He lowered the blinds and went into the kitchen. In the sink was a half-drunk bowl of milky coffee and a crust of buttered toast. Chiara, fastidious in all other things, always left her breakfast dishes in the sink until the end of the day. Gabriel, in an act of domestic pettiness, left them where they stood and went into her bedroom.

He tossed his bag onto the unmade bed and, resisting the temptation to search her closet and drawers, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He opened the medicine chest, looking for razors or cologne or any other evidence of a man. There were two things he’d never seen before: a bottle of sleeping tablets and a bottle of antidepressants. He returned them to the precise position in which he’d found them. Chiara, like Gabriel, had been trained to notice even the subtlest of changes.

He stripped off his clothes and tossed them into the hallway, then spent a long time standing beneath the shower. When he was finished he wrapped a towel around his waist and padded into the bedroom. The duvet smelled of Chiara’s body. When he placed his head atop her pillow the bells of Santa Croce tolled midday. He closed his eyes and plunged into a dreamless sleep.

HE WOKE IN late afternoon to the sound of a key being pushed into the lock, followed by the clatter of Chiara’s boot heels in the entrance hall. She didn’t bother calling out that she was home. She knew he came awake at the slightest sound or movement. When she entered the bedroom she was singing softly to herself, a silly Italian pop song she knew he loathed.

She sat on the edge of the bed, close enough so that her hip pressed against his thigh. He opened his eyes and watched her remove her boots and wriggle out of her jeans. She pressed her palm against his chest. When he pulled the ribbon from her hair, auburn curls tumbled about her face and shoulders. She repeated the question she had posed to him in the ghetto: Why are you here, Gabriel Allon?

“I was wondering whether we might try this again,” Gabriel said.

“I don’t need to try it. I tried it once, and I liked it very much.”

He unwound the silk scarf from her throat and slowly loosened the buttons of her blouse. Chiara leaned down and kissed his mouth. It was like being kissed by Raphael’s Alba Madonna.

“If you hurt me again, I’ll hate you forever.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

“I never stopped dreaming of you.”

“Good dreams?”

“No,” she said. “I dreamt only of your death.”