The very next day, Debbie was relieved, and slightly surprised, to receive a detailed and comprehensive email confirming the offer of the position of Director of Studies at the school in Florence, along with a contract to sign and return. Clearly, when he wasn’t eating and drinking, Mr Burrage was very businesslike, and she took that as a very good sign. She replied formally, accepting the offer, and printed off the contract to return by post. She also received a reply to her text message to Pierluigi, telling him of her decision. It was encouraging and disappointing at the same time.
Great news. Am going on holiday to Greece for a few weeks (no mobile signal) and will be in touch when I get back. No news about US job yet. X. Pierluigi.
Being selfish, the idea that he might not get the American job and so might be there with her in Florence was exciting. On the other, the fact that he was likely to be in Greece at least initially when she arrived in Florence was disappointing, but she felt sure she would see him before long.
She handed in her notice at work and, with the landlord’s blessing, managed to dispose of her flat very quickly to a friend. Alice volunteered to look after her excess belongings, including her brand new bike, for the time being.
The following weekend Debbie took the train to Bristol and broke the news to her parents.
Her father, not unexpectedly, was a bit suspicious. ‘That all sounds fine, but just you make sure you get your social security and pension and all that kind of thing fully paid up.’
All his life, her father had been deeply suspicious of employers. He wasn’t likely to change now, only a few years short of retirement. Debbie gave him a smile.
‘I’m sure it’s all above board, Dad. I’ve got a written contract and everything. It’s all spelt out.’
He nodded. ‘That’s good, but you just keep an eye on them. Foreigners don’t always have the same respect for the rule of law as we do.’ Debbie was about to protest, but he changed the subject. ‘Anyway, this way we’ll be able to come and see Florence for ourselves when you’re settled. There are flights from Bristol to all manner of places all over Europe. We’ll probably be able to get over to see you just as quickly as trying to get from here to Cambridge.’
The previous year her mum and dad had got caught up in a massive traffic jam on the M25 on their way back from a weekend in Cambridge with Debbie, and had few illusions as to how long the journey could take.
Her mother was also concerned, not so much for her daughter’s pay and conditions, but for her personal happiness. ‘As long as it’s what you want.’ She caught Debbie’s eye. ‘But are you sure you feel like moving to another country?’
‘I think I could do with a bit of a challenge, and the job sounds perfect for me. I’d get to practice my Italian, do a bit of teaching, and move on to something with a bit more responsibility at the same time.’
‘And money-wise, will you be able to manage?’ Money had always been tight in their household and it was inevitable her father should focus on that.
Debbie nodded. ‘Yes, I think so. I’ll get a few thousand from Cambridge when I leave, and with that I should have enough to buy my air ticket, pay a deposit for accommodation and so on. I should even have a bit left to pay off some more of my student loan.’
They went through the details of the job together until Debbie felt confident they were both reassured. She had gone through the same exercise with Alice a few nights earlier and the result had been the same. Given the uncertainty of her position in the school in Cambridge, the offer of a better-paid, more varied position in the city of her dreams was too good to miss. And, of course, with the man of her dreams waiting for her over there as well, the prospect was enticing. For now, she didn’t mention Pierluigi to her parents. There would be a time for that later on.
‘I’m glad you both think it’s a good idea. I feel I need a bit of a challenge and this Director of Studies thing might be just what I need. And a change of air should be good for me.’
Her mother reached out and patted her hand. ‘You deserve it, after the year you’ve had, I must say. I’m delighted to see you looking and sounding so positive. It’s good to see you with a smile on your face again.’
Debbie felt the same way. One thing was for sure: she was definitely over Paul now.
She bade farewell to all her friends in Cambridge, realising she was going to miss them and the city. Alice was in floods of tears as they said goodbye, but promised to try to fly over for a few days some time before Christmas. Debbie was equally emotional, knowing that she was leaving a very good friend behind. However, the prospect of her new job, and the knowledge that she would be meeting up with Pierluigi again, meant that she left Cambridge in a buoyant mood.
She took a morning flight across to Bologna on the first Sunday of October and manhandled her big suitcase on and off the train to Florence with a bit of a struggle. Knowing that autumn had arrived and that winter here was likely to be cold, she had included a load of warm clothes, even though the temperature upon arrival was like a balmy summer day in England. She took a taxi and went straight round to the accommodation promised by Mr Burrage, her fingers firmly crossed that it wouldn’t be too Spartan.
