“The previous owner,” Mrs. Halder announced, stepping aside to let Liam enter first, “was a rather… theatrical person.”
They covered every other surface—tied in faded silk ribbons, stuffed into the marble fireplace, piled on the vanity, spilling from hatboxes stacked to the ceiling. Liam walked slowly to the vanity, his shoes silent on the Persian rug. A single letter lay open, the ink a faded sepia. capri cavanni room
The room was a circular turret space, its walls not painted but gilded with fading frescoes of leaping harlequins and crescent moons. A four-poster bed dominated the center, its velvet canopy the color of dried blood. But it was the far wall that stole his breath. It was entirely made of glass—a massive, curving window that faced the sea. Beyond it, the sun was beginning to set, setting the Tyrrhenian Sea on fire. “The previous owner,” Mrs
Liam turned in a slow circle. He imagined Capri Cavanni, in the last years of her life, sitting in this very room. Not as a glamorous star, but as an old woman with papery skin and watery eyes. He imagined her lighting a cigarette, picking up a letter at random, and reading the words of someone who had loved her from afar. Someone who had built a fantasy around her face. A single letter lay open, the ink a faded sepia
Liam closed the journal. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the room was now filled with a deep, velvet twilight. Outside, the sea sighed against the cliffs.