'Good night, mother.' Tess kissed her cheek. Again her mother looked surprised. 'I apologize for making a scene, but you can't 'imagine what I've been through the past few days. You have my word. I'll try my best not to upset you anymore.'

'Dear.' With a choked voice, her mother hesitated. 'You don't have to apologize. Good heavens, you're all I have. I'll never stop loving you. Make as many scenes as you want. You'll always be welcome here. And I promise, I'll do everything I can to help solve your problems.'

Tess felt pressure in her tear ducts.

At once her mother did an amazing thing. She kissed Tess in return, no casual brush of a cheek against cheek, but an actual kiss, her lips placed firmly yet tenderly on Tess's brow. 'Remember what I used to tell you when I tucked you in bed when you were a child? Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite.'

Tess brushed a tear from her eye. 'I remember. I…"

'What, dear?'

'I don't say this often enough. I love you, mother.'

'I know. I've never doubted it. Stay in bed as long as you want. Phone the kitchen in the morning, and tell Edna what you want for breakfast. Then please phone me. I'd like to join you.'

Tess sniffled, wiping her cheeks. 'I look forward to it.'

'I wish you wouldn't cry.'

'Of course. I remember. Emotion always made you uncomfortable.'

'It's not so much feeling emotion but showing it,' her mother said. 'Very early, a diplomat's wife learns the difference.'

'Well, mother, I'm afraid I'm not a diplomat's wife. I'm merely his daughter.'

'The daughter of Remington Drake? Not merely. Not at all. Between your father and me, you're made from strength. Obey your heritage. Be strong.'

'I will, mother. I promise.'

'I repeat, I love you. And by the way, there aren't any monsters under your bed. I guarantee it.'

Tess watched her mother proceed down the corridor, a tired elderly woman whose footsteps faltered slightly but who nonetheless maintained her posture, trying to walk with dignity. Only when her mother stepped into her bedroom did Tess, heart aching, go into her own.

The room had been Tess's bedroom for as long as she'd been alive. Turning on the overhead light, shutting the door behind her, she studied the canopied bed, the covers of which a servant had folded down. The servant, presumably the butler, had also unpacked her suitcase, placing her shorts and T-shirt on a lace-rimmed pillow.

With bittersweet emotion, Tess scanned the room, her complex layers of memory making her see it as if transparent photographs had been placed in front of one another, all the different stages of her youth: her childhood bed, her doll house (which her father had made), her stuffed play animals, then the larger bed and her baseball glove on the bureau, her bat and ball beside it, the posters of baseball and football stars that had given way to posters of rock stars and her stack of records beside her stereo, the books she'd studied in college (she'd refused to live in a dorm at Georgetown University, prefering to stay at home so she could be near her father).

All gone now. All lost and gone.

With a shudder of regret, she subdued her nostalgia, peered down at the book in her hand, and forced herself to pay attention to why she'd come here.

The Dove's Neck Ring. The title page indicated that the book by Ibn Hazm had been translated from Spanish by A. R. Nykl in 1931. Leafing through the introduction as she walked toward the bed, she learned that Ibn Hazm had been an Arab who'd emigrated from northern Africa to southern Spain in the early eleventh century and had written this book, a treatise on platonic love, in 1022.

Plato.

Tess suddenly remembered The Collected Dialogues of Plato that she'd seen on the bookcase in Joseph's bedroom. And she painfully remembered something else: Joseph's insistence that his relationship with her could never be physical, only platonic. That way is better,' he'd said. 'Because it's eternal.'

Dejected, she turned on the bedside lamp, reached for the switch that extinguished the overhead light, and slumped on the bed, propping pillows behind her, continuing to scan the book.

She could understand why her mother had found it boring. The book was an elaborate essay, not a narrative, and its stilted English translation tried to recreate the feel of medieval Spanish. It was crammed with homilies and abstractions.

According to the introduction, The Dove's Neck Ring had been extremely popular in its day, often copied by hand; the printing press had not yet been invented. Eventually the book had made its way upward through Spain to southern France, where in the mid-twelfth century it had been one of the texts that formed the basis for an idealized view of the relationship between men and women, known as courtly love.

The expression caught Tess's attention. She suddenly remembered another book that she'd seen in Joseph's bedroom: The Art of Courtly Love . But why had Joseph been fascinated by that subject?

Reading with greater curiosity, Tess learned that the notion of courtly love had appealed to and been sponsored by the then Queen of France, Eleanor of Aquitaine (the title of another book in Joseph's bedroom!), and later by Eleanor's daughter, Marie de France, both of whom had gathered poets and minstrels around them, directing them to compose verses and songs that celebrated a ritualized, highly polite and refined set of rules that dictated how men and women should behave toward one another.

Tess scrunched her forehead in confusion. She didn't know how these puzzling details fit together, but Joseph had obviously acted toward her in keeping with the strictest of the codes of courtly love.

While one branch of this ancient tradition treated courtly love as a type of foreplay, a prelude to sex, the other branch of the tradition had maintained that sex was an impure, imperfect form of love. According to the author of The Dove's Neck Ring, true love wasn't based on physical attraction but rather on an attraction between kindred spirits, compatible souls. These souls had once existed in harmony, during a pre-life that reminded Tess of heaven. When born into the physical world, the souls had been separated and thereafter felt incomplete, compelled to keep looking for one another, never to be satisfied until they met. Just as their original relationship had been pure, in the sense of non-physical, non-sexual, so their relationship in this world should be the same, uncontaminated by the vulgarities of the flesh. This idea of a heaven-like pre-life evidently came from Plato's dialogues (Tess again remembered the book by Plato in Joseph's bedroom), and the notion of non-sexual, highly spiritual affection between men and women was thus known as platonic love.

Tess scrunched her forehead harder, a deep corner of her sub-consciousness straining to understand. For certain, she'd felt an instant identification with Joseph the moment he'd entered the elevator when she'd first met him last Wednesday.

Had it been only a week ago?

But her reaction to Joseph had not been merely an identification.

Much more! An attraction. Powerful. What romantics liked to describe as love at first sight, but what the long-dead author of The Dove's Neck Ring would have called love at second sight.

All theory. Speculation. Surely it didn't explain Tess's overwhelming determination.

Courtly love? Plato? Why in God's name had Joseph been so obsessed with these ideas?

Her chest ached. On impulse, she glanced at her watch, surprised to discover that it was almost two a.m.

Although she'd told her mother that she was so disturbed she doubted she'd be able to sleep, she abruptly felt exhausted and decided to get out of her clothes, change into her shorts and T-shirt, and try to sleep.