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  I just had to get this job with the Colonel. There was no other option.

  “Thanks, Claire darling. I love you so much. I need to go—”

  “Wait, Mom. Did Grammy know Mr. Finster-Cline?”

  “Who?”

  “Adelaide. My father’s mother. The one you think had lots of money.”

  An exasperated noise. “Don’t be smart with me. I know who Grammy was. Who else did you say?”

  “Kenneth Finster-Cline. He’s a wealthy art collector I’m working with right now—”

  “The Colonel?”

  “Yes.”

  “I haven’t seen him in ages. Please tell him I said hi.”

  My mother would know the Colonel. “Okay, I will. But, Mom, he said he knew Grammy and—”

  “Does he want another painting?”

  “What?”

  “The Colonel has purchased a few of my—Micky! Not again!”

  The line went dead.

  Honestly, how could a five-minute phone conversation so thoroughly summarize my childhood? It was uncanny.

  Getting my mother to focus for longer than ten seconds was a lost cause. She was like a gerbil on meth.

  I would have to ask the Colonel himself about Grammy, if and when the right moment presented itself. And just hope his answer would make sense and feel normal without a trace of old-man-pervy.

  I refused to think about the situation being anything other than above board with the Colonel. Too much of my financial future rested on this job.

  Tourists swirled around me on the bridge. I looked up the Arno River toward Piazzale Michelangelo and the cathedral of San Miniato al Monte outlined against impossibly blue sky. My boyfriend-city had produced another stunning red-banner day.

  Suddenly, my neck prickled with that all-too-familiar feeling of being watched. I was so sick of the sensation.

  I casually turned in a circle, pretending to study the jewelry shops. No random old gypsy women. No top-hatted Regency bucks. Nothing unusual.

  My phone buzzed.

  I watched you as you slept last night. Tasted your lips. Never forget—you will be mine in the end.

  My heart rate soared, pulse a snare-drum in my ears.

  Ugh.

  Bloody hell.

  (I learned that little bit of language from my fifth nanny, Mrs. Evans-Sharp. Very British, very proper. Hired her by virtue of her cultured accent alone. She was Mary Poppins-esque until you crossed her. Then her south London roots made a dramatic appearance.)

  Stupid online bully. When would this end?

  I closed my eyes. Did my normal dose of self-help talk—breatheyoucandothiscourage. This online harasser only had the power to upset me if I let him.

  Pick up Fear and move on. I could hear Grammy say. Don’t let them win, darling. It should be your mantra. Ha!

  Notching my chin upward, I walked into the middle of the Ponte Vecchio and took a selfie. Me and the medieval bridge.

  More photos in memory of Grammy.

  I would live my life.

  With a determined smile, I left the Ponte Vecchio and headed down Via Calimala toward the Duomo, taking the occasional selfie.

  When I was fourteen, a distant cousin had left Grammy some money. My mom and JB were neck-deep in a project in Miami and done with my teenage angst. Grammy used the money to book a trip to Florence, taking me with her.

  Three months in Tuscany.

  My passion for Italian art was born in those months. I was born.

  Could any woman have given her grandchild a greater gift?

  I chewed my lip. Blink, blink, blink.

  We had stayed in a small pensione near Santa Croce, visiting museums, wearing holes in our shoes on the flagstone streets and expanding our waistlines with gelato.

  When I was with Grammy, I was . . . home. She had always faced hard things head on. I would too. Push worries aside. Engage in normal, everyday activities.

  To that end, I popped into a divine-smelling bakery and bought some bread. The sign called it schiacciata, though it looked like a thinner focaccia to me, finger-dimpled and slathered in olive oil. In passable English, the cute girl behind the counter said the bread was a Tuscan specialty. (Elena. Crushes on Johnny Depp. Loves Big Macs.)

  Tearing off pieces of the hot bread, I walked by the soaring arches of the Loggia del Mercato Nuovo—the new market, which was a paltry four hundred years old. Finishing up the bread, I tossed the oil-soaked paper in a nearby trashcan and brushed crumbs from my fingers (and my lips and my shirt and my jeans).

  Opposite the market, I paused to take a selfie with the lucky bronze pig, Il Porcellino. (Pietro Tacca. Baroque. Modern copy.) Like all good tourists, I dropped a coin in its mouth and rubbed its shiny snout for good luck.

  My shoulder-blades tingling the entire time with that feeling of being watched. Selfies and oil-soaked carbs could only push the fear back so far.

  I hated this. Hated that I couldn’t go anywhere without this paranoia lingering. Hated the stupid texter who was determined to frighten me.

  I kept going, walking into the giant Piazza della Republica and took another selfie.

  I would show them all.

  I flipped to the selfie on my phone and froze. Stared at the photo, heart rate spiking.

  He was back—my Mr. Darcy photobomber.

  He stood about twenty feet behind, to the left of a brightly-colored retro carousel and facing me. Dressed the same in a cut-away green coat, tight breeches and top hat pulled low.

  I whirled around, standing on tiptoe and scanning the busy square.

  Nothing.

  No bobbing top hat. No one in Regency-era costume.

  Why was he doing this? More importantly, how was he doing this?

  I hesitated and then, steeling my nerves, flipped back through the other selfies I had taken.

  My hands visibly trembled by the third one.

  Just like the day before. . . there he was. In every single photo.

