The Angel's Game (The Cemetery of Forgotten 2)

“Good God,” I mumbled.

I put my head under the tap and let the cold water run for a couple of minutes, then went out into the corridor and slowly made my way to the gallery. If the bathroom was unrecognizable, the gallery now belonged to another world. Isabella had washed the windowpanes and the floor and tidied the furniture and armchairs. A diaphanous light filtered through the tall windows and the smell of dust had disappeared. My breakfast awaited on the table opposite the sofa, over which the girl had spread a clean throw. The books on the shelves seemed to have been reorganized and the glass cabinets had recovered their transparency. Isabella served me a second cup of coffee.

“I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work.”

“Pouring you a coffee?”

She had tidied up the books that lay scattered around in piles on tables and in corners. She had emptied magazine racks that had been overflowing for ages. In just seven hours she had swept away years of darkness, and still she had the time and energy to smile.

“I preferred it as it was,” I said.

“Of course you did, and so did the hundred thousand cockroaches you had as lodgers. I’ve sent them packing with the help of some ammonia.”

“So that’s the stink I smell?”

“This ‘stink’ is the smell of cleanliness,” Isabella protested. “You could be a little bit grateful.”

“I am.”

“It doesn’t show. Tomorrow I’ll go up to the study and—”

“Don’t even think about it.”

Isabella shrugged but she still looked determined, and I knew that in twenty-four hours the study in the tower was going to suffer an irreparable transformation.

“By the way, this morning I found an envelope in the corridor. Somebody must have slipped it under the door last night.”

I looked at her over my cup.

“The main door downstairs is locked,” I said.

“That’s what I thought. Frankly, I did find it rather odd and, although it had your name on it—”

“You opened it.”

“I’m afraid so. I didn’t mean to.”

“Isabella, opening other people’s letters is not a sign of good manners. In some places it’s even considered a crime that can be punished with a prison sentence.”

“That’s what I tell my mother. She always opens my letters. And she’s still free.”

“Where’s the letter?”

Isabella pulled an envelope out of the pocket of the apron she had donned and handed it to me, averting her eyes. The envelope had serrated edges and the paper was thick, porous, and ivory-colored, with an angel stamped on the red wax—now broken—and my name written in red perfumed ink. I opened it and pulled out a folded sheet.

Dear David,

I hope this finds you in good health and that you have banked the agreed money without any problems. Do you think we could meet tonight at my house to start discussing the details of our project? A light dinner will be served around ten o’clock. I’ll be waiting for you.

Your friend,

ANDREAS CORELLI

I folded the sheet of paper and put it back in the envelope. Isabella looked at me with curiosity.

“Good news?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”