She already knew from checking online that the block of flats was outside the historic centre, not that far from Porta al Prato, where she and Alice had had dinner on the first evening of their flying visit that summer. From there to the school would be a half-hour walk, but there were buses and, of course, she could always buy herself a bike. The outside of the building looked a bit tired, but the area seemed reasonably smart. She paid off the taxi and rang the bell for flat 5.
‘Yes, hello?’ It was a man’s voice and for a moment she thought it might be Mr Burrage himself, until a distinct Scottish accent proved her wrong. ‘Who’s that?’ Debbie noticed that he made no attempt to speak Italian.
‘Hello, I’m Debbie Waterson. I’m coming to work at FIES. Mr Burrage told me to come here.’
‘Oh, right, good. I’ll let you in.’ He sounded friendly enough and Debbie felt a sensation of relief. There was a buzzing sound and she leant on the door. It opened to reveal a slightly cluttered entrance hall, half-full of bikes and scooters, and, to one side, a flight of stairs. Flat 5 was on the second floor, so she started to haul her suitcase up, one step at a time. Before she reached the first landing, however, she heard footsteps running down towards her and the cavalry arrived in the shape of a tall man with broad shoulders and a smile on his face.
‘Debbie? I’m Rory. Welcome to Florence. I’ll take that for you.’ Waving aside her protests, he picked up her bag in one massive hand and led her up the stairs as if he was carrying nothing heavier than a briefcase.
When they reached the second floor, he indicated a half-open door. ‘Go on in. It’s open.’
Debbie walked in and was immediately struck by a wonderful smell. Somebody had clearly been baking a cake and she suddenly realised how hungry she was feeling. Behind her, she heard Rory’s voice.
‘Yours is the room at the end on the left.’
Debbie walked down the short corridor and opened the door as instructed, bracing herself for the worst. In fact, the first impression was very positive. The room was empty, clean and bright. The bed was made up, with pristine white sheets and pillowcases. A small pile of towels had been laid on the bed in readiness for her, with keys to the front door, the flat, and her room on a key ring on top. The view from the window was out over a courtyard to a blank wall – not very panoramic, but unobtrusive. Altogether a lot better than she had feared.
‘The room’s been empty for a good few months now, ever since Angela left.’ Rory set her suitcase down on the floor beside the bed. ‘You might need to air it a bit.’
Debbie turned towards him. ‘Thank you so much, Rory. This looks fine.’ She gave him a smile as she studied him. He was probably five or six years younger than her, with close-cropped fair hair and, in spite of his hulking frame, he looked a little bit shy. He appeared friendly, which was just as well, as he was very big indeed. In fact, his shoulders only just made it in through the door. ‘And thank you so much for carrying the case up for me. I’m sorry it was so heavy.’
‘No problem. By the way, I’ve made a cake, so if you want to come along to the kitchen, you can have a slice if you like, and I’ll make you some tea.’
‘That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. Thank you so much. Just show me where the bathroom is, and I’ll go and wash my hands first.’
The bathroom was quite a large room, which was just as well. The shelf unit in there was absolutely packed with toiletries, from shampoos to perfumes, deodorants, and a box of make-up surely large enough to service a family of clowns. Debbie wondered who on earth the owner of all this stuff might be. Presumably the occupant of one of the other rooms. Still, it was clean and functional. She washed her hands, went back out into the corridor and found Rory standing at an open door.
‘The kitchen’s in here.’
Debbie walked in and was impressed by the cleanliness of this room as well. Unlike the house she had shared in her first year in Cambridge, where the occupants of the different rooms appeared to be competing to see who could leave the ever-growing pile of dirty dishes the longest, this place was pretty well spotless. She gave Rory an appreciative glance.
‘Who’s responsible for keeping this place so clean and tidy?’
‘There’s a lady, Antonella, who comes in three times a week. She’s amazing.’
That sounded like very good news. Debbie sat down with Rory and had a mug of tea and a big slice of his excellent Victoria sponge cake. He told her, rather sheepishly, that his hobby was “baking – baking and rugby”. He wasn’t playing this weekend as he had strained a ligament – not that this had prevented him from carrying her suitcase around like a feather – and so he had baked instead.
