the magnifying glass I could make out the marks left by a carving tool.
“Raphaella?”
“Mmm?”
“Can you come over here and look at this?”
I handed her the magnifying glass. She bent and squinted at the mysterious article.
“Recognize it?”
“Nope.”
“Wait,” I said.
I slid the knife blade under the object and lifted it out of its place and set it down on the table.
Raphaella inspected it again. “Could it be some kind of shell or animal bone?”
“It isn’t wood. Or stone. Or plastic. So, yeah, maybe. Coral? No-wrong colour.”
Raphaella was thinking. “Why does the shape look familiar? Hmm. Something tells me I’ve seen this before.”
“If you can’t remember, it doesn’t matter if you’ve seen it before.”
“Don’t be technical,” Raphaella replied, taking a page of the manuscript she had been reading, turning it print side down on the table, and sliding the object onto the paper with her fingertip. Using the PIE, she took a picture of the thing, pressed a few buttons, and waited, eyes on the screen. She shut off the phone and put it down.
“I emailed the photo to Mother. If it’s animal or human, she’ll probably know. What are you doing?”
“Putting this thing back where it came from. Have you noticed a change in here during the last few minutes?”
“Yeah, it’s warmer all of a sudden,” Raphaella said. She sniffed. “And-”
“Right.”
Fighting the urge to hurry, I set the object back into its resting place in the base of the cross, fitted the dome into place, and bent the clips into their seats. The dome was tightly held again.
“Okay,” I said. “That should-”
My cell vibrated in my pocket.
“I shall serve lunch indoors today. In eight minutes.”
Raphaella and I locked away the artifacts, closed and locked the windows, and gratefully left the library.
III
LUNCH WAS MINESTRONE SOUP, thick and deep red, with beans, vegetables, little chunks of beef, shell pasta-all topped with freshly grated Parmesan cheese and sending off a mouthwatering aroma so wonderful that I held my face over the bowl, inhaling, for so long I upset our hostess.
“Is the
“It’s great,” I replied. “Smells heavenly.”
“A nice change,” Raphaella put in, aiming a meaningful glance in my direction.
I almost choked on my soup, spluttering and holding off a laugh. Mrs. Stoppini looked confused.
“Don’t mind us,” Raphaella said. “We’re just being silly.”
“Indeed.”
“Mrs. Stoppini, you ought to open a restaurant,” I said in admiration. “Your cooking is fantastic.”
Her lipsticked-in lips betrayed the beginnings of a smile. “One does one’s best.”
Since I met her I had been trying to find a way to pump Mrs. Stoppini for information. Up to now she’d been a dry well. On the few times she’d looked as if she might share something of her life, she seemed to catch herself and hide behind a stern demeanour. Confidentiality was important to her. I had no argument with that, but her attitude didn’t help Raphaella and me with the central question: how much did she know about the goings-on in the library?
She had thawed out a bit in the short time I’d known her. She was still formal, if not flinty, most of the time, but I had learned that was a kind of defence that came from living alone after her “companion’s” death. Under the black wrapping beat a kind heart. I knew she was growing fond of Raphaella, so I thought this might be a good time to ask her a few things.
“It’s sure nice here on the estate,” I began, pretty subtly, I thought.
Nothing. Raphaella looked at me as if I had a geranium growing out of my head. Mrs. Stoppini merely nodded and ate some more soup in her ceremonial way, pushing her spoon away from her across the bowl, raising it at right angles to her mouth, and delicately sipping the soup off the spoon.
“It’s really quiet here at night,” I said to Raphaella.
Sip, from Mrs. Stoppini. An eye-roll from Raphaella, which told me what she thought of my disarming questioning technique. She took a different tack.
“Mrs. Stoppini, do you mind if I ask what will happen to the library collection when Garnet and I have finished our work?”
“Not at all, Miss Skye. The more valuable volumes, the late professor’s academic papers and the manuscripts of his published works, are bequeathed to his former employer, Ponte Santa Trinita University in Florence. The balance will, I suppose, be sold to a dealer. Mr. Havelock has already kindly advised me to have them appraised first.”
I saw my opening. “You said ‘manuscripts of his published works.’ What will happen to any
“I have read no such papers. But should something be discovered, it will go to the university. They may do with it as they see fit.”
“So,” Raphaella said, “eventually the library won’t be a library anymore. It will just be a room.”
Mrs. Stoppini replied firmly, “That is correct. It will be an empty chamber, closed up and unused.”
Abruptly, she stood and began to gather our empty bowls. I wanted to ask her if she knew about the cross and medal, but I let it go. Our hostess had obviously had enough chit-chat for now.
Before getting back to work, Raphaella and I went for a walk along Wicklow Point Road. The trees on either side were wreathed in mist so thick it obscured their tops, forming a clammy tunnel. We walked silently, holding hands, putting off our return to the mansion.
“Do you still think we’re close?” I asked.
“Yes. Soon-maybe even this afternoon-everything will be clear.”
WITH ONLY TWENTY PAGES or so left to read, Raphaella went back to the Savonarola chapter in the prof’s manuscript. I started on a new column of books. We had opened the windows again to freshen the room as much as possible, but no breeze crossed the foggy grounds of the estate.
I was replacing a thick old volume on somebody named Dante Something when I heard Raphaella sigh behind me. I turned to see her slumped in her chair, her arms dangling, like a rag doll. I went over to her, not sure if I wanted to hear what she had discovered. I stood beside her and put my hand on her shoulder. She looked up at me, her eyes tired.
“The cross,” she said, tapping the manuscript. “It’s mentioned in here.”
I pulled a chair close to hers and sat down.
“What do you mean?”
“He talks about it.”
An insistent buzz broke into our thoughts. The tabletop vibrated.
I started. “What the-?”
Raphaella suppressed a smile. “My cell,” she said, pushing books and papers aside and picking up the PIE.
“It’s Mother,” she said, thumbing a button to activate the speakerphone. “Hello, Mother.”
Mrs. Skye’s voice was curt and hurried. “I’m reasonably certain it’s an atlas. The bone, not the book. But the transverse processes-the projections on each side-are missing. Broken or maybe worn off. Got to go. Mr. Tremblay is waiting for his arthritis prescription.”
“Thanks, Mother,” Raphaella said, but the connection had already been cut.
“Hmm,” Raphaella mused.
“I didn’t really follow what your mom was saying,” I told Raphaella.
