Jack shook his head. ‘Strange business.’
‘Let’s just find out if Rosalie is still in Mdina. I wasn’t that keen on the place when I was there before. It’s beautiful but feels so sad and empty.’
When they approached the ancient city a little later, she stopped again to take in the way it rose up on the hill, the high golden walls majestic but also a little unnerving just as she had thought before. It looked completely unassailable, perhaps because it was.
They cycled through the arch and then dismounted to walk around the narrow cobbled streets as they tried to work out if the address they’d found really existed and, if it did, where it was. They searched for a little while walking past the grandpalazzi, their shutters closed, their magnificent doorways bolted. Everything proclaimedkeep out. It was completely daunting.
‘They call it “the Silent City”,’ he said, lifting his hand and pointing at the stunning baroque architecture all around them. ‘And it is.’
She stopped walking to listen. ‘Apart from the wind. It makes me feel a bit melancholy.’
It didn’t take long to find the place they wanted and soon Florence was staring at the tall building. ‘It’s huge. Surely this can’t be it?’ She studied the immense double door and the two brass lion’s head door knockers.
‘I think it is,’ he said and whistled.
She nodded.
‘Go on then.’
She lifted one of the heavy knockers and, letting it drop, jumped at the deep resounding echo it made.
They waited. Nothing. Not a whisper.
‘I’ll try again.’ She lifted it again and let it fall.
Still nothing.
Close to tears, just as she had predicted, her heart sank.
‘We’ll come back later,’ Jack suggested and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Rosalie may just be out somewhere. Shopping maybe.’
‘Or gone.’
‘Could be, but we don’t know. Come on. I think you need food and wine.’
There was nowhere to eat in the old city, but they found a café in Rabat where they ate, drank, and waited and then returned to Mdina an hour or so later. Just before they reached the house, they spotted a tall man unlocking the huge front door.
‘Wait!’ Florence called out.
The man, surprised, turned round.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t be. How may I help?’
‘You’re English,’ Jack said.
He held out his hand. ‘Gerard Macmillan. And you are?’
‘I’m Florence Baudin,’ she said, breathless with excitement, ‘and this is Jack Jackson, my fiancé.’
He looked at them, a quizzical expression on his face.
‘The thing is,’ Florence went on. ‘I’m looking for someone. Her name is Rosalie and she’s my aunt.’
‘Oh … my … goodness. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Is she here?’
