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she held a precious porcelain in her hand or traced her finger over the painted images in a scroll, he could see her eyes falling into a journey all her own.
    â€œYou remind me of the very ceramics you so love,” he told her one afternoon as they sat in the back of his store looking at his latest shipment. “Fire within the layers of a soft cloud.”
    She blushed. She had never studied him too closely, as she was always concentrating on what artworks he had on hand to show her. But now she focused solely on him. He was as finely boned as a sparrow. His features small and sharp, his skin warm and golden.
    â€œShow me more of what you have in those boxes back there,” she said with mischief in her eyes. She knew he had recently expanded his inventory. He was importing not only Oriental porcelains and exotic prints now, but also pieces of ivory and amber. Even rare painted ostrich eggs, and rhinoceros horns.
    A smile crossed his lips. “To you, I only show the best.”
    He returned with two small velvet pouches. Slowly, he untied the first one and pulled out seven miniature carvings, each rendered as an animal. A small fox carved in amber, a hare chiseled from ivory, and a tortoise carved from paulownia wood.
    â€œThese are the latest fashionable pieces to collect from the Far East,” Ichiro informed her. “They are called netsuke . . . Small enough to carry on your person, and to easily gaze upon from the palm of your hand.”
    As he cradled one of the netsuke in his palm, he traced its delicate lines with his finger. Then, he closed his hand and made a fist, warming it. “Every person who has ever held a netsuke adds something to it. Their oils add to the beauty of its patina. Its value increases with every touch.”
    â€œMay I see it again?”
    â€œOf course,” Ichiro said, pleased that Marthe was intrigued.
    She reached for the small amber fox and examined it closely.
    In her hand, the small object transformed. She could see how the amber changed from when she held it to the light, so it became nearly opaque in the shadow of her cupped palms. Ichiro understood better than anyone Marthe’s tastes. She was attracted to things that were as elusive and as secretive as the world she occupied. Things that were not only beautiful, but also that transformed as much in the darkness as they did in the light.
    â€œI love how small they are . . . ,” she said, smiling.
    She felt as though she was holding something that was a secret.
    â€œHidden beauty,” he said, closing his eyes. “It is always the best kind of all.”

6.
Solange

    December 1938
    I t was difficult to sleep, my mind raced with all of the stories my grandmother had shared. I could envision everything she told me with such precision.
    I longed to return to the comfort of her apartment. There the air was always fragrant and the light soft. We drank from hand-painted porcelain, where delicate birds and flowers floated on crisp white cups and saucers, and reached for chocolates that were served on a glimmering silver tray.
    My grandmother was the opposite of my mother. My mother was not a woman whose magic was rooted in elegance or beauty, but rather was one of those rare creatures whose intelligence and soul were wedded in her affection for the written word.
Maman
did not love silk or perfume as Marthe did. She adored the cadence of words and the music of poetry. She believed in the truth that every good novel holds within its pages. And though her father had accused herof abandoning her faith, I knew otherwise. For the last books my mother held to her chest were not her beloved novels by Dostoevsky or Flaubert, but those that connected her to an ancient past.
    Marthe, on the other hand, had no connection to the written word, only the spoken one. On all my visits, I never once saw a book anywhere in her apartment. If she did read novels, Marthe kept them far from public view.