“Don’t you ever get tired of believing, Madame? Don’t you ever want proof?” Madame Manec rests a hand on Marie-Laure’s forehead. The thick hand that first reminded her of a gardener’s or a geologist’s. “You must never stop believing. That’s the most important thing.

Strange to think of his voice still flying through the air, already a country away, growing weaker every mile.

He turns. “Nichts,” he says. Nothing.

So really, children, mathematically, all of light is invisible.

Werner looks at the blue of the walls and thinks of Birds of America, yellow-crowned night heron, Kentucky warbler, scarlet tanager, bird after glorious bird, and Frederick’s gaze remains stuck in some terrible middle ground, each eye a stagnant pool into which Werner cannot bear to look.

She does not want to be one of those middle-aged women who thinks of nothing but her own painful history.

There is pride, too, though—pride that he has done it alone. That his daughter is so curious, so resilient. There is the humility of being a father to someone so powerful, as if he were only a narrow conduit for another, greater thing. That’s how it feels right now, he thinks, kneeling beside her, rinsing her hair: as though his love for his daught

never has Werner felt part of something so single-minded. Never has he felt such a hunger to belong.

The lift is out of order, so he walks up.