“‘There will be other summer flowers on the mainland,’ said the sea lion. ‘Flowers more beautiful than the ones on your island. There will be other white mares.’

“‘But none of them will be my white mare,’ the little queen said.

“She wanted to cry, but then she spied another ship just over the horizon. A ship a lot bigger than hers. And suddenly, she shivered, even though her down jacket had dried by now. The big ship was all black, as if it had been cut from construction paper. It had black sails and a black hull, black lines and a black cabin.

“‘Those are the hunters,’ the sea lion said. ‘They hunt by day and by night, in the rain and the wind. Don’t turn to look at them too often, little queen.’

“‘What is it they want?’ the little queen whispered. ‘What are they after?’

“‘They are after you,’ the sea lion replied. ‘There is something you should know. Your heart, little queen … it’s not like other hearts. It’s a diamond. Pure and white and big and valuable like no other diamond in the world. Should someone pluck this diamond from your breast, it would shine as brightly as the sun.’

“‘But it’s not possible to pluck it from my breast, is it?’ the little queen asked.

“‘No,’ the sea lion said. ‘Not as long as you are alive.’”

IT WAS QUIET THEN. OF COURSE, IT WASN’T REALLY quiet. Dozens of people were talking and laughing, and because they were young people, they were talking loudly. Plates clinked against each other; the door of the ladies’ room slammed shut; the pages of books, of notepads, of newspapers were turned. Jackets were put on or off with a rustle; here someone sneezed; there someone blew his nose noisily; two people were kissing; and someone had turned up the volume of his MP3 player too loud.

But still it was quiet. The silence at the table behind Anna muffled every other noise in this whole lively, chaotic, bustling student universe. It was the silence of a story ending. It wouldn’t go on here; the period at the end of that last sentence had been definitive—a well-thought-out cliff-hanger.

Then Micha broke the silence. “She won’t die, will she?” she asked. “She will reach the mainland, right? Do you think she will? Before it’s too late?”

Anna waited for an answer from Abel, but none came. “Tell me!” Micha said with fearful impatience. “What do you think? You listened, too, didn’t you!”

Only then did Anna understand that it wasn’t Abel Micha had asked. It was her. She thought about acting like she hadn’t listened at all and that she didn’t know what the little girl was talking about. She thought about it for a split second but realized it was no good. Micha’s question was too direct, too innocent, too loud. She turned to look, but not into Micha’s face—into Abel’s. He’d been sitting with his back to her. Now he turned and he was too close, much too close. The blues of their eyes, his and Micha’s, were not the same. His eyes were colder. Their cold was the cold of a deep freezer, an artificial and necessary cold—necessary to keep something functioning. Cold that needed energy. He didn’t smile.

“Tell me!” Micha repeated from the other side of the little round table.

“I admit, I was listening,” Anna said and tried to smile. “What I’m reading is not especially … comprehensible. Besides, Gitta doesn’t seem to be coming,” she added. “That is why I listened. Was it … was it a secret story?”

Micha looked from Anna to Abel, suddenly worried. “Is it a secret story?” she wanted to know.

Abel didn’t say anything.

And because something had to be said, Anna said, “No. I don’t think she will die, no way. She’s going to make it. The sea lion will help her.”

“But what can a sea lion do against a huge black ship full of diamond hunters?” Micha asked, not without logic.

“Well, it’s a fairy tale, isn’t it? Maybe the sea lion can … change.”

“Change? Into what?”

Anna shook her head. “It’s not my fairy tale. I can’t tell you how it will end. I’m not in it.”

She put Faust II back in her bag and stood up. “I don’t think Gitta’s going to make it, and I can’t spend all day waiting for her. I need to get going.”

Abel got up from his chair as well. “We’re also leaving. Micha? Take the empty cup back.”

“But not the straws,” Micha said and held them up, five brightly colored straws, bent in the heat, twisted into knots, into … something.

“I made a sea lion,” she said.

Anna nodded. “I see.”

They left the cafeteria together, then passed through the revolving door and out into the cold. And Anna kept thinking, he hates the fact that I listened. He hates it. He hates me, maybe. He knows I’m spying on him.

Outside, Abel stood at the top of the steps in front of the dining hall while Micha ran sliding over the frozen puddles—back and forth, back and forth …

Anna stood there, too, not knowing what to do. Abel took a pouch of tobacco and some papers out of his pocket and started rolling a cigarette, but he stared at her the whole time, and she couldn’t leave with him watching her. It was like leaving in the middle of a conversation.

“You don’t smoke, do you?” Abel asked. She shook her head and he lit up.

Micha kept sliding.

“Abel,” Anna said, finally. “Abel Saint-Exupéry.”

“Yeah, it was a bit too much like Saint-Ex,” Abel said, as if he knew Saint-Exupéry personally.

Anna nodded. “Literally. Nearly. ‘None of them will be my white mare …’”

“The rose in Saint-Exupéry. Of course. I couldn’t predict that you’d be listening.”

“I didn’t come to listen,” Anna said and thought, Well, that’s the lie of the day. “I … had to listen. It … is a wonderful story. Where do you get all those words from? All those pictures?”

“From reality,” Abel said. “That’s all we got.”

She realized he wasn’t wearing the black hat. The sunlight caught his thick blond hair. He stood straighter than he did in the schoolyard. And suddenly he was near, not physically but mentally. “Literature,” Anna began. “Lit class. Not that it’s important …”

“It is important,” he said. “That is why I am in literature class. That is what I want to do. Tell stories. Not only to Micha. Later—I want to …” He stopped. “That … about Micha … it’s no one’s business. And the stories aren’t either.”

“Yes,” she said. “No. What about Micha?”

Abel contemplated the glowing tip of his cigarette. “That isn’t your business either.”

“Okay,” she said. But she didn’t leave.

Abel tossed the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. “What if I tell you that I’m not her brother but her father?” He laughed suddenly. “You can stop calculating … Not in the biological sense. I’m taking care of her. There are too many bad things out there. Somebody has to take care of her. You know I miss a lot of classes. Now you know why.”

“But … your real father …?” Anna asked.

He shook his head. “Haven’t seen mine for fifteen years. Micha’s got a different father. I don’t know where that guy is, but it’s possible he’ll turn up sooner or later, when he learns that Michelle has disappeared. Our mother. He’ll come looking for Micha then. And I know two people who won’t be at home.”

Anna looked at him, questioningly. “Don’t ask,” he said. “There are some things you don’t want to know.” And suddenly he grabbed Anna’s arm, hard. “Don’t tell anyone at school about Micha,” he said. “Not even Gitta. None of those friends of yours. If you tell anyone …”

“You don’t know me,” Anna said. She didn’t try to pull her arm free because she knew that that was what he expected. She held still. Her fear of him had drowned in the sea he had invented, with the island and the white mare and the castle with one single room. Strange.

“You have no clue,” she repeated. “I don’t hang out with those people much. They’re not my friends. And … Abel? Put the hat back on. You look much more frightening when you’re wearing your black hat.”