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and army garb were squeezed indiscriminately together on a long metal clothes rack. When Nate Erikson started illustrating, the Internet was not around for reference.
    All I needed now were the books.
    They had to be up in the loft. I climbed the stairs and stepped into a cloud of dust motes sparkling in the light. But at least there were hundreds of books here, housed in tall shelves facing each other. From downstairs all you could see were the bookcases’ wooden backs.
    I walked up and down, my fingers gently touching spines, but no Finger-Spitzengefuhl kicked in to guide me. I did see that they were shelved in chronological order and decided to begin with Nate Erikson’s earliest work. I pulled out as many books as I could carry and brought them to the table downstairs. Next I set up my laptop. When my e-mail loaded instantly, I realized that the signal was strong indeed.
    Nate had begun his career in the time-honored way by accepting any assignment he was offered, starting with a short-lived series about a boy explorer in the Arctic, a collection of dog stories, and two minor novels of Zane Grey . Although the stories were forgettable, these books had been published in small print runs before Nate Erikson was famous, making them more valuable than his later best sellers. The illustrations were vividly colored, but had an impressionistic quality not typical of his later work. I wondered when his style had changed.
    B Y LATE MORNING, I could no longer resist looking at the paintings the illustrations were based on. I informed the imaginary museum guard that looking at them was part of my research, that I was not touching anything I shouldn’t—not really—then went over to the wooden bins and started removing canvases carefully. They weren’t large, perhaps twenty-four inches by thirty-six inches, and spanned Nate’s whole career. I was delighted to see the painting of the Israelites crossing the Red Sea from my storybook, a baby looking wide-eyed over his mother’s shoulder at the Egyptian soldiers as they started to drown.
    The next canvas caught on something. I wiggled the edge back and forth, then gave a tug—and was horrified to hear a ripping sound. I had ripped a Nate Erikson canvas! I had destroyed a museum masterpiece. I might as well have gone to the Met and slashed Monet’s Water Lilies. No wonder Bianca Erikson had warned me not to touch anything. She had known from looking at me that I was not reliable.
    My instinct was to push the picture back into its slot, and pretend that I had never gone near this part of the studio. But I had to see what I had done. I slipped my arm in as far as I could and, with a sinking heart, tried to remove a canvas that had gotten caught on a nail. How much damage had I caused? Would it take everything I earned here for its restoration? Maybe I would be making restitution for the rest of my life.
    I finally worked the painting free, and stared at it, confused. It was no book illustration. It was a nude of a young woman with a large black X obliterating her face. Someone had crisscrossed her breasts with a knife as well, leaving hanging triangles. It was one of these flaps that had gotten snagged.
    Thank you, Lord. I had not destroyed a priceless painting. It was hardly a masterpiece and it had already been ruined. Had Nate even painted it? If he had, why would he mutilate his own work? Yet Bianca had told me no one else had been allowed in the studio. I studied the painting more carefully. There was something familiar about the tangled waves of light hair that fell past her shoulders.
    Belatedly I realized the hair was just like mine.

 
    C HAPTER S EVEN
    A KNOCK ON the studio door brought me out of the Old West. I looked at my watch and saw, surprised, that it was after one.
    “Did you think I’d forgotten you?” Bianca said when I pulled back the door. “I got a phone call just as I was leaving that I had to take.”
    She had changed her clothes and was wearing tan