She looked around the room, twisting at the waist to see for herself. She had a figure made for that kind of movement. Her eyes lit on a burlap curtain that hung over a doorway.

“Where’s that go?” she asked.

“My back room,” I said. Then it came to me. “You must be talking about the Messenger of the Divine.”

“Oh yes. Yes.”

The hope in her voice brought me up out of my chair. She moved toward me. Her hands reached out for me.

“They had a place look like mine down the street,” I said. “But they moved out. Must be two months ago now.”

“What?” Her face went blank.

“Moved,” I said. “Went away.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. They moved out in the middle of the night. Took everything. All that was left was an empty space and a few paper fans.”

I was sad to make my little report because now there was no reason for her to stay and twist around. I realized that I had spent a little too much time lately wrapped up in books. I had the notion that I should go out to the Parisian Room that night.

Just then the young woman leaned backward and then crumpled forward, into my arms. As I stood there holding her steady, the fear fled my heart. At close quarters her scent was floral, but it was also sharp, like the smell after lightning strikes.

“You got some water in the back?” she whispered.

I nodded and led her through the heavy burlap curtain to the back room and put her on my cot. She was mumbling and crying.

“Are you okay?” I asked, perching next to her.

“Where did they go?”

I couldn’t find the words to hurt her again.

“What am I gonna do?” she cried, turning her head, looking around in the dark as if the room might somehow transform itself into the church she sought. “Reverend Grove is the only one who can help me now.”