“Like what?” asked the old woman.

“Me,” replied Ingrid. “She looks the way I did when I was her age.”

“That hardly seems possible. After all, the child is a Corsican. And you, of course, are Danish.”

Before Ingrid could reply, the woman drew her into the house and closed the door. A candle burned at the small wooden table in her parlor. It was the only light in the room.

The woman lowered herself slowly into one of the chairs and pointed toward the chair opposite. “Sit,” she said.

“Why?”

“A small ritual to confirm my suspicions.”

“About what?”

“The state of your soul, my child.”

“My soul is just fine, thank you.”

“I have my doubts.”

And then Ingrid understood. The old woman was the signadora, the healer of those afflicted with the evil eye.

Ingrid reluctantly sat down. On the table before her was a plate filled with water and a small bowl of oil. “Refreshments?” she quipped.

The old woman regarded her through the candlelight. “Your name is Ingrid Johansen. You are from a small town near the German border. Your father was a schoolteacher. Your poor mother did nothing but look after you. You left her no other choice.”

“Who told you those things?”

“It is a gift from God.”

Ingrid gave a skeptical smile. “Tell me more.”

“You arrived yesterday morning by boat from Marseilles,” the woman said with a sigh.

“So did several thousand other people, I imagine.”

“The boat is owned by René Monjean, the Marseillais thief who works for Pascal Rameau. You were accompanied by the Israelite, the one with the name of the archangel. Tomorrow evening you and René will steal some documents for him in Monaco.” The woman smiled, then asked, “Would you like to know the passcode for the safe?”

“Why not?”

“Nine, two, eight, seven, four, six.” The signadora nudged the bowl across the tablecloth. “Dip your finger into the oil and allow three drops to fall into the water.”

Ingrid did as she was told. The oil should have gathered into a single gobbet. Instead, it shattered into a thousand tiny droplets, and soon there was no trace of it.

“Occhju,” whispered the signadora.

“Gesundheit,” replied Ingrid.

The cross around the old woman’s neck caught the flickering light of the candle. “Shall I tell you when it happened?” she asked.

“I’m guessing that I came down with it while I was in Moscow. The weather was dreadful.”

“You were the same age as Danielle,” said the signadora. “There was a man who lived on the same street as your family. His name was Lars Hansen. One afternoon while you were playing—”

“That’s quite enough,” said Ingrid evenly.

The old woman allowed a moment to pass before continuing. “You never told anyone, so your mother didn’t understand why you began to steal things. The truth is, you couldn’t help yourself. You were afflicted with the occhju.”

“I steal because I enjoy it.”

“You steal because you need to steal. But I have the power to make the illness go away. Once the evil has left your body, you will be able to resist the temptation to take what isn’t yours.”

The signadora held Ingrid’s hand and began to speak mournfully in the Corsican language. A moment later she emitted a cry of pain and began to weep. Then she slumped in her chair and appeared to lose consciousness.

“Shit,” whispered Ingrid, and tried to revive her. The old woman finally opened her eyes and said, “Don’t worry, my child. It won’t stay within me long.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The occhju has moved from your body to mine.” With her black eyes, the signadora indicated the bowl of oil. “Try it again.”

Ingrid dipped her finger into the oil and allowed three drops to fall into the plate of water. This time it gathered into a single gobbet. Then the signadora performed the test herself and the oil shattered.

“Occhju,” she whispered.

Ingrid stood. “How did you know about him?”

“Who, my child?”

“Lars Hansen.”

“It is a gift from God,” said the old woman, and her eyes closed.

39

Haute-Corse

You might have warned me.”

“You told me that you were going for a run,” said Gabriel. “Not to the village.”

“And if you had known?”

“I wouldn’t have let you anywhere near her. She’s scared me to death on more than one occasion.”

They were standing before the French doors in the sitting room of the villa. Ingrid’s spandex running clothes were soaked with the rain that was now pelting the terrace. The laricio pine trees were writhing in the gusty wind.

“How is it possible that she knows about my childhood?”