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cheekbones. No need, now, to hide her teeth, but the smile had become a habit.
    She appraised herself with a critical eye. The style of her looks was not so fashionable in this century: the high-bridged nose, the wide mouth and strong jaw. Still, she managed to create an illusion of something like beauty. She looked about thirty, perhaps a bit older. Old enough to know what she was about, but not too old to be an ingénue . Her figure was trim without being thin, and her low heels would keep her from towering over the Don. She had checked, and learned that Nick Barrett-Jones stood no more than five-ten in boots.
    She wound her trademark long scarf around her neck and opened the door of her bedroom to go out into the quiet suite, thinking about this man who would sing the amorous, and amoral, Don Giovanni.
    Nick Barrett-Jones was an English bass-baritone who had been singing in European opera houses for several years. She had heard from one of the comprimario singers in New York that he fancied himself a ladies’ man. In fact, the soprano had said, tossing her head, he fancied himself, period. He had told Opera News that he was perfectly suited for the rôle of Don Giovanni, vocally and temperamentally. Octavia’s lip curled at the hubris. One of the lessons she had learned was to let her performances speak for themselves. Talking proved nothing.
    Well, it wouldn’t matter. Nick Barrett-Jones would have to learn his own lessons, soon or late, or not at all. Octavia picked up her score from the table beside the little couch. Yes. She would give this Nick Barrett-Jones his chance. His was, after all, the title rôle. He was the primo uomo of the production, and he would no doubt have his own worries about Leporello stealing his scenes.
    But if he gave her any trouble—any at all—she would return to wearing high heels.
    Usually Ugo woke before she left for her call, but this morning there was no sound from the other bedroom. She put on her long cashmere coat against the chill January wind that whipped the bare trees outside her window. She let herself out of the suite as quietly as possible. Her heels made no sound in the carpeted hallway. She bypassed the bank of elevators and ran nimbly down the brass-railed staircase, glad for the bit of exercise. It promised to be a long morning of standing about.
    Russell had apologized to her about this first rehearsal. “The chorus has been called,” he said, “and the stage director will be there. The concertmaster is coming to hear the tempi, to think about bow markings. We’ll have to start at the top and work through.”
    â€œRussell,” Octavia had said. “Of course you must conduct your rehearsal in whatever you way you think best.” She had contrived to smile up at him, rather than down, a little trick of the bent knees and the tilted head, and he glowed with pleasure.
    He squeezed her hand upon his arm. “Thank you, Octavia,” he said fervently. “I do appreciate it, and I promise, once we’ve had a full read-through, we’ll focus on your scenes.”
    She hadn’t been able to resist murmuring, “Our Nick may not like that,” but she regretted it when she saw Russell pale a little.
    â€œWell,” he said hastily. “But he’s in most of your scenes, in any case.”
    â€œOh, of course,” she said. “Most.”
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    The limousine driver turned right out of the Piazza della Repubblica, sweeping past the public gardens and on toward the city center. Octavia hoped she and Ugo could take a turn in the gardens this evening, a little exercise in the cold fresh air, a good gossip about the cast she would meet that morning.
    Il Principe’s driver chattered as he turned down Via Manzoni, lamenting the hideous rectangles of the modern hotels, and pointing with pride to the street where Versace and Valentino had their establishments. He offered to take Octavia there at any