

"You are so-dun-thin," Carsten said. His eyes sparkled with joy.

"My mother was thin. I think it's just that. You take after your parents," she said.

"Your moueder," he said, leaning back. The light gleamed on his gold head. "I have not heard about her. Your vader doesn't speak of her."

Claire froze, holding her spoon just above the last bit of chocolate. Her eyes searched the table. She suddenly felt as if she would burst apart. The hold he had on her, this romanticized idea of a European prince charming, snapped. She cooled off quick at the mention of her mother by anyone.

"None of us do," Claire murmured, darkly controlled like her father. She forced the last bite of chocolate in her mouth, picked up the dish and brought it to the sink. "Good night, Mr. Reiniger."

Carsten let her go. His questioning eyes pursued her. It was cruel to leave him like that, but the subject of her mother wasn't to be brought up by a stranger.

***

While Claire found her bed, Carsten finished the mousse alone. Their tense exchange left him a bit confused. His eyes studied the work table before him. Years of meals had been prepared there. He rubbed his thumb along the rough knife marks in front of his dessert dish. He let the spoon fall back with a gentle ring. The idea of some kind of warm hominess within those walls was a mere façade. Carsten knew he had trodden on delicate ground. A long history of trouble leached through the dwelling; he supposed it began with the mother. He found no photographs or anything depicting the Healey matriarch in the living areas of the house. When he did find one, it lay tucked away in his employer's private file cabinet with the other sensitive information in his office. The papers attached to it spoke of her hospitalizations and subsequent move to Waldau in Switzerland, all originating from their family physician. Carsten assumed she still lived. No documents to the contrary fell into his hands. He knew Healey was thorough enough to include that information if it existed. The man was far from sentimental.

Carsten slid the dish of chocolate across the table and sat back on the stool. The dim room closed in with a deafening silence that maddened him. He found it still more maddening to deal with a man who had abandoned his wife to research doctors, sending her as far away as his money afforded, stealing years of her life. He thought of how coldly Healey treated his only daughter, blatantly disrespecting her before their friends.

Claire had just graduated from a girl's school in New York. From everything he'd read in her file, she proved to be an intuitive thinker and exceptional student. He had thought her many years younger, as the photo in her file was quite old. She was the exact type of person that should be considered the pride of the family. Aside from being stunning, her great aptitude would serve her well in life, especially if she took over the family business or decided to further her education. Yet her father saw none of this. Healey gave the impression of severe disinterest in his only progeny; he worked at his current pursuits with distracted zeal. Carsten guessed at the legacy expected of her and that explained the neglect-Healey presumed she would marry someone capable of taking over. Regardless, his interest should be deeper than that of a third party. It seemed he was more interested in her than her father. A sideways smile twisted a corner of his mouth, thinking of her filmy night gown.

"Did you make the call?" A voice asked from the door.

Healey stood there, his jacket long discarded along with his tie and hospitality. His face was marked by the shadows of dark thoughts.

"Ja," Carsten said. He finished the chocolate and stood to set the dish in the sink alongside Claire's. "I made the call. Everything is arranged."

"Good." Healey smiled. "You should get to bed. You'll be taking my daughter out tomorrow night. It should be a productive evening-consider it a small reward for a job well done."

Carsten eyed Healey. He frowned a little, disappointed that he would sell his only child so cheaply. He said nothing and revealed no more in his bearing. Walking past his host, he made his exit.