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behalf, and some cash against expenses which I ask you to accept, with my gratitude.”
    â€œYou knew I would agree to do this.”
    â€œI hoped you would. And I read your reviews. They are the reviews of a curious man, who likes to taste new things. A man who prides himself on his common sense. On his ability to notice details. A man who is impatient with his own ignorance.”
    Paul blushed, flattered, but also amazed that she could have touched his vanity so well.
    â€œBy now you, too, want to find Len. Your curiosity is aroused.”
    She either guessed well, or she knew Paul’s nature. Paul agreed that she was right. His curiosity was very much aroused.
    Paul paused before a small painting on the wall. A man, evidently a shepherd, looked up from his seat at the foot of a tree. An angel addressed him, a diaphanous figure the size of a large rabbit. The angel was painted in white, with quick strokes of the brush. In the distance was a city, walls and towers displayed awkwardly, in a perspective that struck Paul as crude. The horizon beyond was lost in blue, and the entire painting was discolored, whites gone yellow, blues going gradually gray.
    â€œA Patinir. Joachim Patinir died in 1524. Flemish, of course, and arguably the first Western artist to specialize in landscapes. What you see here is a shepherd awakened by an angel, perhaps the angel of death, but here the experts differ. Death is usually depicted as a virtual caricature. A dancing, grinning skeleton. So perhaps this is simply an angel.” His aunt stood close to the painting, as if she had never seen it before. “As if in those days they expected angels to show up before shepherds, like a swarm of gnats.”
    â€œHe looks surprised,” offered Paul. “As if he were not aware of the custom.”
    She did not answer at once. “At any rate,” she said, shaking off a thought, “I don’t believe it is the angel of death. Some other heavenly messenger, with some other tidings. Certainly there must be good apparitions as well as evil ones.”
    â€œThis is beyond my field of expertise,” Paul said, tugging his nose. “I don’t believe in any sort of spirit.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t,” said Aunt Mary.
    â€œEverything will be fine,” Paul said.
    â€œI don’t expect instant results,” she said, in a way that seemed a rebuff. “I am very patient. Take your time, but please begin soon.”
    A bad thought touched Paul. “Is there something you’re holding back? Something I should know?”
    â€œNothing. Except a feeling I have—a hunch. A feeling that Len is in a strange kind of trouble. And that it has to do with his research.”
    â€œYou mean, his ghost hunting.”
    â€œThank God for your common sense,” she said. “But Len takes it very seriously, and Len is not stupid.”
    â€œEverything will be fine,” he repeated.
    â€œI hope so. I wake at night sometimes, and I am afraid to be alone. I, of all people. I have always been a rock. A sensible person. So steady. Even during my husband’s infidelity I waited, always sure of myself, never panicking. But lately, I’ve had the most terrible dreams. They seem so real.”
    She opened a door that swung too silently. Their footsteps made no sound across the carpet. A desk drawer opened with a sound like a cough. She pressed the envelope into his hand. She turned away, as if she did not like to see the envelope, or to be reminded of what it contained.
    Paul wanted to leave then; he did not want to stay in this house. It was too cold, and too empty.
    â€œAlways the same dream,” she continued. “I am in a house, alone. And then there is a sound, and someone is in the house, in a distant room. And they begin fumbling through the house, as I try to move, and I can’t. I am utterly incapable of movement, of even turning my head, as if a powerful force held my skull