Debbie enquired about the other occupants of the flat and discovered that these were two girls called Virginia and Claire. They were “away for the weekend” and Debbie didn’t pry as to where they had gone or when they would return.
Rory asked her if she wanted to join him for dinner, but she knew where she wanted to go. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was already three o’clock. Thanking him, she told him she had an appointment and headed straight out. She had texted Pierluigi from Cambridge the previous day, telling him her travel plans, but had received no reply. Presumably this meant he was still in Greece, but she knew she wanted to check to be sure. After all, mobile phones could always break down, get broken or stolen.
Although she had never asked him for his home address, he had told her he worked at Careggi Hospital, and her map showed her this was only a bus ride away. She walked down to the main road, relishing the fact that the temperature was pretty well perfect, so different from the stifling heat of August. She walked through the massive stone arch of Porta al Prato and down past the restaurant where she and Alice had eaten. The menu looked reassuringly unchanged and she vowed to come back for a meal one of these days. After a brief wait, she saw her bus approaching. She had to change once, so it was almost four o’clock by the time she arrived at the very smart modern hospital.
She went up to the reception desk, feeling a surge of excitement, and told them she was looking for Doctor Pierluigi Masino. The busy lady seated there pointed towards Oncology and Debbie followed the signs along corridors and up stairs until she got to the cancer department. There was a queue at the counter, and as she was waiting to speak to the receptionist, she spotted two young doctors over to one side of the room and decided to take a chance. She went across, gave them her friendliest smile, and launched into Italian.
‘I’m very sorry to bother you, but I wondered if you knew a friend of mine: Pierluigi Masino… Doctor Masino.’
The younger of the two men smiled back and nodded. ‘Yes, of course, we know Pierluigi. He’s on holiday in Greece with his fiancée at the moment. They should be back next week, I think. Maybe the week after.’
As Debbie stood there, feeling stunned, the other doctor confirmed what his colleague had said.
‘I got a message from him yesterday saying they were having a great time in Santorini. They’ve rented a villa with a pool along with another couple and he sent me a photo.’ He glanced across at his colleague. ‘Just to rub it in. What with the course in England, he’s been away more than he’s been here this summer. It’s all right for some. Here we are – working on a Sunday.’ He smiled at Debbie. ‘Your Italian’s very good. Where are you from?’
‘Um, England.’ Debbie looked round desperately, knowing she had to get away. Her mind was churning, her emotions in free fall, as she tried to digest what she had just heard. Drawing upon hitherto unsuspected acting talents, she summoned an even brighter smile. ‘Oh well, I was just passing through, and I thought I’d call by just in case I caught him.’
‘Would you like us to give him a message when we see him next?’
There were lots of messages Debbie could think of giving to Pierluigi, but she decided to keep these to herself. Instead, the smile still plastered on, she thanked them and turned away, heading back down the corridor towards the exit. She made her way back out onto the pavement and started walking blindly back the way the bus had come. All the time she found herself thinking what a fool she had been – a fool who had let herself believe that a casual holiday fling could mean anything to a man like Pierluigi. She didn’t cry, but she felt a pall of gloom descend upon her as she came to terms with the fact that here she was now, all alone in a strange city.
After plodding aimlessly along for a good long while, she came to a bus stop just as a bus arrived. Without really thinking, she stepped on board and sat down, lost in her thoughts. It was only ten minutes later, when the bus arrived at the main station that she came to her senses and got off. She stood on the pavement for quite a few minutes, before she finally began to get a grip on her emotions. As her brain cleared, she knew exactly where she wanted to go next. She took a few deep breaths and set off on foot towards the historic centre of the city.
There were fewer tourists around, compared to August, but the city wasn’t empty by any means. It still took a good while to walk up the crowded pavement, past the Duomo and into the side streets until she reached the Ponte Vecchio. Squeezing through the noisy mass of tourists, she crossed the bridge and turned left. A few hundred metres later, she turned right and headed up the hill.
She climbed up the last few steps to the rose garden at just after five o’clock and was relieved to find the gates still wide open. Inside, she found she was just about the only visitor, so she walked across to the bench she knew so well and took a seat alongside the bronze statue, instinctively reaching over to take hold of the figure’s hand. The bench and its statue were already in the shade, as the sun dropped towards the horizon, but the metal fingers were still warm, and felt very comforting. She settled down, her eyes barely registering the roofs of Florence laid out below, and thought back over the events of that summer, up to and including her brief visit to the hospital.
