‘Once the factories were in Venice,’ Antonio had told her. ‘But the city fathers were afraid of those roaring foundries, in case they started a fire that would consume the whole city. So, in the thirteenth century, they banished the glass makers to Murano.’

There they had remained ever since, dominating the art with their inventive techniques and the unrivalled beauty of their products.

Now Helena stood near the front of the boat, full of curiosity about what she would discover, and revelling in the sensation of the wind whipping about her. Of course, it made good business sense to inspect her property incognito before confronting Salvatore, but she knew, if she was honest, that she was simply enjoying this.

After fifteen minutes they arrived. Hands reached out to help them ashore, and a guide pointed out the factory.

She had never been anywhere like it before. The exhibition of finished glass objects was pleasing enough, but beyond that were the secrets of how these beautiful things were made. The furnaces, the designers, the vases being blown by hand-all these things entranced her.

She let herself fall back to the edge of the crowd, then slipped away out of sight. Now she was free to wander alone, pausing to watch as the fancy took her. It was like another universe, one where the most dazzling arts were practised with an almost casual skill.

At last she reckoned she should rejoin the others. They were just below, at the foot of the stairs, and by passing a nearby door she could reach them quietly.

The door was half-open, giving her a glimpse of a man talking into the telephone in a harsh, angry voice. She slipped past, unnoticed, and would have proceeded to the head of the stairs, had not the sound of her own name pulled her up short.