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  “It’s all right. I agree with you. My parents haven’t lived under the same roof in more than twenty-five years, but neither of them bothers to end it, cleanly or kindly. Andrew may be hurt, but all in all I prefer your way.”

  It was, she admitted, the route she would have taken herself—if she’d ever made the mistake of getting married in the first place. Divorce, she decided, was a more humane alternative to the pale illusion of marriage.

  “Shall I apologize for all the nasty thoughts I’ve had about you in the last year or so?”

  Elise’s lips curved. “Not necessary. I understand your loyalty to Drew. I admire it and always have. I know how close the two of you are.”

  “United we stand, divided we rush to therapy.”

  “We never really managed to be friends. We were colleagues, then relatives, but never really made it to friends even with all we have in common. Maybe we can’t, but I’d like to think we could at least be friendly.”

  “I don’t have many friends.” Too much of an intimacy risk, Miranda thought with a hint of self-disgust. “It would be foolish of me to refuse the offer of one.”

  Elise opened the door again. “I don’t have many friends either,” she said quietly. “It’s nice to have you.”

  Touched, Miranda stared after her, then gathered her printouts and samples to lock them in the safe.

  She snagged Carter briefly, assigning him to check all sources for bronze formulas of the appropriate era—though she’d already done so herself, and would do so again.

  She found Richard nearly buried in computer printouts and books. His nose all but scraped along the pages like a bloodhound’s on the scent.

  “Find anything I can use?” Miranda asked him.

  “Huh?” He blinked at the page, but didn’t look up. “The villa was completed in 1489. Lorenzo de’ Medici commissioned the architect, but the deed was held by Giulietta Buonadoni.”

  “She was a powerful woman.” Miranda pulled up a chair, pushing at papers. “It wouldn’t have been usual for a mistress to own such valuable property. She cut quite a deal.”

  “Women of great beauty already hold great power,” he muttered. “The clever ones know how to use it. History indicates she was clever.”

  Intrigued, Miranda took a photo of the bronze out of her file. “You can see in her face this was a woman who knew her own worth. What else can you tell me about her?”

  “Her name comes up from time to time. But there’s not much detail. Her lineage, for instance, is buried in time. I can’t find anything. The first mentions of her I’ve found so far begin in 1487. Indications are she was a member of the Medici household, potentially a young cousin of Clarice Orsini.”

  “So, going with that, Lorenzo took his wife’s cousin for his mistress. Keeping it in the family,” she said with a smile. Richard only nodded soberly.

  “It would explain how she caught his eye. Though another source indicates she may have been the illegitimate daughter of one of the members of Lorenzo’s Neoplatonic Academy. That would also have put her into his line of sight. However they met, he moved her into the villa in 1489. By all accounts she was as devoted to the arts as he, and used her power and influence to gather the stars of the era under her roof. She died in 1530, during the siege of Florence.”

  “Interesting.” Again, she thought, a time when valuables might have been secreted away. Leaning back, she swung her glasses by the earpiece. “So she died before it was certain the Medicis would remain in power.”

  “So it appears.”

  “Children?”

  “I haven’t found anything on children.”

  “Give me a few of those books,” she decided. “I’ll help you look.”

  Vincente Morelli was the closest thing to an uncle Miranda could claim. He’d known her parents since before she was born and for several years had handled the publicity and promotions and events for the Institute in Maine.

  When his first wife had taken ill, he’d brought her home to Florence, and had buried her there twelve years ago. He’d grieved for three years, then to everyone’s surprise, had abruptly married a marginally successful actress. The fact that Gina was two years younger than his eldest daughter had caused some consternation in his family, and some smirking grins among his associates.

  Vincente was round as a barrel with a Pavarotti chest and legs like tree stumps, while his wife resembled a young Sophia Loren, lush and lusty and gorgeous. She was rarely seen without several pounds of Italian gold and winking gems clasped around her throat and wrist or at her ears.

  They were both boisterous, loud, and occasionally crude. Miranda was fond of both of them, but often wondered how such an extroverted couple managed to remain in close association with her mother.

  “I’ve sent copies of the reports upstairs,” Miranda told Vincente as he filled her small office with his bulk and personality. “I thought you’d want to see the progress, and that way when the time comes for an announcement to the media, you’ll have been able to extrapolate data for the statement.”

  “Yes, yes. The facts are simple enough to write, but tell me what you think, cara. Give me some color.”

  “My thoughts are we’ve still got work to do.”

  “Miranda.” He said it slowly, with a persuasive smile, as he leaned back in the chair that creaked alarmingly under his weight. “Your beautiful mother has tied my hands until all—what is it?—t’s are crossed. So, when I’m able to take this story to the press, it must have impact and passion and romance.”