Somehow, deep down inside, she realised that she wasn’t totally surprised by what she had just discovered. The lack of communication from Pierluigi since leaving Cambridge had been suspicious. Surely a tourist destination like Santorini would have good mobile phone connections, after all? Also, since he had left, she had only received three brief text messages from him – also suspicious. She saw now she had been so completely infatuated by him that she had blinded herself to the facts. Now, there was no doubt. Pierluigi was a rat, and he and she were history.
She ran through it all in her head, her fingers still clasping the bronze hand alongside her, and gradually she felt her head clear. Along with this newfound clarity came a gradual resurgence of her sense of excitement at her new life that was beginning over here in Italy. By the time a gaggle of American college kids arrived and she got up and moved off, back down the steps towards the old town, she was definitely feeling better. Not great, but better.
The initial pain she had felt at the news of Pierluigi’s true colours had now been replaced by a sense of irritation with herself. In spite of her best intentions in the wake of the whole sad mess with Paul, she had fallen into just exactly the trap she had sought to avoid. Yes, Pierluigi was a rat, but she had been too trusting – pretty damn stupid. Well, she told herself firmly, as she walked past the Uffizi gallery into Piazza della Signoria, she definitely wasn’t going to make that sort of mistake again with any man, any time soon.
Repressing her annoyance, she went over to a statue of David, took a couple of photos of the famous naked man, and sent them to Alice. Half a minute later, her phone rang.
‘Debs, hi.’
‘Hi, Al. Got the photo?’
‘Certainly have. It’s a beautiful bit of sculpture and he’s a handsome chap, but…’ Her voice tailed off in disappointment. She didn’t say more, but Debbie knew full well what was on her friend’s mind. She would have expected no less of her.
‘Maybe it was a cold day when he posed for the sculpture, Alice. Give the poor man the benefit of the doubt.’
‘If you say so. Anyway, how was the journey, and how’s it going over there in Florence? Any sign of your lover man?’
Debbie went over and took a seat on the stone steps at the side of the square and related the conversation she had had with the two doctors in the hospital. Alice waited until Debbie reached the end of her tale before responding. When she did, she sounded disgusted and furious – but maybe not really totally surprised either. Debbie prodded her a bit.
‘Should I have known, Al? Have I been a total idiot?’
‘No, of course not.’ But Alice didn’t sound too convincing. After a short pause, she qualified her reply. ‘The fact is that he was bloody gorgeous. In my limited experience, gorgeous men are the most likely to turn out to be bastards.’
Limited experience? Debbie bit her tongue and managed to suppress the exclamation before it came out. ‘So, you’re saying that all good-looking men aren’t to be trusted?’
‘No, not all of them obviously, but the two do sort of seem to go hand in hand. Take your Paul, for example: whatever else he was, he was one of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen.’
Debbie nodded to herself. Alice was right about that. She took a couple of deep breaths. ‘Anyway, Al, I’ve well and truly learnt my lesson now. I’m staying off men, particularly good-looking men, Italians, and doctors, for the foreseeable future. If you hear me say different, jump on a plane, come over here and give me a smack, will you?’
‘That’s sort of what I was calling about – the jumping on a plane thing, not the smacking thing. It looks as though I might be able to swing another visit to Florence some time in November. Do you think you’ll be able to put me up?’
‘Brilliant, Al, of course I’ll be able to sort something out. That’s really great. I’ll look forward to it.’
They chatted some more and Alice must have picked something up from her voice.
‘You sound as if you’re taking it pretty well, Debs. I’m glad to hear it. Just forget about him now and move on. Remember, half the world’s male. Sooner or later, you’ll find one who’s got a brain and a conscience as well as the other interesting bits. Trust me, it’ll happen.’
‘Not for a good long while, if I’ve got anything to do with it.’
After the call ended, Debbie stood there for a few minutes, reflecting on what Alice had said. Yes, she thought to herself, she was taking it fairly well – but then, what else could she do? Always a pragmatic person, she gave herself a mental shaking. Pierluigi was out of her life, but she was about to start a new life here in Florence, the city of her dreams. Maybe things weren’t so bad, after all.
