He squeezed my hand. “Don’t go there, Anya. Have faith.”
We’d been walking along the banks of the river, not paying attention to where we were going, and found ourselves back near the Basilica of San Zeno, where we’d started out. I took a second look at the two ancient towers, one a typical pointed medieval tower, similar in style to a drawing on the rosette page of the Voynich, the other with swallowtail merlons, another echo of the manuscript. I looked up at the basilica’s façade, at the rose window, shaped like a spoked wheel.
Images from the morning and from the manuscript flipped through my mind.
“Sid!” I pointed. “Do you see that window? It looks just like one of the circles on the Voynich rosette page. And remember the oval shape of the amphitheater? There’s a shape like that on the rosette page, too. What if each of the rosettes represents a specific site in Verona?”
“Like a map?”
“Yes! Maybe!”
I needed to be off the streets, to write down my thoughts, draw connections, do more research on Verona’s churches and sites, to be doubly certain which ones had existed in Isotta’s time. There were already theories that the rosette page was a map, of the skies, the celestial bodies, or a geographic area, but as far as I knew, no one had suggested it was a map of a specific city.
We hurried back to the apartment, propelled by a new sense of urgency, or was it hope? The most dangerous emotion.
When we turned the corner onto our street, I grabbed Sid’s arm. “Stop.”
Standing outside the entrance of the building was a woman, her back to us, looking up at our balcony.
Clio
Clio sensed eyes on the back of her neck and turned to see a young couple, holding hands, watching her. The street was busy with people, passing through, shopping, chatting, laughing, but this pair stood still, staring, like deer in headlamps. She recognized Anya Brown and gave what she hoped was a small, friendly wave. She made her way toward them. They stayed where they were, though they looked ready to bolt, and Clio wondered why.
“Anya Brown?” she asked.
“Who’s asking?” the man shot back.
She pulled a badge from her bag. “My name is Detective Constable Clio Spicer. I’m from the Scotland Yard Art and Antiques Squad. If you can spare me some time, I’d like to have a chat about Professor Diana Cornish.”
“It’s a long way to come for a chat,” he said.
“And you are?” Clio smiled, kept her tone friendly, trying to defang his defensiveness.
“Sid Hill.”
“Good to meet you, Sid. I’m here because it’s an important case.” True, even if she wasn’t being entirely honest with them.
“Do you have jurisdiction here?” he asked.
Anya hadn’t said a word yet. She was watching Clio intently.
“I don’t. But I don’t need it unless a crime has been committed. The local police know I’m here; you can check with them if you want. It’s entirely up to you, Anya, as to whether you’re willing to chat to me or not. We’re just trying to get as rounded a picture of Diana and her associates and activities as possible.”
“Sid, it’s fine,” Anya said, eventually. “Where do you want to do this?”
“Your place?”
They exchanged a glance, some hesitation passing between them. “Sure,” Anya said after a beat.
Sid let them into the building and ran up the stairs, entering the apartment first. As Clio followed Anya inside, he was coming out of a bedroom. “Just clearing up,” he said, and she wondered what was so important that he’d had to rush ahead.
They sat in the kitchen. It was small, the table taking up most of the room, cabinets on either side, and, Clio noted, it was overlooked by the building opposite.
“When did you last see Diana?” she asked.
Anya spoke about Diana introducing her to her father at his house in London, then taking her to a bookshop in London where they debriefed. “I was upset with her for springing the meeting with my dad on me. After I left, I didn’t see her again,” Anya said.
“Can anyone confirm?”
