the same ground. There was no doubt now, no denial possible. The Corbizzi mansion was being haunted by the spirit of Girolamo Savonarola. And the apparition had chosen me, approaching at first through my dreams, showing me how he had suffered during his life, tortured in a rat-infested cell by men who went about their job as calmly and unperturbed as a janitor sweeping a hall.

But what was my connection to a Roman Catholic Dominican friar who had lived half a world away, more than five hundred years in the past? Nothing, probably, beyond my coincidental presence at the Corbizzi estate. Was it fate that had brought us together? Why was he showing me how he had suffered? Why had he slipped away when I repeated the line from the Latin prayer?

Before Raphaella and I ended the call, we had agreed to keep our minds open about the spirit, while allowing for the possibility that this haunting was evil. It had certainly seemed that way.

“But,” Raphaella had reminded me, “ghosts are frightening by nature. Their otherworldliness seems threatening even if it’s not.”

“Okay,” I had conceded. “Point taken. But I still think this apparition caused the prof’s seizure, even if he scared the poor old man to death without intending to. And there’s the fire and smoke. The smell seems to come and go, but it’s associated with the spirit. There was fire when the prof died.”

We agreed that she’d come over in the morning, and in daylight, we’d think of a plan.

“Good,” I said as we ended the call. “I like plans.”

Raphaella had once thought that haunts were “neutral”-the spirit neither harmed nor helped the person receiving the visitation. But our personal experience had proved her wrong when we had been chased through the forest near the African Methodist Church by eight spirits intent on stoning us to death. Only Raphaella’s quick wits had saved us.

I got up from the kitchen table and put the kettle on to boil. In my jeans pocket, my cell vibrated.

eta 9 rs.

I replied, then made a cup of tea. When it was ready I carried it outside and down to the shore.

II

RAPHAELLA ARRIVED just as Mrs. Stoppini was removing a tray of homemade croissants from the oven. The sight of the buttery golden brown crescents and the fragrance of freshly ground coffee improved my mood, but not nearly as much as Raphaella did when she burst through the door, dropped her backpack on a chair, and bowled me over with a bear hug and a deep passionate kiss.

“My hero,” she said, kissing me again, longer this time. “My brave knight.”

“Ahem.” Mrs. Stoppini stood stiffly by the counter, a jug of steamed milk in her hand.

“Morning, Mrs. Stoppini,” Raphaella said, smiling. “Sorry. I lose control when I’m near him. He’s magnetic.”

Mrs. Stoppini scowled at me.

“It’s a gift,” I said. “I can’t help it.”

“Indeed.”

Raphaella was wearing a white silk blouse, jeans, and leather sandals. She had swept her hair up onto her head and secured it with two plastic barrettes shaped like butterflies-her “let’s get down to work” look.

The three of us sat down and sipped espresso, munched croissants, and chatted. Raphaella told Mrs. Stoppini about the Demeter Natural Food and Medicinal Herbs Shop and described the lessons her mother was giving her on how to mix herbal remedies. Mrs. Stoppini actually looked interested. After breakfast, Raphaella and I excused ourselves and went to the library. I dragged a chair to Raphaella’s table by the window.

“I think Mrs. S. has a streak of kindness under that severe exterior,” Raphaella commented.

“She does.”

“And I believe she’s lonely.”

“Yup, no question.”

“And she thinks you’re a fine man.”

“She’s an excellent judge of character, and very perceptive.”

“Mind you, she could be wrong.”

“That’s true.”

“Do you think she knows?” Raphaella asked, switching tracks.

“I’ve been wondering since the day I met her just how much she knows. All along she’s been careful about what she tells me. She doesn’t talk about him much. At first I thought she was protecting the prof’s reputation or something, because of the fire-you know, gossip, scandal, questions, his seizure and so on. All I know is he was a prof, wrote some books, left the university because he was dissatisfied with his department and vice versa. Not that I expect her to tell me more. It’s none of my business, after all.”

Raphaella nodded.

“But,” I went on, “her paranoia about this room is something else.”

“So she’s aware of something going on around here.”

“Exactly. All she’d say was that the prof had been working on some project that he kept from her for some reason. He wouldn’t allow her into the library. What could he have been keeping from her? His new book, the manuscript in the secret cupboard? She didn’t know about the cupboard either, and when I showed it to her she didn’t want to hear anything about the contents.”

Raphaella played with her pencil, standing it point down on the writing pad, sliding her fingers down the length, reversing it, jabbing the eraser end down, repeating the motion.

“She’s in denial. Unless…” she said mysteriously, beginning to doodle.

“Unless what?”

“Maybe the professor kept her away not to hide a secret but to protect her.”

“That could be it. If somebody knows you don’t know, you’re safe. If they know you know, you’re a threat.”

Raphaella gave me a look. “I think I followed that.”

“Mrs. Stoppini still won’t come in here,” I continued, “even though the prof is dead and everything here belongs to her now-or is under her control, since she’s the executor of his will.”

“Hmm. So what’s our next step? Confront her with what we know? Ask her if she’s seen or heard anything… out of the ordinary?”

“Better to let things develop,” I answered. “Until we learn more.”

I got the keys from the desk and opened the secret cupboard, then laid out the Compendium Revelationem, the file folder, the box containing the medal, and the cross on the square table. For a moment my eyes rested on the Compendium-the ancient book that had been written by the man whose spirit was haunting me-and I shivered. The book was like a weapon with a dark history.

I picked up the file containing the professor’s manuscript and carried it to Raphaella at the table. “Enjoy,” I said, setting it down.

She unwound the string, opened the stiff paper file, and slid out the stack of sheets.

“It’s typewritten,” she observed, leafing through the pile.

“Yeah, on the Underwood over there on the escritoire.” I looked closer. “He’d been editing with a pencil, just like Mom does.”

“You realize,” Raphaella said, “this is probably the only copy.”

“I never thought about it. If he had word-processed the book, why bother to make a copy by banging away on an ancient typewriter? He wrote this here, in this room.”

I fetched the professor’s magnifying glass from the escritoire and examined the back of a sheet, talking as I peered through the glass. “People used to make carbon copies as they typed, by putting carbon paper between two sheets of stock before typing. But I don’t see any evidence of that.”

“How do you know all that stuff?”

“I work in an antiques store. And my father is at least a century behind the times. He’d fit right in around here.”

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