I packed three cotton blouses, two folded pairs of trousers, my mother’s brooch, and my father’s silver pocket watch into the small bag.

I closed the leather zippers, pulled my trench coat over my shoulders, and carried the suitcase down the stairs.

When I stepped into the lower stone courtyard at seven o’clock, Paola was waiting near the garden gate with her arms folded across her chest.

She kicked a cardboard box sitting on the gravel path toward my feet.

“Your art restoration books,” Paola said, tapping her acrylic nails against the iron gate rail.

“We don’t need your cheap junk cluttering up the library.”