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    ‘Which of them gave you the books?’
    ‘The Contessa,’ she answered.
    Like many foreigners – and anyone who was not born in Venice was equally foreign – Contessa Morosini-Albani had decided to become more Venetian than the Venetians. Her late husband had been a member of the Club dei Nobili, where he went to smoke his cigars and read Il Giornale while muttering vague things about the lack of respect shown to people of merit. She, in her turn, joined committees for the salvation of this and that, the protection of some other place or thing, attended the opening night of La Fenice without fail, and was a frequent and savage writer of letters to Il Gazzettino . That the family might have given away anything, let alone precious books, demanded of Brunetti the willing suspension of disbelief. The Morosini-Albanis were, or had always been, keepers and not givers; life had shown Brunetti precious little to suggest that people changed in profound ways.

    But, he reflected, she was a Sicilian after all, and they were a legendarily profligate people, in the worst and the best sense. Her stepchildren were generally rumoured to be both thankless and feckless, so perhaps she had decided to spite them by giving it all away before they got their hands on it. Contessa Falier might know more. ‘Do you have any idea how the Contessa will react to this?’
    Dottoressa Fabbiani folded her arms and leaned back against the windowsill, legs straight and feet neatly side by side, just as those birds kept them. ‘It depends, I suppose, on how negligent we are shown to have been.’
    ‘My guess is that this man is a professional and does this on order.’ He said this to suggest that negligence might not have been a major factor. ‘He probably works for certain collectors who want specific items, which he gets for them.’
    She made a huffing noise and said, ‘Well, at least you didn’t say he “acquires” them.’
    ‘That would have been too much, I think,’ Brunetti said, ‘considering my job.’ He risked a smile. ‘Does she give the library money, as well?’ he asked, not bothering to name the Contessa.
    ‘A hundred thousand Euros a year.’
    The Morosini-Albanis? When he recovered from his astonishment sufficiently to speak, Brunetti asked, ‘How important is that for you?’
    ‘We get yearly funds from the city and the region and the central government, but that’s just enough to cover operating expenses. What the donors give us allows for acquisitions and restoration.’
    ‘You said she gave you books. Were there many more?’
    She turned her head away from his question but, finding nothing to look at, looked back at Brunetti. ‘Yes. It was an important donation. I’m sure it was her doing: her husband was … a Morosini-Albani.’ After some time, shesaid, ‘She’s promised the rest of the library to us,’ before pausing to add, almost in a whisper, ‘The family were the first patrons of Minuzio.’ Something stopped her from saying more; superstition, perhaps. Talking of it might stop it from happening, and then the library would lose the family’s hoard of the books of the greatest of printers of the greatest of printing cities.
    When Brunetti was still a reluctant schoolboy, his mother used to encourage him to get out of bed by telling him that every new day would offer him some wonderful surprise. She might not have had the generosity of the Morosini-Albani in mind, but she certainly had been right.
    ‘Don’t worry, Dottoressa. I won’t repeat this.’
    Relieved, she added, ‘Their collection is … extensive.’ As if to make clear what she had said about the husband, she went on, ‘The Contessa is the only one in the family who understands the real value of the books, and appreciates them. I don’t know where she learned it – I never had the courage to ask her – but she knows a great deal about early books, and printing, and conservation.’ She raised a hand in a broad sweep meant to