“The silver-gray dog lay under the table.

“‘There is another ship out there,’ the little queen said, as she was blowing into her cup. ‘A black one, on the horizon. Do you show that ship the way, too?’

“‘Of course,’ the lighthouse keeper replied. ‘I show all ships the way.’

“‘But how can you know which of them are bad ships and which of them are good?’ the little queen asked. ‘That black one, you see, it’s a bad ship. I know that, but maybe you do not, which is why you show it the way.’

“‘It’s true,’ the lighthouse keeper answered in great earnestness, ‘I don’t know the bad ships from the good ships.’ In his nearly gray beard, there were drops of milk.

“‘The black ship belongs to the hunters,’ the little queen continued. ‘They want to steal my heart, and if they are successful, I will die. We have to reach the mainland before they catch us. We have just enough of a lead for one cup of hot chocolate.’

“‘Oh,’ the lighthouse keeper said. ‘But that’s horrible! I might have shown many bad ships the way.’ He took off his glasses and scratched his head. ‘What am I here for then?’

“He turned to face the little queen, putting the glasses on again. ‘If I show the way to bad and good people alike, it amounts to the same as if I show the way to no one,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that so? Maybe … maybe I should just stop showing the way. Maybe I should go to the mainland with you.’

“The silver-gray dog came out from under the table and sniffed the lighthouse keeper’s shoes; then he watched him intently with his golden eyes. And in the end, he wagged his tail.

“‘See,’ the little queen said happily. ‘He’s saying you’re allowed to come with us.’

“‘That’s great,’ the lighthouse keeper said. ‘I’ll just pack my toothbrush. I might be of some help on that ship of yours. What’s her name, by the way?’

“‘I don’t know,’ the little queen replied honestly. ‘Maybe one day we’ll find out.’

So the lighthouse keeper turned out the light, making the lighthouse just a house. There wouldn’t be any light to show the black ship the way. But the day was still bright; the night was yet to come.

“The lighthouse keeper unfastened the line that held the green ship, and they sailed away with a bold breeze in their three white sails. Next to the ship, the round head of the sea lion popped up among the waves. The lighthouse keeper nodded his head in recognition.

“Meanwhile, behind them, the black ship came closer and closer still. The little queen felt the red hunter’s greed, and her diamond heart beat faster than ever before.”

Anna and Micha were silent for a while. Then Micha asked, “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Are you sure? Did you turn the page over?”

“I did. That was the second side. There isn’t any more. Not yet at least.”

“A heart made of diamond,” Micha whispered. “Do you think I’ve really got something like that? If they put me in one of those X-ray machines at the hospital, they could see it, couldn’t they?”

Anna laughed. “You’ve got a perfectly normal heart made of flesh and blood. This is just a fairy tale.”

“Yes, but …” Micha said.

At that moment, they heard the front door open and footsteps in the hallway. Anna sat absolutely still, and she saw that Micha, too, was trying not to breathe. It was as if they were standing aboard the green ship together, between the beautiful, dangerous waves of a blue winter sea. Rainer Lierski, Anna thought. He doesn’t have a key, does he? Did we leave the door open? How long have we been here? Surely more than enough time to walk here on foot from Wieck …

The door to Micha’s room opened. It was Abel. Of course it was Abel. Anna breathed a sigh of relief and climbed down, behind Micha, from the bed. But when she was standing in front of him, Abel’s eyes were colder than ever. They were as cold as the winter night on a ship in a fairy tale.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I … I made pancakes … for lunch …”

And then she remembered that she was still holding the pages. Abel followed her gaze and snatched them from her hand.

“Micha is perfectly capable of buttering a slice of bread for lunch,” he said. “That’s what she usually does. I didn’t ask you to come here.”

“I … no … I didn’t intend to …,” Anna began. “How was the French test?”

“The story is my fault,” Micha said. “I told Anna to read it to me. I found the pages. It was very nice, you know, having her read to me, and maybe you could show her how to make pancakes so that they aren’t burned around the edges …”

“Anna has to go now,” Abel said. “She’s got her own home and a lot to do there.” He didn’t touch Anna. He didn’t push her out of the room. He just looked at her. She held up her hands, helplessly, and walked toward the apartment door. Abel didn’t take his eyes off her as she put on her jacket and shoes. “Your bicycle is outside,” he said. “I rode it here.”

“My … bicycle? It was … locked?”

“With a combination lock,” Abel said, “the kind that anybody can open. I guess you’ve got the money to buy a better lock when you find the time.”

She made one last try. “Abel, I just brought Micha home! You asked me to do that.”

“I asked you for nothing,” he said in a hard voice. She had been wrong. He could be scary without the black hat. “It was your idea. And, now, leave us alone. Thank you for bringing her the key.”

Never had the words Thank you stung like that, like a blow. She ran down the stairs without stopping. On the ground floor Mrs. Ketow had opened her door just a little, to listen. Anna slammed the outer door shut behind her. She was crying. Shit, she was really crying. Searching for a tissue, she found the blister pack with the white pills in her pocket. Maybe, she thought, she should take one, just so … She pressed one of the pills out of the foil and put it in her mouth. It tasted bitter. She spit it out, a white pill in white snow—like white paper waiting for letters, for words, for the next part of a fairy tale. He had locked her bicycle with the useless combination lock. She unlocked it and rode home, her head empty … white paper, white snow, white ice on a white street, white sails, white noise.

When she closed her eyes, she saw a diamond embroidered in white, embroidered onto the sleeve of a blood-red coat. Or was it tattooed onto Rainer Lierski’s bicep?

THAT NIGHT, ANNA COULDN’T SLEEP. SHE PUT HER clothes back on and went downstairs to the living room, where Magnus was still sitting in his old armchair reading the newspaper, another sleepless person, but one of the steadier sort. She looked at his big, broad figure in the big, broad armchair; they were at one, he and his chair, a rock, unshiftable, unyielding, strong. When she’d been small, she had thought her father could protect her from everything. Everything in the whole world. Children are stupid.

Next to Magnus, on the small parquet table, a relic of some trip to the Middle East, there was a bottle of red wine and a glass. Anna took another glass from the cupboard and poured herself some wine. Then she sat down on the second armchair. For a while they drank and shared the silence, Magnus focused on his newspaper and Anna on her thoughts. Finally, he folded the paper.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied. He looked at her. She shrugged her narrow shoulders. She was so much narrower than him, a slender branch in the wind. “The world,” she said.

“Yes. That’s what you look like. As if you have the world on your mind.”

“Why are people so different? Why are some happy and others unhappy? Why do some people have money and others … I know,” she sighed, “this sounds childish.”

“You could study the answers,” Magnus said, wineglass in hand. “Philosophy. Or, no … economics.”

“I need a sick note,” Anna said. “For my music class today. Two to four o’clock … about.”