He squinted against the morning sun, which, now he had fully opened the shutters, was pouring in through the casement and effectively bleaching out the color of everything in the room. Dust motes seethed in the brightness. Francesca sat at her table, somewhat disheveled, in her wrap, her cheeks rather flushed and her hair unkempt. Her fingers were ink-stained—he was pleased to see that she had been writing. His earnest recommendation—right from the very beginning of their time together in Napoli—that she record everything she said and did with every patron, had seemed to have been forgotten by her over the past weeks, but she had committed something to paper this morning, at any rate, whatever it was. “So,” he said, “how was our Maestre de Campo yesterday?” “I’ve just been writing it all down. You can read it if you want.” Francesca stretched, winging her elbows up on either side of her head, her fingers in her hair.
