Only Cherubini possessed a key, even denying his maid the same privilege. Famously private, others sneered he was overly suspicious. Dino thought him prudent given his increased political importance. Less well known was that the maestro struggled with his breathing. He’d claimed to be allergic to dust for as long Dino could remember and always left a window open, even in the cruellest depths of winter. Dino looked out of his window on the sixth floor, casting an eye over his chosen route. Achilles scuttled to the sill and tested the air with a dark tongue. ‘One day I’ll spend some time in the town, rather than just looking down on it.’ Achilles turned away and plodded back to the bed. ‘Well, thanks for wishing me good fortune, you ingrate.’ The Orfano began the climb down, the alcohol and the height conspiring to set his head spinning. The rooftops of Santa Maria awaited him should he fall. Or perhaps he’d land in the street on his face, cobbles mashing his brains to soup.
