The street here was called Zattere Ai Gesuati, and she passed a huge Jesuit church. She crossed a bridge over a side canal. This one was called the Ponti agli Incurabili—the incurables. Beyond it, the waterfront was bordered by what could be an institution of some sort. That was hardly reassuring. But as she went on, she noticed that the houses along the waterfront were tall, attractive buildings, even if some could do with sprucing up and a coat of fresh paint. This put a spring into her step, along with the wind that drove her from behind. She came to the section of the waterfront called the Zattere allo Spirito Santo—of the Holy Spirit—and finally, after another bridge, close to the tip of the island, there was the Al Saloni. She checked the numbers, which weren’t in any kind of order, until she found herself standing outside a tall building with faded blue shutters at the windows. The pale cream stucco was peeling, showing the brickwork underneath, but there were steps leading to an impressive double front door. She double-checked the address. Yes, this was correct.

“Wow,” she said. She reached into her purse and took out the big key. But as she touched the front door, it swung open. She stepped into a dark and gloomy foyer. Doors were open on either side, and there was a distinct smell of new paint. From the back of the building came the sound of hammering. The building was being renovated. A broad marble staircase curved upward. She had only gone up the first few steps when someone shouted, behind her.

“Signora? Cosa vuole? Dove sta andando?”

She turned back to see a man standing in the doorway. The collar of his overcoat had been turned up, and he had raindrops on his hair.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t speak Italian.”

He came towards her, a finger raised in warning. “I ask what you do here. This is a private house. Not a place for tourists. There is nothing to see here. You must leave now.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m not a tourist. I have come to see the property I have just inherited.”

“Then you are mistaken.” He had reached her stair. She noticed now that he was tall, broad shouldered and quite good-looking, even if he was scowling at her. “This building belongs to the Da Rossi Corporation. As you can see, it is currently being renovated. It has been empty for many years. Let me escort you to the door.”

“This is Dorsoduro 1482?”

“Yes. That is correct.”

She fumbled in her purse and brought out the document. “Then it seems that I have a lease to the fourth floor.”

“I don’t think so.” He took the paper from her and frowned again as he scrutinized it. “This cannot be. This building has always belonged to the Da Rossi family. They would not have leased to an outsider. A foreigner.” He held up the paper to see it better in the poor light. “Whoever wrote this has made a mistake. There is no fourth floor. I have the plans to the building. It describes three floors and an altana .”