The librarian in the front office waved Alexandra through the scanner but stopped me and called Riccardo. I raised my arms and spread my legs while he patted me down, red-faced and clearly more embarrassed than I was. While he did the pat-down, Mussolini went through my backpack, her face balled into a determined knot, though all she came up with were my pencils and notepads and candy, all of which she jammed back in with a huff. Why did she have it in for me? Could she read my thoughts? Like right now when I was looking at her, thinking cow. I went through the body scanner, turned back, and said “Grazie,” with the biggest, phoniest smile I could manufacture.

The sun was starting to set, San Lorenzo’s facade catching late-day shards of light that made it look threatening.

“What was that all about?” Alexandra asked. “Does Griselda think you’re going to steal something?”

“Is that her name? Wasn’t Griselda one of Cinderella’s evil stepsisters?”

“Drizella,” Alex said.

“Close enough,” I said. “So why would I steal something?” I said, doing my best innocent-boy impersonation. “I think Riccardo is tipping her so he can feel me up.”

“Oh, you’re awful,” she said.

I told her she was not the first person to tell me that, fished the bag of Jolly Ranchers out of my pocket, popped one in my mouth, and offered them up.

“Seriously? What are you, like ten?”

“Sweet tooth,” I said, and she made a face that made me feel exactly that: ten years old.

“You must be freezing in that jacket. Do you wear it to look cool?”

I told her I hadn’t expected it to be so cold here, and she led me across the square to peruse the kiosks, but there were only handbags and belts. She suggested the trendy men’s shop we’d passed the other day, so we headed down the same narrow street off the square.

The men’s store window was all mannequins in skinny striped pants and matching vests, billowy shirts that looked out of Lawrence of Arabia, and definitely not my style, though Alexandra thought one of the vests would look good on her, and I agreed.

I asked where she’d been the last two days, and she said, “Why? Did you miss me?”

“A little,” I said.

“Liar,” she said.

“Really,” I said. “I did.”

“I meant the part about little,” she said and grinned.

Pretty sure of herself, I thought, but she was right.

She asked how my work was going, and I told her I didn’t know, which was true. I still wasn’t sure what I would learn from the journal or what I would do with it. She gave me a look like she didn’t believe me, then asked what I’d been reading that had me looking so upset.

“A journal,” I said, willing to tell her that much, “from a long time ago, a sad story.”

“Whose?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” I said and laughed. “I’ll tell you about it when I know more. I promise.” I made the sign of the cross.