To underline her conviction that things were irreparably broken between her and him, she took out her phone and sent him a short, sharp text message. Enjoy your holiday in Santorini with your fiancée. She didn’t sign it.
She was admiring the architecture around her, watching the crowds go by, when her phone whistled. It was a text from Steven Burrage. Welcome to Florence, Deborah. If you’re free, can I buy you a drink? Dinner?
She stood there for a few seconds, looking down stupidly at the phone, not really feeling like being sociable, before common sense kicked in. It wasn’t a question of being sociable. This was work. Taking a deep breath, she texted right back. Thank you. I’d like that. Where do we meet? I’m near the Palazzo Vecchio now.
His reply was immediate. Excellent. See you in the Giubbe Rosse in Piazza della Repubblica.
Even without consulting her map, Debbie knew where this piazza was. It was barely a five-minute walk away, but to allow Mr Burrage time to get to the café, if he wasn’t already there, and to get a better grip on her emotions, she dawdled a bit longer, taking a photo of the Palazzo Vecchio in the dusk and sending it, with a short message, to her parents. Needless to say, the message made no mention of Pierluigi. By the time she got to the café, she was still feeling pretty hollow inside, but she was once more functioning rationally.
Mr Burrage was already there, standing in the middle of a crowd of people at the bar, nursing a half-empty glass of beer. The noise level was high and Debbie had to squeeze her way up to him and tap him on the shoulder before he saw her.
‘Deborah, excellent. Welcome.’ He took her hand and pumped it vigorously. ‘What can I get you? A glass of Prosecco?’
She forced herself to smile. ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
‘Excellent.’ Mr Burrage disappeared into the crowd, to reappear a minute later carrying a bottle of Prosecco and two glasses, his beer no doubt already swallowed. While he was away, Debbie had been surveying the scene. Clearly, this was a well-known and historic place, with paintings all round the walls, and it looked pretty much as it would have done a hundred years ago, with dark wood, mirrors and chandeliers. When he reached her side, Mr Burrage splashed some wine into both glasses and was just handing one to her as a voice cut in.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to the lovely lady, Stefano? She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve seen all day.’ To reinforce the point, the Italian man alongside Mr Burrage brought his thumb and fingers to his mouth and kissed them theatrically. He was probably a few years older than Mr Burrage, maybe in his early or mid-sixties, and he had a strong Tuscan accent, but Debbie would have got the message quite easily even without understanding a word. The glint in his eyes and the fact that he was doing his best to look down her front were a dead giveaway. Her opinion of men was at an all-time low and she had to suppress the urge to fling her Prosecco in his face. Gritting her teeth, she summoned another smile, straightened her back and stood her ground confidently, pleased to see that she was a good few inches taller than him.
‘This is our new Director of Studies: Deborah Waterson.’ Mr Burrage transferred his attention to Debbie. ‘And this is Doctor Montevarchi, Fausto Montevarchi.’
In spite of herself, Debbie’s ears pricked up. ‘Doctor? Do you work at the hospital?’ She had had quite enough of Italian doctors.
For some reason this question struck both men as amusing and Debbie had to wait for Doctor Montevarchi to be distracted by a telephone call before her new employer was able to explain, sotto voce, in English.
‘Everybody’s a doctor over here. It just means he went to university.’ He lowered his voice even more. ‘Or not. It’s often just a general term of respect. Fausto’s a businessman with a finger in a lot of pies. As far as I know, the closest he’s come to the hospital is when he had his prostate checked.’
Debbie found herself with the beginnings of a smile on her face. ‘Ah, I see. So, does that mean that I’m a doctor, too?’
‘Absolutely. You’re not only a female doctor – a dottoressa – but a professoressa as well. It’s a bit of a mouthful, but you can legitimately sign yourself Dott. Prof. Waterson if you like. Now, let’s go and find a seat in the back room where it’s a bit quieter.’
He led her through to a larger room at the back. The tables were set for dinner and a number of customers were already in there. Clearly Mr Burrage was a well-known face, as one of the waiters waved to him and pointed to a table in the corner.
‘Your usual table’s free.’
Mr Burrage led Debbie across the room and glanced at her as they sat down.
‘Have you eaten?’
Food wasn’t high on Debbie’s agenda for now. ‘I’m OK. I’ve just had a slice of cake with Rory.’
