The mouth barely moved. “Mi—angelo.”

It sounded like “Michelangelo.” Caroline couldn’t recall a copy of a Michelangelo painting in the house, nor of her great-aunt showing any interest in old masters.

Then her great-aunt’s eyes opened again, her stare urgent. “Still there,” she said with surprising force. “You find . . .”

“Find what?” Caroline asked.

The word was barely audible against the tick of the grandfather clock in the front hall. “Venice.”

She gave a little sigh. Caroline waited for her to say more. Minutes passed. Her grandmother came over to stand behind her. “I think she’s gone, darling,” she said.

Great-Aunt Lettie’s cold hand was still gripping Caroline’s. She opened the bony fingers and stood up, staring down at the body. She looked peaceful now. Caroline looked up at her grandmother. “Come and have a cup of tea. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

Caroline allowed herself to be led from the room.

“I suppose it shouldn’t have been a shock,” Granny said, her voice cracking with emotion. “She’s lived a good long life, hasn’t she? But it’s hard to imagine the world without her.”

In the doorway, Caroline paused to look back at her great-aunt. She didn’t recall ever being in Great-Aunt Lettie’s bedroom before, after all the years she had spent in the house. Her great-aunt was always up and dressed early in the morning, at her regular spot in the sitting room. It struck Caroline that she had been an intensely private person who only wanted to show an image of propriety to the world.

As she looked now, she saw a neat and orderly room, clothes put away, slippers beside the bed, but no personal touches. No photographs. On the wall was one small painting of a cherub, done in the Renaissance style. It struck Caroline as incongruous and not like her practical and unsentimental aunt. Michelangelo? No. Certainly not his style or expertise. Maybe it was something she had picked up as a young woman—or, conversely, something she had noticed when her sight began to fail and she could no longer appreciate less vibrant colours.

“There are no photographs,” Caroline commented as she followed her grandmother into the big warm kitchen. “I have no idea what she looked like as a young woman.”

“She was quite striking, actually.” Granny looked up from putting the kettle on the Aga. “She had lovely rich auburn hair that I really envied, mine being more a sort of strawberry ginger. And clear blue eyes. There will be some photos in my mother’s old album, but of course they are all black-and-white. We’ll find them later. But right now sit down, and we’ll have a cup of tea before I call the doctor. I think we both need it.”

CHAPTER 7

Caroline, England, October 2001

“You’ll find the house empty without her, won’t you?” Caroline said as the kettle started to whistle and her grandmother lifted it from the cooking surface.

“Horribly empty,” Granny said. “She has lived with me since our mother died, when your own mother was a baby. She was never intrusive, you know. Kept herself out of the way when your grandfather was still alive, as if she appreciated that this was our house and she was an interloper. But I think she really appreciated being here in those difficult years right after the war. And I certainly liked having my big sister around, especially after Jim died so suddenly and I was left with a young child.”