On the sofa Julia stirred and muttered. Vincenzo moved a little closer and sat down, watching her.

'How did you find her?' he asked quietly.

'Curled up in a corner of an alley, which is odd because she says she flew here.'

'She took so much trouble to come to Venice, only to collapse in the street?' Vincenzo mused. 'What the devil is driving her?'

'Perhaps she'll tell me the reason later,' Piero said. 'But not if I ask.'

Vincenzo nodded, understanding the code by which Piero and those like him lived. He was used to dropping into his empty home to find various squatters sheltering there.

He knew that a sensible man would have driven them out, but, despite his grim aspect, he lacked the heart. He looked in occasionally to keep an eye on the place, but he'd found that Piero was better than any caretaker, and the building was safe with him. Now his visits were as much to check on the old man's welfare as for any other reason.

Julia stirred again, settling into a position where more of her face was visible.

Moving quietly, Vincenzo dropped to his knees beside her and studied her. He supposed he shouldn't be doing that while she was unknowing and defenceless, but something about her drew him so that he could not turn away.

Her face spoke of mysteries and denied them in the same moment. She wasn't a girl, he thought, probably somewhere in her thirties, marked by grief and with a withdrawn look so intense that it was there even in sleep.

Her mouth was wide, generous, designed to be mobile and expressive. He had known women with lips like that. They laughed easily, talked well, and kissed urgently with warm, sweet breath.

But this woman looked as if she seldom smiled, except as a polite mask. And she had forgotten how to kiss. She had forgotten love and pleasure and happiness. This was a face from which tenderness had been driven by sheer force. Its owner was capable of anything.