64

Through the confessional screen, Thomas read to Livia the poem he’d found inside the angel’s head.

Ar penitente, quann’è arivato, ce vo’ er zonno.

J’ammolla la dorce machina lì su la roccia

lisscia com’un guanciale, ppoi casca fonno

frammezzo a ’n zzoggno: du’ lupi rampanti, ’na bboccia

granne ch’aribolle . . . E la nostra compaggnia ce stà ’ntorno.

The penitent, at journey’s end, needs sleep.

He lays the sweet machine upon the stone

that’s smooth enough for pillow, falls to deep

dreaming: two gray wolves rampant, a cauldron . . .

And dreams lead to the company we keep.

“And there are more penciled letters. A M A E E. They’re spread weirdly far apart, but they’re here. And there’s the a.” Thomas had to force himself to keep his voice down. “The missing a from aedificavit. There it is.”

“If you’re right, maybe the next three letters—I mean, the three before, reading right to left—are eam. ‘It.’ ‘Built it.’”

“All right, but who built what?”

“That other e—it must be part of another word. When we find the next poem, it will tell us.”

It was oddly thrilling, he thought. Collaboration. Working with her to solve this puzzle. Building on each other’s work, correcting, suggesting, adding. Up until now, all his scholarly work had been done alone. He taught, yes, and so was not lonely; but it was different with students. This joy of teamwork, of equals sparking off each other—he was feeling now an excitement he hadn’t felt in years.

Which must be what explained his quickened heartbeat, the tingling in his skin.

“All right,” he said. “I think the coast is clear. Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“Upstairs, of course.”

“Upstairs where?”

He was taken aback. “Really? You don’t know? This one’s so easy.”