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visitors, so they would have it to themselves. It was the only room she had so far seen with more than two chairs and thus was the only place where all of them could meet. She had not seen the cousins since the interviews in that same room, when she had met with them to present her qualifications.
    She and Roseanna went down the corridor to the library. The room was warmer than either her office or Roseanna’s had been; the heat, unfortunately, brought out the scent of the bodies and clothing that had been present in the room during the last weeks. Roseanna went immediately to the windows and threw them wide, then went back to the door and opened it. Caterina could feel the draught sweeping past her and out the door. “Keep them open as long as you can,” Roseanna said and went to receive the visitors.
    Caterina, in the accidental role of majordomo, went over to the windows and stood in the draft cutting into the room. When the footsteps approached, she shut the windows and moved back to stand on the other side of the table. In less than a minute, Roseanna came through the door, followed by Dottor Moretti, carrying his briefcase. Caterina wondered whether the cousins would force themselves through the door side by side or stand outside to fight about who went first.
    Her fantasy was wasted. Signor Stievani came in first, closely followed by his cousin, the usurer. Or would it have been better to say that the tax evader came in first, closely followed by his cousin, Signor Scapinelli? Caterina smiled with every indication of pleasure and shook hands with both men, then turned to the table and pulled out a chair for one, just as Roseanna pulled out the one opposite for his cousin. None of the men seemed to notice the smell in the room, and neither of the cousins seemed surprised by Roseanna’s presence.
    With casual authority, Dottor Moretti moved to the head of the table, waited for everyone else to sit, and then took his place. He nodded to both men and began in medias res . “I’ve already explained the conditions of her employment to Dottoressa Pellegrini. You are both already familiar with what they are. She has no objections to any of the requirements. In fact, she was just about to sign the agreement as you arrived.” So saying, he nodded to Caterina, who took the pen he handed her and signed the agreement, then passed it back to him.
    Dottor Moretti opened his briefcase and pulled out a blue folder. He slipped the agreement into it and replaced it in his briefcase, which he set back on the floor, where it made a surprisingly heavy thump. “If either of you, Signor Scapinelli or Signor Stievani, has anything to say to the Dottoressa, or to either Signora Salvi or to me, then perhaps you could do so now?”
    While Dottor Moretti spoke Caterina studied the two men, trying to judge whether her first opinion—negative in both cases—would find confirmation in this second encounter with them. So far, however, all they had done was sit, carefully avoiding the sight of the other by giving their attention to Dottor Moretti.
    Seeing the two men together, Caterina realized that Stievani must be older than his cousin, perhaps by as much as a decade. He had the rough skin of a man who worked outside and had never thought to protect himself from the sun, skin that reminded her of the leather of Dottor Moretti’s briefcase, though the lawyer had taken better care of the briefcase than Signor Stievani had of his face. Or his hands, for that matter. The knuckles of both hands were swollen, the fingers twisted at odd angles, perhaps from arthritis, perhaps from decades of work on boats in cold weather. She was surprised to see that his nails were neatly trimmed and filed, surely the work of a manicurist.
    His nose was long and straight, his eyes clear blue under sharply arched brows. But the face was bloated and puffed up, perhaps from alcohol, perhaps from disease, and the swelling had pushed out the possibility of beauty,