Elena had stood and watched its last rays shining silver down the length of the river below and wondered about Giulietta Sarto. The blue-grey dusk was settling over the city and lights were beginning to go on along the embankments. A woman came and stood beside her. In the gathering dark the huge sculpture loomed, concealing them from the Palazzo. ‘I’ve seen you,’ she said, startling Elena. ‘Just like a Vermeer, through the window.’ She held out her hand. ‘My name’s Juliet Fleming. We were at the embassy in Amsterdam for a while, have you ever been?’ Her Italian was very correct, although accented, but Elena just stared. ‘That’s how John described me,’ she said, before she could think. The woman sipped at her glass of whisky; her husband had brought it out to her and slipped away again. ‘John?’ ‘My . . . I came with him. To the launch. Weeks ago.’ ‘I see.’ Juliet Fleming was looking at her with such calm understanding, Elena felt as though she had worked the whole story out.
