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Resonant, a nice rich baritone. The speaker was in front of him.
    The voice said, “We have you now, I believe. Ugo, isn’t it? My friends are in the nave, and I’m blocking the stairs.”
    Ugo stopped and glanced behind him. It was true, the two men were standing just inside the door to the church. He looked forward again, peering up at the speaker, but he could see nothing in the gloom.
    Ugo gave a sigh. He put his hands in his pockets and adopted a negligent slouch. “You have the advantage of me, signore,” he said. “Who are you? What is it you want?”
    â€œWhat we want, Ugo, is information. And my name I think you will recognize.”
    Ugo slouched further, letting his chin drop into his collar. “Will I?” he said, in a very American accent. “Am I supposed to guess?”
    â€œOh, no,” the voice said. The man stepped down so that a dim shaft of light, slicing through the half-open stairwell door, fell on his face. He didn’t look familiar at all. Ugo eyed him narrowly as he came forward and put out his hand. “I’m Domenico,” he said. “I’m going to be your host for a bit.”

4
    Siam soli.
    We are alone.
    â€”Leporello, Act One, Scene Two, Don Giovanni
    Octavia moved about the suite at Il Principe as quietly as she could, hoping not to wake Ugo. She had her breakfast carried into her bedroom, putting her finger to her lips to keep the server quiet. When she had eaten, and drunk the little pot of espresso, she showered, humming scales beneath the noise of the spray. She stepped out of the shower and toweled herself dry, and set about the task of choosing her clothes.
    Octavia always felt a slight disorientation with each new rôle she undertook. At one time this had caused her problems, as the brittle gaiety of Violetta would spill over into the Countess, or the Countess’s gentility would shade the youth and naïveté of Rusalka. She had learned to make a conscious effort to put aside one character as she took up the next. Today she would shake off the last shreds of Violetta, the desperately vivacious courtesan. She would put on, like putting on a suit of clothes, the outraged virtue and extravagant filial devotion of Donna Anna.
    And for this Donna Anna, she would be the prima donna.
    It had not always been the case. In the early productions, Zerlina, the flirtatious peasant girl, had been considered the prima donna. Even now, Zerlina was always a threat to steal the show. The rôle of Donna Elvira was also substantial, but Donna Anna had become, over the years, the principal female singer. And Octavia needed to present herself to Russell, to the director, and to the rest of the cast, just that way. Sympathetic, she hoped, and collegial. It was always nicer, and the music was better, if she and her colleagues were on friendly terms. But she wanted no doubt about what her position was. She knew from experience how quickly the balance of power could change in an opera production, how swiftly rumors and insults and treachery could spread, and how damaging they could be. She had paid the price too many times, in the early years, for misplacing her trust. It was an error she had no intention of repeating.
    She pulled a black pantsuit out of the closet, and after a moment’s hesitation, her favorite cream silk blouse. She wore modest earrings and tied her hair back in a long, elegant ponytail. The pale hair looked dramatic against the black jacket, but the understated style gave her the casual look she wanted.
    She applied makeup with a judicious hand—a subtle eye-shadow, a pale matte lipstick. She blotted the lipstick, then lifted her upper lip to show her small, sharp incisors. They had retracted, slowly, from lack of use. She drew her lip down again to smile at herself in the mirror. It was well practiced, that smile: the lips closed, the corners of her mouth turned up to hollow her cheeks and exaggerate her