The train from Paris rattled across the Tuscan countryside like a weary instrument finding its final note. Eleanor Hartley sat by the window, her gloved hand resting on her notebook, watching olive groves and distant hills pass in soft green waves. She had been told Florence was a city of light, of beauty so powerful that it could undo the most sensible of minds. That possibility did not frighten her. In truth, she rather hoped it was true.