  “If the bronze proves to be genuine, you’ll have impact.”

  “Yes, yes, but more. The lovely and talented daughter of the direttrice comes across the sea. One lady to another. What do you think of her? What do you feel from her?”

  Miranda arched a brow and tapped her pencil against the edge of her desk. “I think the Fiesole bronze is ninety point four centimeters in height, twenty-four point sixty-eight kilograms in weight. It’s a bronze nude, female,” she continued, holding back a smile as Vincente rolled his eyes to the ceiling, “crafted in the Renaissance style. Testing so far indicates it was cast in the last decade of the fifteenth century.”

  “You are too like your mama.”

  “You won’t get anywhere with me with insults,” Miranda warned, and they grinned at each other.

  “You make my job difficult, cara.” When the time was right, he thought, he’d take his own angles on the press release.

  • • •

  Elizabeth scanned the paperwork with sharp eyes. Miranda had been very careful with the facts, with numbers, with formulas, with every step and stage of every test. But it was still possible to see where she was leaning, and where she believed she would end.

  “You believe it’s genuine.”

  “Every test indicates its age is between four hundred and fifty and five hundred years. You have copies of the computer-generated photos, the chemical tests.”

  “Who took them?”

  “I did.”

  “And the thermoluminescence process. Who conducted it?”

  “I did.”

  “And the dating by style is also yours. The bulk of the documentation is from your own research. You supervised the chemical tests, testing the patina and metal personally, did the formula comparisons.”

  “Isn’t that why you brought me here?”

  “Yes, but I also provided you with a team of experts. I expected you to make more use of them.”

  “If I run the tests myself, I have more control,” Miranda said curtly. “There’s less possibility of error. This is my field. I’ve authenticated five pieces from this era, three of them bronzes, one of them a Cellini.”

  “The Cellini had unassaultable documentation, and excavation records.”

  “Regardless,” Miranda said with bubbling resentment. Though she imagined herself flinging up her hands, shaking her fists, she kept her arms quietly by her sides. “I ran precisely the same tests on that piece as I have on this
one in order to rule out forgery. I’ve consulted with the Louvre, the Smithsonian, the Bargello. I believe my credentials are in order.”

  Wearily Elizabeth leaned back. “No one is questioning your credentials, or your skill. I would hardly have called you in on this project if I doubted either.”

  “Then why are you questioning them now that I’ve done the work?”

  “I’m commenting on your lack of teamwork, Miranda, and I’m concerned that you formed your opinion the moment you saw the bronze.”

  “I recognized the style, the era, and the artist.” As did you, Miranda thought furiously. Damn you, as did you. “However,” she continued coolly, “I conducted every standard test, then retested, and documented the procedure and the results. From these I can form an opinion, and a belief that the bronze currently locked in the safe is a depiction of Giulietta Buonadoni, cast circa late fifteenth century, and the work of a young Michelangelo Buonarroti.”

  “I will agree that the style is of the school of Michelangelo.”

  “The bronze is too early a work to be of his school. He was barely twenty. And only genius can duplicate genius.”

  “To my knowledge there is no documentation of a bronze of this artist that supports this piece as his work.”

  “Then the documentation has yet to be found, or it never existed. We have documentation of many of his pieces that are lost. Why not have a piece and not the documentation? The cartoon for the fresco for the Battle of Cascina. Lost. His bronze of Julius the Second, destroyed and melted down, many of his drawings apparently burned by his own hand shortly before his death.”

  “However, we know they existed.”

  “The Dark Lady exists. The age is right, the style is right, particularly in his early work. He would have been about eighteen when this was cast. He’d already carved Madonna of the Stairs, Battle of the Lapiths and Centaurs. He had already shown genius.”

  Considering herself a patient women, Elizabeth merely nodded. “There is no argument that the bronze is superior work and of his style. This does not, however, prove it is his work.”

  “He lived in the Medici Palace, was treated like Lorenzo’s son. He knew her. There is documentation that they were acquainted. She was often used as a model. It would be more unusual if he hadn’t used her. You knew this possibility existed when you sent for me.”

  “Possibility and fact are different issues, Miranda.” Elizabeth folded her hands. “As you said on your first day here, you don’t deal in possibilities.”

  “I’m giving you fact. The formula of the bronze is correct, exactly correct, X rays verify that the tool work is authentic for the era. The clay core and scrapings have been dated. The tests reveal the deep downward corrosion growth. The patina is correct. The bronze is late-fifteenth-century. Most likely the last decade.”

  She held up a hand before her mother could speak. “As an expert in the field, and after a careful and objective study of the piece, it’s my conclusion that the bronze is the work of Michelangelo. All that’s missing is his signature. And he didn’t sign his pieces, with the exception of the Pietà in Rome.”

