We travel across the main hall, and in the room of antiquities he says, Mary Knight brought only one, but it's a very large Roman bust, and she says it may become a permanent donation. Very generous.

What about yours? Paul asks.

Curry has brought us in a great circle through the first floor, back to the original room. This is mine, he says, waving his hand.

Which one? Paul asks.

All of them.

They exchange a look. The main hall contains more than a dozen works.

Come this way, Curry says to us, returning to a wall of paintings close to where we found him. These are the ones I want to show you.

He walks us before every canvas on the wall, one at a time, but says nothing.

What do they have in common? he asks, after letting us take them in.

I shake my head, but Paul sees it at once.

The subject. They're all the biblical story of Joseph.

Curry nods. Joseph Selling Wheat to the People he begins, pointing to the first. By Bartholomeus Breenbergh, about 1655.1 convinced the Barber Institute to lend it out.

He gives us a moment, then moves to the second painting. Joseph and his Brothers, by Franz Maulbertsch, 1750. Look at the obelisk in the background.

It reminds me of a print from the Hypnerotomachia I say.

Curry smiles. I thought the same thing at first. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be a connection.

He walks us toward the third.

Pontormo, Paul says before Curry can even begin.

Yes. Joseph in Egypt.

How did you get this?

London wouldn't let it come directly to Princeton. I had to arrange it through the Met.

Curry is about to say something else, when Paul spots the final two paintings in the series. They are a pair of panels, several feet in size, rich with color. The emotion rises in his voice.

Andrea del Sarto. Stories of Joseph. I saw these in Florence.

Richard Curry is silent. He paid for Paul to spend our freshman summer in Italy researching the Hypnerotomachia, the only time Paul has ever left the country.

I have a friend at the Palazzo Pitti, Curry says, folding his hands over his chest. He has been very good to me. I have them on loan for a month.

Paul stands frozen for a minute, struck silent. His hair is matted to his head, still wet from the snow, but a smile forms on his lips as he turns back to the painting. It occurs to me, finally, after watching his reaction, that the canvases have been mounted in this order for a reason. They form a crescendo of significance only Paul can understand. Curry must have insisted on this arrangement, and the curators must have agreed to it, obliging the trustee who brought more art than all the others combined. The wall in front of us is a gift from Curry to Paul, a silent congratulation on the completion of his thesis.

Have you read Browning's poem on Andrea del Sarto? Curry asks, trying to put words to it.

I have, for a literature seminar, but Paul shakes his head.

You do what many dream of, all their lives, Curry says. Dream? Strive to do, and agonize to do, and fail in doing.

Paul finally turns and puts a hand on Curry's shoulder. It's then that he steps back and takes the bundle of cloths from beneath his shirt.

What's this? Curry asks.

Something Bill just brought me. Paul falters, and I sense he's unsure how Curry will react. He carefully unwraps the book. I think you should see it.

My diary, Curry says, stunned. He turns it over in his hands. I can't believe it…

I'm going to use it, Paul says. To finish.

But Curry ignores him; as he looks down at the book, his smile disappears. Where did it come from?

From Bill.

You said that. Where did he find it?

Paul hesitates. An edge has entered Curry's voice.

In a bookstore in New York, I say. An antiquarian shop.

Impossible, the man mumbles. I looked for this book everywhere. Every library, every bookstore, every pawnshop in New York. All of the major auction houses. It was gone. For thirty years, Paul. It was gone.

He turns the pages, carefully scanning them with both his eyes and his hands. Yes, look. Here's the section I told you about. Colonna is mentioned here-he advances to another entry, then to another-and here. Abruptly he looks up. Bill didn't just stumble onto this tonight. Not the night before your work is due.

What do you mean?

What about the drawing? Curry demands. Bill gave you that too?

What drawing?

The piece of leather. Curry forms dimensions from his thumbs and index fingers, about one foot square. Tucked into the centerfold of the diary. There was a drawing on it. A blueprint.

It wasn't there, Paul says.

Curry turns the book in his hands again. His eyes have become cold and distant.

Richard, I have to return the diary to Bill tomorrow, Paul says. I'll read through it tonight. Maybe it can get me through the final section of the Hypnerotomachia.

Curry shakes himself back to the present. You haven't finished your work?

Paul's voice fills with anxiety. The last section isn't like the others.

But what about the deadline tomorrow?

When Paul says nothing, Curry runs his hand over the diary's cover, then relinquishes it. Finish. Don't compromise what you've earned. There's too much at stake.

I won't. I think I've almost found it. I'm very close.

If you need anything, just say so. An excavation permit. Surveyors. If it's there, we'll find it.

I glance at Paul, wondering what Curry means.

Paul smiles nervously. I don't need anything more. I'll find it on my own, now that I have the diary.

Just don't let it out of your sight. No one has done something like this before. Remember Browning. 'What many dream of, all their lives.'

Sir, comes a voice from behind us.

We turn to find a curator stepping in our direction.

Mr. Curry, the trustees' meeting is beginning soon. Could we ask you to move to the upstairs deck?

We'll talk about this more later, Curry says, reorienting himself. I don't know how long this meeting will be.

He pats Paul on the arm, shakes my hand, and then walks toward the stairs. When he ascends, we find ourselves alone with the guards.

I shouldn't have let him see it, Paul says, almost to himself, as we turn toward the door.

He pauses to take in the series of images one more time, forming a memory he can return to when the museum is closed. Then we find our way back outside.

Why would Bill lie about where he got the diary? I ask once we're in the snow again.

I don't think he would, Paul says.

Then what was Curry talking about?

If he knew more, he would've told us.

Maybe he didn't want to tell you while I was there.

Paul ignores me. There's a pretense he likes to keep up, that we are equals in Curry's eyes.

What did he mean when he said he'd help you get excavation permits? I ask.

Paul looks over his shoulder nervously at a student who has fallen in behind us. Not here, Tom.

I know better than to push him. After a long silence I say, Can you tell me why all the paintings had to do with Joseph?

Paul's expression lightens. Genesis thirty-seven. He pauses to call it up. Now Jacob loved Joseph more than all his children, because he was the son of his old age. And he made him a coat of many colors.

It takes me a second to understand. The gift of colors. The love of an aging father for his favorite son.

He's proud of you, I say.

Paul nods, But I'm not done. The work isn't finished.

It's not about that, I tell him.

Paul smiles thinly. Of course it is.

We make our way back to the dorm, and I notice an unpleasant quality to the sky: it's dark, but not perfectly black. The whole roof of it is shot with snow clouds from horizon to horizon, and they are a heavy, luminous gray. There isn't a star to be seen.