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           Hesmiled,threwawayhercigarette.Thekey…Well,sometimeskeyshadstrangeshapes.Perhapsitneededeverykinkineverycurlofthatredheadtotripthetumblers;perhapsinaroomofscarlethisGodhadhandedhimascarletkey.

           Afleetingday,overinasecond.Butonlookingathiswatchhesawitwasstillearly,andknewthemanwhohadsomuchpowernowthatHisHolinesslayneardeathwouldstillbewakeful,sharingthenocturnalhabitsofhiscat.ThosedreadfulhiccupsfillingthesmallroomatCastelGandolfo,twistingthethin,pale,asceticfacewhichhadwatchedbeneaththewhitecrownforsomanyyears;hewasdying,andhewasagreatPope.Nomatterwhattheysaid,hewasagreatPope.IfhehadlovedhisGermans,ifhestilllikedtohearGermanspokenaroundhim,diditalteranything?NotforRainertojudgethat.

           ButforwhatRainerneededtoknowatthemoment,CastelGandolfowasnotthesource.Upthemarblestairstothescarlet-and-crimsonroom,totalktoVittorioScarbanza,CardinaldiContini-Verchese.WhomightbethenextPope,ormightnot.Foralmostthreeyearsnowhehadwatchedthosewise,lovingdarkeyesrestwheretheymostlikedtorest;yes,bettertoseektheanswersfromhimthanfromCardinaldeBricassart.

           "IneverthoughtI’dhearmyselfsayit,butthankGodwe’releavingforDrogheda,"saidJustine,refusingtothrowacoinintheTreviFountain."WeweresupposedtotakealookatFranceandSpain;insteadwe’restillinRomeandI’masunnecessaryasanavel.