  “I won’t argue with the results of your testing.” Elizabeth angled her head. “With your conclusions, however, I hold reservations. We can’t afford to let your enthusiasm weigh on either side. You’re to say nothing of this to any of the staff at this point. And I must insist you say nothing at all outside the lab. If any rumors leak to the press, it would be disastrous.”

  “I’m hardly going to call the newspapers and announce I’ve authenticated a lost Michelangelo. But I have.” She placed her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “I know it. And sooner or later, you’ll have to admit it.”

  “Nothing would please me more, I promise you. But in the meantime, this must be kept quiet.”

  “I’m not in this for glory.” Though she could taste it, on the tip of her tongue. She could feel it, tingling in the tips of her fingers.

  “We’re all in this for glory,” Elizabeth corrected with a small smile. “Why pretend otherwise? If your theory proves out, you’ll have plenty of it. If it doesn’t, and you’re premature in your statement, you’ll damage your reputation. And mine, and that of this facility. That, Miranda, I won’t allow. Continue the document search.”

  “I intend to.” Miranda turned on her heel and stalked out. She would gather up a pile of books, take them back to the hotel, and by God, she told herself, she’d find the link.

  At three A.M., when the phone rang, she was sitting up in bed, surrounded by books and papers. The two-toned shrill jerked her out of some colorful dream of sunny hillsides and cool marble courtyards, musical fountains and harpsong.

  Disoriented, she blinked against the glare of the lights she’d left burning and groped for the phone.

  “Pronto. Dr. Jones. Hello?”

  “Miranda, I need you to come to my house as soon as possible.”

  “What? Mother?” She stared bleary-eyed at the bedside clock. “It’s three in the morning.”

  “I’m perfectly aware of the time. As is the assistant minister who was awakened some twenty minutes ago by a reporter who demanded to know the details of the lost bronze by Michelangelo.”

  “What? But—”

  “I don’t choose to discuss this over the phone.” Elizabeth’s voice vibrated with cold and barely suppressed fury. “Do you remember how to get here?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll expect you within thirty minutes,” she said, seconds before the phone clicked.

  Miranda made it in twenty.

  Elizabeth’s home was small and elegant, a two-story dwelling typical of Florence, with its yellowed ivory walls and red-tiled roof. Flowers spilled out of pots and window boxes, and were cared for religiously by the maid.

  In the dark, the windows gleamed, bright stripes of light leaking through the louvered blinds. It was roomy, as Miranda recalled, an attractive arena for entertaining. It would have occurred to neither mother nor daughter to share the space while Miranda was in Florence.

  The door was wrenched open before she could knock. Elizabeth stood, neatly groomed and perfectly presented in a peach-colored robe.

  “What happened?” Miranda demanded.

  “That’s precisely my question.” Strict control was all that prevented Elizabeth from slamming the door. “If this was your way of proving your point, of exerting your expertise, or of causing me professional embarrassment, all you accomplished was the last.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Miranda hadn’t taken time to tame her hair, and scooped an impatient hand through it to shove it out of her eyes. “You said a reporter called—”

  “That’s correct.”

  Straight as a general, Elizabeth turned and strode into the front parlor. A fire was laid, but had yet to be lighted. Lamps blazed, shooting shine from polished wood. There was a vase of white roses on the mantel, and nothing else. The colors were all soft, all pale.

  Part of Miranda’s mind registered what it always did when she stepped inside this, or any, room in the house. It was more showcase than home, and just as cool.

  “The reporter, of course, refused to reveal his source. But he had quite a bit of information.”

  “Vincente would never have gone to the press prematurely.”

  “No,” Elizabeth agreed coolly. “Vincente would not.”

  “Could the plumber—what was his name—have talked to a reporter?”

  “The plumber couldn’t have provided him with photos of the bronze, with test results.”

  “Test results.” Because her knees were suddenly loose, Miranda sat. “My tests?”

  “Standjo’s tests,” Elizabeth said between her teeth. “Despite the fact that you conducted them, it remains the responsibility of my lab. And it’s the security of that lab that has been breached.”

  “But how . . .” It hit home then, the tone, the look in her mother’s eyes. She rose slowly. “You think I called
a reporter and fed him information? Secured photos and test results?”

  Elizabeth merely studied Miranda’s furious face. “Did you?”

  “No, I did not. Even if we hadn’t discussed the ramifications, I would never undermine a project this way. It’s my reputation on the line as well.”

  “And it’s your reputation that could very well be made.”

  Miranda looked into Elizabeth’s eyes and saw the opinion had already been formed. “You can go to hell.”

  “The reporter quoted from your report.”

  “Straight to hell, and take your precious lab with you. It’s always meant more to you than your own flesh and blood.”