“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m not a tourist. I have come to see the property I have just inherited.”

“Then you are mistaken.” He had reached her stair. She noticed now that he was tall, broad shouldered and quite good-looking, even if he was scowling at her. “This building belongs to the Da Rossi Corporation. As you can see, it is currently being renovated. It has been empty for many years. Let me escort you to the door.”

“This is Dorsoduro 1482?”

“Yes. That is correct.”

She fumbled in her purse and brought out the document. “Then it seems that I have a lease to the fourth floor.”

“I don’t think so.” He took the paper from her and frowned again as he scrutinized it. “This cannot be. This building has always belonged to the Da Rossi family. They would not have leased to an outsider. A foreigner.” He held up the paper to see it better in the poor light. “Whoever wrote this has made a mistake. There is no fourth floor. I have the plans to the building. It describes three floors and an altana .”

“Altana?”

“Like a little shack on the roof. A shaded place to sit, yes?”

“I should like to see for myself,” she said.

“Very well. If you insist. You will need strong legs.” He looked amused now as he watched her walk ahead of him. The second flight wasn’t quite so grand, and the third flight was a simple wooden stair going straight up. She reached the third-floor landing, trying not to let the man see she was breathing heavily. There were four doors, all shut.

He arrived beside her. “As you can see. No more staircase,” he said triumphantly. He opened one door to show a room shrouded in dust sheets. Then another, to an empty space, and then a third. Finally, he opened a door to what seemed to be a large broom cupboard or anteroom. It was stacked with old bits of broken furniture, planks, a stepladder.

“I am sorry, but someone has played a joke on you, I think.”

“Does the city of Venice waste its official stamps on jokes?” she asked. She insisted on walking into each of the rooms and had to admit that there was no staircase going up. Finally, she went into that big closet. It was dark inside, with a cobweb or two. She looked around, fighting off disappointment and frustration.

“I’m afraid you are right,” she said at last. “But I don’t understand . . .” As she examined the walls, she noticed what could have been the top of a door, behind a tabletop propped against the back wall. “Wait,” she said.

He was already heading away again. He turned back.

“I think there is a door at the back of this closet.” She moved a three-legged chair and then tried to shift the tabletop. “Help me move this,” she said.

“Please be careful,” he exclaimed. “It could be heavy, and we don’t want . . .”

But she was already dragging it aside until a doorknob was visible.

“There, look,” she said, pointing at it triumphantly.

He sprang forward to assist, and they moved the table aside.

“You see. There is a door.” She gave him a jubilant grin.

“Yes, to more storage, I expect.” He paused. “Oh no, un momento. It will probably be the way to the roof. To the altana mentioned in the plans.” He tried to open it. It didn’t move. “You see.” He looked up with the hint of satisfaction. “I’m afraid the door no longer opens.”

Caroline reached into her pocket and drew out the big key. “I wonder if this might help?” she said.

“What is this key?” he demanded. “Where did you get it?”

“My aunt left it to me.” Her heart beating rapidly, she put the key into the lock and turned it. After a moment of resistance, she heard a satisfying click. The door opened slowly, with an ominous creaking sound. Ahead of her a steep, narrow staircase rose into complete darkness.

“To the roof, you see,” the man said. “I don’t think you should go up. These old roof terraces are dangerous.”

But she had already started to climb the stairs. “Signora, it is not wise. I cannot be responsible . . . ,” he called before he came after her, putting a restraining hand on her arm. Caroline shook herself free. There was a second door at the top. Caroline fumbled in the darkness but managed to find a keyhole. The key turned, the door opened, and instead of stepping out on to a roof, she was in a lovely room. Windows looked out across the island and St Mark’s Basin. The furniture was covered in sheets, and a fine layer of dust lay on the window ledges.

The man had come into the room behind her. “Madonna!” he muttered.

CHAPTER 13

Juliet, Venice, July 2, 1939

I am back in Venice! I can hardly write the words, my heart is so full. Part of me feels that this is another dream come true, but again there is a nagging sliver of doubt as to whether I am doing the right thing by coming here. Of course I want to be here, and a whole year painting and learning and experiencing life? I can’t imagine anything better. But to know he is here, to know he is married to someone else—I will have to learn to handle that.

I tell myself it is a big city. My chances of running into him are small. I am sure I will not move in the same circles as his family, certainly not shop in the same boutiques as his wife. And if I do meet him, I shall be polite and friendly and distant. I am a grown woman, no longer that naive and emotional girl. I have learned to shut away my feelings. I can handle this! When I think of it logically, I realize I only met the man twice. I don’t really know him at all. He might be a wife beater, an alcoholic, a drug fiend, a womanizer. So to harbour feelings as if it was love between us is stupidly naive of me. Two pleasant but brief encounters, nothing more.