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minutes it took to nip around the corner to buy our fresh brioche each morning was just about acceptable—yet obviously supplies were down once more. I would have to venture out and stock up. I knew it would be unwise if I missed Crace’s breakfast, and so I set aside the few grains of fresh coffee for him and made do with instant for myself. Then I went through the ritual of preparing breakfast.
    I filled the espresso maker with water, spooned in the last of the coffee, screwed on the top and placed it on the gas ring. The flames licked the bottom of the espresso maker, spitting as they came in contact with a glob of tomato sauce spilled on the hob from the previous evening’s supper. I turned down the gas, grabbed my keys, and ran down the portego to the staircase and into the courtyard. I crossed the little bridge that led me to the outside world and snaked my way through the tangle of alleyways to the pasticceria around the corner. Crace, I was sure, knew exactly how long the trip should take me, because whenever I returned, clutching my bagful of brioches, he had taken his position at the breakfast table just as the espresso had started to hiss.
    “Buon giorno,” I said as I returned into the kitchen.
    “Oh, good morning, Adam,” said Crace.
    “I thought we’d try something different today rather than brioche,” I said. “The pasticceria had the most lovely baicoli. Look.”
    I slipped the little biscuits, named after the tiny lagoon fish that they were supposed to resemble, onto a plate and displayed them proudly before Crace.
    “Quite adorable, yes. What a treat.”
    I poured his coffee into a cup and made myself another instant.
    “What’s wrong with you? Gone all prole on me now, have you?”
    I laughed, looking at my cup.
    “No, it’s just that we’re out of coffee. The pasticceria didn’t have the blend you like. Actually we’re down on most things. I’m going to have to do another big shop.”
    “How can that be?” said Crace. “I thought we still had a cupboard full of provisions. Surely we don’t need more.”
    I talked him through the list of what we needed, adding how awful it would be if we ran out of something essential during the long afternoons when all the local shops were closed. Would he really want me disappearing for hours at time searching for a shop, not knowing when I would return? Surely it would be better if I got everything we needed today.
    “But you promise you won’t be very long?” he pleaded.
    “I’ll try and be as quick as I can.”
    “That’s no good,” he snapped. “You need to tell me exactly. You don’t understand—I have to know. I need to know when you are coming back.”
    I looked at my watch. It was nine in the morning. The shopping usually took me an hour or so, but that day I planned on incorporating something else into my trip.
    “Three hours?” I said.
    Crace looked taken aback, almost as if I had insulted him.
    “No, that’s far too long. An hour and a half.”
    I felt like I was in an auction, competing in a bid for myself.
    “Let’s compromise. Two hours.”
    Crace paused before nodding his head.
    “Very well—but not a minute longer.”
    After breakfast, he shuffled into his study and came back with a handful of notes. Although he measured out his time, he was certainly more than generous with his money. I wondered where he kept what must be quite a considerable stash.
    “Here is three hundred euros,” he said. “If there’s too much to carry, take a water taxi back to the bridge. And what you don’t spend, you may keep.”
    “Thank you,” I said, taking the cash, feeling his finger linger just a moment too long on the palm of my hand.
    “So I’ll see you back here at eleven,” said Crace as he closed the door and I walked across the bridge.
    As soon as I was out of sight, I quickened my pace and took my guidebook from my rucksack. I flicked to the blue pages at the back. Getting Around. Resources A–Z—accommodation,