She saw it even before the reception clerk signalled to her. There was a white triangle in the slot below her room number, and it was the only one. She walked over to the desk and the clerk reached up and gave it to her. He smiled, thinking she would be pleased. ‘It came by hand after you’d gone out this morning,’ he said. He was watching her with an expectant look on his face. ‘Thank you,’ Katharine said. On the back of the envelope, embossed in crimson, was the crest of the Dukes of Malaspiga. She went up to her room and opened the letter. It was very brief: four lines running boldly across the page, unevenly spaced. ‘Dear Signorina Dexter, Thank you for your kind letter and welcome to Florence. We should be pleased if you can take tea with us on Wednesday at five o’clock. Isabella di Malaspiga.’ The signature was large, the letters ended with an artificial flourish that suggested years of practice. It was the way someone signed their name when they believed that name itself to be important.
