I show her the dining room and point out the built-in cabinets stuffed with unmatched china. Claire likes to play tea party, and so Peter and I have been collecting teacups and saucers from a hundred different china patterns. Victoria admires the chandelier. Claire and I then trail her to the bedrooms. Claire has her bedroom piled high with her finds, primarily stuffed animals and dolls. I wish I’d made my bed. And put away more of my clothes. At least the closet door is shut so I don’t have to explain Peter’s nest.

Victoria then climbs the stairs to the attic room, the only room that I haven’t yet decorated. I follow her, while Claire lingers behind to hide the shotgun. Victoria waits for me at the top of the stairs. “This room has potential,” she says. “You could add some couches...”

I’m shaking my head, though I don’t realize it at first. I can picture this room so clearly, filled with easels and canvases and supplies... Stopping myself, I force myself to smile. “I’m glad you found what you lost.” She can go home, if the Missing Man returns. I don’t have that option, and it’s hard, very hard, not to feel jealousy itch inside me. She can see her family again. She can rejoin the world, reclaim her life, whatever it was. It hurts, thinking about it, and so I try to push the ache deep down like I always do and pretend it’s enough to paint walls and collect teacups.

She smiles. When she smiles, she’s a truly beautiful woman with features that would be stunning on a billboard or on the cover of a magazine. Jet-black hair. Flawless skin. High cheekbones. Red lips. “He never would have proposed if you hadn’t found this ring.” She holds up her hand to admire it. The star sapphire winks in the light.

“He might have. Sometimes it takes almost losing someone...” I swallow hard, not able to finish the sentence. I miss my mother so badly that it hurts. Most days, I’m able to keep from thinking about home, but with Victoria and her glow in front of me, it’s harder.

Victoria waves her hand. “Spare me the clichés. You performed a miracle here. I’m saying thank you. Just say ‘you’re welcome’ and we’re done.”

“You’re welcome.” I venture a question. “Did you...did you lose a husband?”

“He cheated on me, and I torched his diner. So in a way, yes.” Victoria turns away before I can react, though I have no idea how to react. “Come on. Sean should be finished taking inventory of your kitchen.” She clip-clops down the stairs in her high heels.

I feel as though I’ve missed a moment that I should have seized. Something important that could have happened or could have been said...but it’s gone, as certainly as a popped bubble.

In the kitchen, Sean is opening all the cabinets and drawers. He dumps out dozens of half-used spices, as well as a drawer full of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise packets from fast-food restaurants, also packets of strawberry jelly. (Claire loves strawberry jelly.) He also discovers our cabinet of cookies. (Claire has a knack for finding those.) He sorts through our cutlery drawer. We have an assortment of random kitchen items, the oddballs on wedding registries that people think they want and then shove into a corner of their basement and forget they ever owned. I still haven’t found a decent saucepan.

Stalking back and forth through the kitchen, Sean makes little humphs of approval and then dismay and then back to approval. He unearths a pomegranate. “Unusual.” He adds it to the growing pile of ingredients next to the stove. I’d found the pomegranate the other day, but then Peter called me Persephone and I hadn’t been able to eat it. I didn’t want to find a way home and then discover I had to return every six months. Odd the things that one becomes suspicious about when one doesn’t have any real hope to cling to. It seemed too big a risk—as if what I eat has anything to do with where I am. Anyway, who eats only six seeds of a pomegranate? That’s like eating six raisins and declaring yourself full.

Hopping up on the counter, Claire examines the ingredients Sean has selected, including the pomegranate and a stack of half-eaten fast-food cheeseburgers. Victoria has drifted into the kitchen and is unwrapping the cheeseburgers, removing the buns, pickles, and cheese.

I wonder where Peter is, and I step into the hallway to listen for him. I see him in the dining room. He’s climbed on top of the table. I wonder if he climbs things when he wants to flee—he always climbs on rooftops to escape. Or maybe he climbs to think. Or he wants to remind me that he has better balance than I do. I don’t know why he climbs things, and I don’t care why. I only care that Peter is unhappy. I don’t question that feeling too closely. Joining him in the dining room, I climb onto the table with him. “You okay?” I ask.

“You know, we could leave, right now, while they’re distracted.” He takes my hands, and I feel as if my hands are tingling. I like the warmth of his hands, probably too much. I remember how I felt in the ocean, so aware of him. “Find a new house. Bring Claire. There’s nothing here we can’t replace.”

I think of the Degas. And of the empty attic room. And of the hallway that I plan to paint. And of Peter’s closet, and the way our toiletries are comingled in the bathroom. I know it shouldn’t matter since this is temporary, but still... I draw my hands away from his. “It would be nice to have allies in town. Especially if Lost is shrinking.”

“I’m your ally. Isn’t that enough?”

“It would be nice to have a few more people who don’t want to shoot me on sight.”

“I’ll keep you safe.” His eyes are intense. I feel as though I could be caught in them and never be able to look anywhere else, never see anything else.

I slide off the table and tuck the chairs in so I’ll be doing something instead of drowning in his eyes. I never meant to become comfortable here, to think about wallpaper and paint, to be drawn to Peter, to care about Claire, to forget about home even for a second. But it’s been the only way to survive each day. “You can’t keep me safe every second. You aren’t with me every second.”

“Maybe I should be.” He jumps off the table beside me. I have to look at him again. His eyes are like the night sky, dark with light in them.

He’s standing close to me. We aren’t touching, but we are only centimeters apart. I feel as though my skin is vibrating from being so close to him. “You have to find lost people,” I say. Every day he goes into the void to search for lost people. Once he was sure Claire and I were safe enough, he didn’t shirk his responsibility. I admire that about him. Misunderstood hero.

“True.” He stares at me, too, as if he wants to drink me in, and I stare back, caught in his gaze. Then he cocks his head and grins. “You know, sometimes I don’t know whether to shake you or kiss you.”

My eyes fix on his lips, and my lungs feel tight. “Me, neither.” There’s an awkward pause. Neither of us moves. My eyes slide toward the kitchen. “We should make sure they aren’t planning on poisoning us.”

He nods, and we go into the kitchen, side by side but not touching.

Sean has taken over the kitchen. Nearly all of our kitchen implements are spread out on the counter. He has all four stove burners on, and our collection of herbs and spices is spread out next to the sink. Claire is stacking the containers by height and color into a fortress of dried leaves, while Sean mixes a little of this and a little of that into our odd assortment of pots and pans, using a fondue pot as one saucepan and a double-boiler as another. I don’t think either Peter or I have ever used either. Our meals tend to be simple. Vegetables, fruits, snacks. Lots of leftover sandwiches and burgers that I slice to avoid bits with obvious bite marks. Easy, quick meals.

As pots clatter against each other, Sean hums to himself. He stirs, splattering sauces onto the floor, and then tosses the utensils into the sink. He pours his mixtures into the pans. Drops land on the burners and sizzle.