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hurting me.
    ‘Are you all right, Beth?’ Mark looks at me closely, puzzled.
    I can’t speak. I’m feeling dizzy. I manage to nod, and Mark seems satisfied that I’m okay.
    I have to get control . I can’t fall apart here, not now. But the vivid vision of Dominic is both wonderful and agonising.
    The monk in front opens another larger door. Dubrovski goes inside and Mark and I follow. We are in a huge refectory lined with trestle-tables.
    ‘Oh good,’ Mark says with satisfaction. ‘Lunch.’
     
    As it turns out, we don’t eat in the refectory. It’s obvious that we’re being given very special treatment, no doubt to butter Dubrovski up nicely and prime him for viewing the painting. Perhaps they don’t realise that he isn’t a man who is used to being kept waiting. Glancing at Dubrovski discreetly as we are seated at a polished wooden table in a private room with the abbot at the head, I can tell that his impatience is growing. He’s practically boiling with suppressed energy, and his blue eyes are glowering. Now that I’ve got the chance, I observe him properly without being noticed. I wonder how old he is – in his late thirties or early forties? He’s good-looking, not smoothly handsome like Dominic, but in a battered, experienced way. His skin is tanned and he has deep lines running down beside his mouth and cross-hatching his forehead that make him look weather-beaten and tough. His mouth is broad and generally unsmiling, with a jutting lower lip that gives him an obstinate air. His nose is too large to be classically handsome but it suits him, as does his strong chin. It’s an interesting face, I think, a face you could look at for a long time. Today he’s wearing a white shirt and a dark jacket that his shoulders fill out with muscle and a kind of simmering strength. I get a mental image of a young Dubrovski setting about his business rivals, using his fists in a back alley to win ascendency in his world. The thought makes me shiver lightly.
    The abbot is droning on as two black-robed monks glide around the table, laying out a meal. Dubrovski is twitching, obviously hardly listening to our host. Mark is watching him carefully, poised as if to follow in whatever he does. At last, plates of rice and a spiced meat stew are placed in front of us, but just as we are about to eat, the abbot clasps his hands, closes his eyes and begins to intone a long grace in a language I don’t understand. I dip my gaze politely, and notice that Dubrovski hasn’t waited. He’s shovelling his stew into his mouth with almost indecent haste. The abbot looks startled as he opens his eyes and realises that his guest has started, but says only, ‘Good appetite to you, sir.’
    I take a few mouthfuls of the stew. It’s delicious and I suddenly realise I’m ravenous. I eat hungrily. It must be the mountain air that’s stimulating my appetite like this – and I also have a feeling we won’t be getting long to eat.
    I’m not at all surprised when a few moments later, Dubrovski pushes his half-empty plate away, stands up and announces, ‘Right! Enough waiting. Now we see the painting.’
    Even though no one else is close to finishing – the abbot has barely started – we obey, leaving our lunch and standing up.
    When he says jump, we jump. Mark and I exchange glances. Our moment is almost here.
    We’re led by the monk who greeted us on our arrival, following him out of the private room and down another corridor. He opens yet another wooden door and takes us into a small chapel. It’s beautiful, with frescos on every wall. I want to stop and examine them, but instead we approach the small bare altar where a board covered with a cloth awaits us. My breath is speeding up, butterflies fluttering anxiously in my stomach. I don’t know whether to hope that we are about to see a lost masterpiece or not.
    The monk is smiling, pleased and proud as he gestures to the hidden treasure. The abbot tucks his hands into his sleeves