She ended the call, staring at her cell phone.

She’d passed along the information, but felt far from comforted. At that moment, however, there was nothing she could do.

She lifted her knapsack and began walking toward the door, leaning heavily on her cane.

That was when she saw Ispettor Batelli striding toward her.

“You saw Agent Savola being attacked?” he asked, in Italian.

“What?” She stalled.

“You just said that you saw him. What did you see?”

Raven frowned. “You misunderstood my English. I didn’t say that.”

Batelli swore. “I heard what you said. And my English is perfect. Savola’s Vespa was found outside your apartment.”

“Really? That’s strange.” She forced a smile. “I’m afraid I’m late for my lunch. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

“Who is William?” he asked, intercepting her.

“I have no idea.”

“Your telephone call. You wanted to speak with William. William who?”

“A family friend.” She smiled again. “Now I really have to go.”

She tried to move past him but he stood in front of her.

“William York?”

Raven attempted to hide her recognition, but she suspected she failed based on Batelli’s triumphant expression.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She skirted him and limped toward the door.

“Why didn’t you call the police? Why didn’t you report it?”

“Because I didn’t see anything.” She spoke over her shoulder.

“The investigating officers were told that Agent Savola was following you after hours. When they found his Vespa, they should have interviewed you as a matter of procedure. Why didn’t they?”

Raven didn’t turn around. “You’re harassing me. If you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to Dottor Vitali.”

“And tell him what? I overheard you confess to having witnessed a crime.”

“I didn’t witness anything.”

Batelli brought his body in front of hers. “I saw the police reports. Your name doesn’t appear. Why is that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She continued her way to the door, desperate to get away from him.

“Someone is protecting you,” he called. “I’m going to find out who. You’re going to be questioned.”

Raven increased her pace.

“This time it will be with the public prosecutor!”

She exited the lab, ducking into the women’s bathroom. Leaning against the wall, she screwed her eyes shut and tried to calm herself.

She was in trouble.

Raven didn’t see Batelli when she exited the bathroom. In fact, he seemed to have disappeared.

She sent a text to Ambrogio, not wishing to court disaster by speaking to him on the telephone again.

He texted back five words:

His lordship will address it.

Raven took only a small measure of comfort from that text.

She was too agitated to eat lunch and so she wandered the second floor of the gallery, moving past the Botticelli room to look at Michelangelo’s Doni Tondo.

She hung back, allowing the visitors to admire the work.

She forced herself to stop worrying and simply focus on the great artist’s depiction of the holy family. Her eyes traced the figures, the folds in the fabric, and the men in the background.

By the time she was finished, her lunch break was almost over. She felt much, much better. Great art had the ability to soothe as well as nurture the heart.

Having taken what amounted to a mental vacation, Raven returned to the lab. She was pleased to be able to lose herself in the restoration work, finding a comforting rhythm in every brushstroke.

Soon it was time to go home. She deposited her lab coat in the office wardrobe and slowly made her way outside to where Luka was waiting.

He drove her to Santo Spirito and accompanied her up the stairs to her apartment. He searched her rooms before he allowed her to enter, then nodded at her and descended the stairs.

Clearly he was still a man of few words.

Raven checked her phone for messages, e-mails, or texts, but there weren’t any. It seemed as if everyone she knew was busy with other things.

Her apartment seemed small and maybe even a little sad. She’d spent a glorious day working on a beautiful piece of art, but now she felt unaccountably lonely. It was as if her world had transformed from a brightly colored Renaissance painting to the dark, somber work of a Dutch master.

She switched on her laptop and began playing Mumford and Sons, finding the music a pleasant distraction. She changed into a black T-shirt and jeans, placed her gold bracelet on her nightstand, and ate a modest supper.

After a solitary glass of wine, she retired to her bed, putting on her glasses and picking up The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

In chapter eight, one of the characters warned the others about beings who used to be human or should be human but weren’t, suggesting when they met such a creature they should reach for their hatchets.

She’d read the passage before. She’d read the entire book before. Now the passage took on a new meaning.

The hunters made it their mission to kill vampyres and harvest their blood. If they’d been hunting humans, the world would have cried out to stop them.

Genocide.

Ethnic cleansing.

Raven wondered if such moral prohibitions applied only to human beings or whether they could be applied to other species.

And what of William? If he needed human blood to survive but did not kill those he fed from, should he be destroyed? Or denied his only source of food?

She was attracted to him. He’d rescued her on more than one occasion. Raven was not used to being protected, at least, not since her father died. Her mother hadn’t protected her or her sister.

The fact that a mysterious vampyre would protect her, at great risk to himself, and that her mother would not, pierced her.

Even now, as she looked around her empty apartment, she wished he were there. She wished she could communicate how important his care had been. She’d been alone and self-sufficient for so long. It was nice to have someone to approach with her problems.

He was gentle when he touched her. And he kissed with tremendous passion. Raven pondered the vagaries of sex with a vampyre and, more improbably, love.