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another round of gasps.
    In a heartbeat the moment was over. He and his friends had gone inside and their coach was leaving. It left me breathless, but also meant we were free to go forward: It was our turn to join the parade.
    Rosa Sorrenta’s stood three floors high with its exterior covered in a subtle pink render, something akin to that of sun-bleached oleander blooms. Planters full of flowering geraniums nestled beneath window frames finished in gold leaf, it all giving a taste of the reputed beauty within.
    For my own part, I wanted to see the glory that had given the establishment its name, its rose garden - the cliff-side courtyard was said to be amongst Ossard’s delights. But now, most of all, I wanted to catch another glimpse of Pedro Liberigo.
    Had he really been looking at me?
    Two doormen came forward to help us down from our coach. They wore cobalt blue uniforms, white leggings with matching caps, and reached up with white-gloved hands to steady our descent upon a set of portable steps. Once down, I looked about as I waited to be joined by Heifer and Horseface, and when reunited, we all shared a moment of innocent joy.
    My cousin met us, leading the rest of our party.
    Once everyone stood ready, he nodded to the doormen. Impassively, and in perfect unison, they swung open the gold leafed double doors.
    The doors opened into a wide hall to reveal a beautifully chequered pink and white marble floor, from which the walls rose covered in burgundy suede, and highlighted in gold. Alongside both sidewalls climbed staircases leading to private dining rooms.
    A uniformed host awaited us. Without speaking, our host dipped his eyes and gave a welcoming bow, then rose and turned to lead us through the hall and towards the open doors of a dim lounge. The room spread full of comfortable seats, all of them accompanied by small side tables lit by lamps capped with amber-tinted glass. We passed through the room towards another set of double doors manned by two more doormen.
    The lounge was a social place, a space for fine liquor and smoking, and a place at the moment half full. Looking around, I was astounded by the faces I saw. I’d never met any of these people first hand, but I knew of more than half of them. Predominantly, they were of the establishment, and all here to socialise and do business. As we passed, conversations stopped and heads turned; the passage of Ossard’s latest mints always demanded attention.
    We left the lounge through double doors that opened onto a hall servicing half a dozen different rooms, and at its end we entered a long and light space; the Sunroom.
    The radiance and beauty of the Sunroom can only be described as otherworldly. All the woodwork had been painted white, with an absolutely decadent amount of glass fitted into one wall and part of the roof. A floor of white marble spread before us sporting clusters of chairs, all wooden and whitewashed, with matching cushions. An assortment of lush potted plants, huge and outrageous, worked to break up the brilliant space. Groups of patrons sat back enjoying the room’s light and ambience.
    Midway along its glass wall stood another set of double doors, these also panelled in glass. Doormen opened the doors without a word, allowing our passage, and in a moment we went from the splendour of the Sunroom to the blooming glory of the Rose Garden.
    The Rose Garden spread as a courtyard that ran the width of the building, making it perhaps sixty paces long and forty deep. At one end stood the glass and wood of the Sunroom, but facing it was a waist-high stonewall, also whitewashed in keeping. The cliff fell away beyond that, plunging to the sound a hundred paces below. The view was spectacular, and only challenged by the magnificence of the collection of blooms that lay within its walls. It was superb.
    The area had been carefully planted to mature with an assortment of flowers. Jasmine climbed the tall, whitewashed sidewalls, and in some places the