It was hard to picture: stern, monosyllabic Maria preparing for his arrival.

    "She is a good person. She will let you see that when she's ready to."

    He was slightly unnerved that she'd read the thought in his face.

    "So, how was your trip?"

    "Good. Long."

    "Did you stop in Paris?"

    "No."

    "Milan?"

    "Just Florence. And only for a night."

    "One night in Florence," she mused. "It sounds like the title of a song."

    "Not a very good one."

    Signora Docci gave a short, sharp laugh. "No," she conceded. Adam took a letter from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to her. "From Professor Leonard."

    She laid the letter beside her on the bed. He noted that her hand remained resting on it.

    "And how is Crispin?" she asked.

    "He's in France at the moment, looking at some cave paintings." "Cave paintings?"

    "They're very old—lots of bison and deer."

    "A cave is no place for a man his age. It'll be the death of him."

    Adam smiled.

    "I'm serious," she said.

    "I know, it's just . . . your English."

    "What?"

    "It's very good. Very correct."

    "Nannies. Nannies and governesses. My father is to blame. He loved England." She shifted in the bed, removing her spectacles and placing them on the bedside table. "So tell me, how is the Pensione Amorini?"

    "Perfect. Thanks for arranging it." "How much is she charging you?" "Twenty-five hundred lire a day." "It's too much."

    "It's half what I paid in Florence."

    "Then you were had."

    "Oh."

    "You should pay no more than two thousand lire for half- board."

    "The room's large, clean."

    "Signora Fanelli knows the power of her looks, I'm afraid. She always has, even as a young girl. And now that she's a widow, well . . ."