‘Ah, yes, our rugby-playing chef. He’s a damn good teacher, too. Shame about the Scottish accent, but you can’t have everything. But you need to eat, you know. We’ve got a busy week ahead of us. If you have time, we could have something to eat while we talk.’
Debbie nodded her agreement, even though she didn’t really feel hungry. Food would, at least, soak up the alcohol he seemed intent upon pressing upon her, although the bottle of Prosecco was by now barely a quarter full and she had only had a single glass. As if to correct the imbalance, as they sat down, Mr Burrage filled her glass to the brim and tipped the remainder into his.
‘We should probably move onto some red with the meal, or would you like to stay on the fizz?’
‘Um, just a little drop of red would be lovely, Mr Burrage. And some water, please. I don’t want to drink too much wine.’
‘Of course you don’t. And call me Steven, will you? Everybody does. Or Stefano, my Italian alter ego. Anyway, tell me, how’s the flat? Is it all right?’
‘It’s fine, thank you, Steven. It’s clean and very tidy. I’m impressed.’ She decided to get onto business matters as soon as possible and, certainly, before the next bottle arrived. ‘So, when do I start? Nine o’clock tomorrow morning?’
‘Yes, or ten o’clock. Not much happens in the mornings and Giancarla’s there from nine to look after things. She’s a mine of information.’
‘Giancarla?’
‘She’s the school secretary. Don’t be fooled by the title. She near enough runs the place. She’s been there for the best part of twenty-five years, even longer than me, and she knows everything that goes on at the school.’
Debbie nodded. It sounded as though her first priority should be to get into Giancarla’s good books. Clearly, she was a lady of great influence and Debbie had no desire to make an enemy of the school’s longest-standing employee. She carried on asking questions about work and noted the replies. Although some lessons had taken place in September, it sounded as though most of the courses would start this week. It looked like she was in for a baptism of fire.
The waiter who had recognized Mr Burrage came to take their order. Once again, Debbie put herself in her boss’s hands as far as ordering was concerned, but she added a plea for small portions. She didn’t understand the names of all of the dishes that were discussed, but she agreed with relief that they would just have a starter and a main course, deciding against including a pasta course as well. After a summer of cycling around Cambridge, and the stress of packing and moving house, her jeans didn’t fit too snugly at the moment and she wanted to keep things like that.
She took advantage of his obvious expertise to ask him about Italian food. ‘Do Italians really eat a starter, a pasta dish and then a main course, followed by cheese and dessert, every meal? And if they do, why aren’t they enormous?’
Mr Burrage smiled. ‘You’d be surprised how many Italians still insist upon having pasta at least once, if not twice a day. But no, I would think very few have the full works every meal.’
‘So, it’s all right to come into a restaurant and just order, say, a plate of pasta?’
‘Absolutely. Mind you, you’d probably need a carafe of red to go with it.’
The meal was very good and, to her surprise, Debbie discovered she did, in fact, feel like some food after all. The Chianti Classico arrived and she accepted a glassful, while Mr Burrage, aka Steven, made short work of disposing of the rest. They had crostini along with raw ham and fresh figs, followed by a mixed grill of lamb chops, steak, and sausages, accompanied by a heap of roast potatoes. Not for the first time, Debbie reflected that Tuscany wouldn’t necessarily be the best place for a vegetarian. All the way through the meal, she pumped Steven Burrage for information until she felt slightly more confident as to what would be waiting for her the next morning. Remarkably, in spite of the liver-crippling quantity of wine he consumed, he remained lucid to the last. Clearly, this was a man with an iron constitution.
Finally, after politely declining a dessert or an espresso, Debbie rose to leave, pleading tiredness after her journey. She refused his kind offer to walk home with her and left him happily consuming the two glasses of grappa that had come with the compliments of the management. She made her own way down to the station, past the bulk of the basilica of Santa Maria Novella and through the less populated roads to home, arriving just after half past ten.
She let herself in and climbed the stairs, feeling really quite weary. All was quiet inside, so she used the bathroom and then headed for bed. As she laid her head on the pillow, she was relieved to find that the image that entered her head wasn’t of Pierluigi, but of her rose garden. It felt comforting and familiar as ever. She could feel the touch of the statue’s bronze hand in hers as she drifted off to sleep, wondering what was in store for her in the morning.