Prince of Fire

sensation in the art world and set the standard against which all future Bellini restorations would be judged.
    “Isn’t Tiepolo’s firm handling the Crisostomo project?”
    Gabriel nodded. “I’m working exclusively for Francesco now, more or less.”
    “He can’t afford you.”
    “I like working in Venice, Julian. He pays me enough to make ends meet. Don’t worry, I’m not exactly living the way I did when I was doing my apprenticeship with Umberto.”
    “From what I hear, you’ve been a busy boy lately. According to the rumor mill, they nearly took the San Zaccaria altarpiece away from you because you left Venice on a personal matter.”
    “You shouldn’t listen to rumors, Julian.”
    “Oh, really. I also hear that you’re shacked up in a palazzo in Cannaregio with a lovely young woman named Chiara.”
    The sharp look, delivered over the rim of a wineglass, confirmed for Isherwood that the rumors of Gabriel’s romantic entanglement were true.
    “Does the child have a last name?”
    “Her family name is Zolli, and she’s not a child.”
    “Is it true her father is the chief rabbi of Venice?”
    “He’s the only rabbi in Venice. It’s not exactly a thriving community. The war ended that.”
    “Does she know about your other line of work?”
    “She’s Office, Julian.”
    “Just promise me you’re not going to break this girl’s heart like all the others,” Isherwood said. “My God, the women you’ve let slip through your fingers. I still have the most marvelous fantasies about that creature Jacqueline Delacroix.”
    Gabriel leaned forward across the table, his face suddenly quite serious. “I’m going to marry her, Julian.”
    “And Leah?” Isherwood asked gently. “What are you planning to do about Leah?”
    “I have to tell her. I’m going to see her tomorrow morning.”
    “Will she understand?”
    “To be honest, I’m not sure, but I owe it to her.”
    “God forgive me for saying this, but you owe it to yourself. It’s time you got on with your life. I don’t need to remind you that you’re not a boy of twenty-five anymore.”
    “You’re not the one who has to look her in the eye and tell her that you’re in love with another woman.”
    “Forgive my impertinence. It’s the burgundy talking— and the Rubens. Want some company? I’ll drive you down.”
    “No,” said Gabriel. “I need to go alone.”
    The first course arrived. Isherwood tucked into his bisque. Gabriel speared a piece of lettuce.
    “What kind of fee did you have in mind for the Rubens cleaning?”
    “Off the top of my head? Somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand pounds.”
    “Too bad,” Gabriel said. “For two hundred, I’d consider taking it on.”
    “All right, two hundred, you bastard.”
    “I’ll call you next week and let you know.”
    “What’s stopping you from making a commitment now? The Bellini?”
    No, thought Gabriel. It wasn’t the Bellini. It was Rome.
    T HE S TRATFORD C LINIC , one of the most prestigious and private psychiatric hospitals in Europe, was located an hour’s drive from the center of London on a rambling old Victorian estate in the hills of Surrey. The patient population included a distant member of the British royal family and the second cousin of the current prime minister, and so the staff were accustomed to unusual demands by visitors. Gabriel passed through the front security gate after identifying himself as “Mr. Browne.”
    He parked his rented Opel in the visitors’ carpark in the forecourt of the old redbrick manor house. Leonard Avery, Leah’s physician, greeted him in the entrance hall, a windblown figure dressed in a Barbour coat and Wellington boots. “Once a week I lead a select group of patients on a nature walk in the surrounding countryside,” he said, explaining his appearance. “It’s extremely therapeutic.” He shook Gabriel’s hand without removing his glove and inquired about the drive from London as if he did not truly wish to know the answer. “She’s waiting for you in the solarium. She still likes the solarium the best.”
    They set out down a corridor with a pale linoleum floor, Avery as though he were still pounding along a Surrey footpath. He was the only one at the hospital who knew the truth about the patient named Lee Martinson—or at least part of the truth. He knew that her true family name was Allon and that her terrible burns and near-catatonic state were not the result of a motor