  Standing behind me on the Ponte Vecchio.

  Walking toward me on Via Calimala.

  Leaning into the porcellino, head angled my way.

  Never threatening, per se. Just . . . there.

  I studied each photo, trying to get a clear look at the guy’s face, but that hat was in the way.

  Bloody hell. I needed to check my photos more carefully as I took them. I felt like slapping a moron sticker on my chest.

  Why would some guy dress up like a Regency gentleman and then stalk me through downtown Florence, photo bombing every chance he got? Two days in a row, no less?

  It made no sense on any level. Beyond loony and straight into certifiable territory.

  Lifting my head, I stood rooted to the spot, studying the bustling piazza around me.

  Tourists sat at cafe tables around the perimeter. Kids ran through the center, scattering pigeons. The occasional taxi drove through the enormous arch on the west side. Groups of people moved around me.

  No Mr. Darcy.

  Now what?

  I clenched my teeth. I was in my boyfriend-city, a place I dearly loved. I refused to hail a cab and scurry back to my hotel like some frightened mouse. Not going to happen.

  Just to prove I would not chicken out, I kept walking. Down the street. Around the cathedral baptistery. And up the Duomo steps.

  Almost daring Mr. Darcy to follow me.

  I waited in the brief line to get into the cathedral, carefully scanning the piazza below me, looking for my would-be stalker.

  Still no top hats, walking sticks or coat tails in sight.

  What was up? Why only show himself in my photos?

  Behind me, a group of French high schoolers came rushing up the steps and crowded in line, pushing me forward. One boy glanced in my direction and did a double-take, elbowing his neighbor.

  I quickly turned my head.

  Too late. I heard a mutter of fou and then psycho before being waved inside the enormous doors. Yet another moment to file under ‘Signs Your Life
Is a Hot Mess’—a stranger halfway around the world says ‘psycho’ and you know they’re referring to you.

  Sheesh. Was everyone out to hassle me today?

  I quickly moved into the cool interior of the cathedral and wandered down the wide nave, putting space between me and the French school group, losing myself in the crowds of tourists.

  For all its lush exterior decoration, the interior of the Duomo is spartan. Mostly whitewashed walls broken by the occasional funerary inscription. What it lacks in ornament, the cathedral makes up in size. Despite being over seven hundred years old, it is still one of largest cathedrals in the world.

  Spinning around, I carefully studied the people. The French school group was back at the entrance, security searching their packs.

  No tall Mr. Darcys anywhere.

  Just to be sure, I framed the vast space in my camera and took a photo. No selfies for now. I immediately flipped to the image.

  Whew. Still no Mr. Darcy. Just perfectly normal people.

  I breathed out in relief.

  Coming inside the cathedral had been a smart move. If he followed me in here, I would notice for sure. There was nowhere to hide in this space.

  Nodding at my own cleverness (and feeling somewhat smug), I turned to my left and paused.

  A large monument stood above me. I craned my neck to look at it. A mixture of carved stone and fresco, it depicted a man on horseback. One of the many tomb markers.

  Painted by Paolo Uccello. Mid-fifteenth century. A fantastic example of his work in situ. I couldn’t remember much more than that.

  I smiled. It was like stumbling on an old friend. I had been unusually drawn to this fresco as a teenager. Dragging Grammy here over and over.

  I turned around and, lifting my phone, took a selfie. Me and the Uccello fresco of a random guy.

  Still smiling, I swiped to the image. Grammy would appreciate this moment.

  Cold washed my body as surely as if I had been doused in ice water.

  Impossible.

  The phone visibly shook in my hand.

  My Regency era photobomber was in here.

  He leaned against the wall below the fresco, top hat cradled in the crook of his arm, dressed in the same green coat. Dark head slightly bowed, again hiding his face. Casual and yet elegant. As if he had been waiting for me.

  Bloody hell!

  Frantic, I whirled around, scanning the cathedral, but saw nothing. No man in a tailcoat and tasseled Hessian boots.

  He had vanished. Again.

  How?!

  I looked back at the photo. Shivered.

  Feet shuffled behind me. The group of French high school students crowded past, bumping me with their backpacks. A boy said batty psycho and laughed. Someone deliberately tangled a foot with mine. I stumbled.

  Stupid teenagers.

  Gritting my teeth, I pushed (careened) out of their way and tucked my back against one of the enormous support pillars lining the nave. At least no one could creep up on me, costumed stalker or obnoxious teenager. The French group continued on toward the rotunda, thank goodness. Though a few kids kept swiveling back to stare.

  I stood on tiptoe, scouring the cathedral.

  No Mr. Darcy.

  I could still see the Uccello fresco to my right. I lifted my phone and snapped another photo of it. I immediately flipped to the image.

  Nothing. Or, rather, no one unusual.

  How was he doing this? What was his game? Who was he?

  And why the Jane Austen costume fetish?

  This made no sense.

  Hesitantly, I left the security of the stone pillar, eyeing the high schoolers. That sensation of being watched increased, bulls-eye burning between my shoulder blades.

  Keeping close to the exterior wall, I made a slow circuit of the building. I paused every now and again to take a photo. No selfies though. I didn’t want to put my back to anyone. I carefully looked before snapping each image, studying the results afterward.

  Nothing. No stalker in sight.

  Those stupid teenagers found me one last time, several passing deliberately close.

  “Batty Ray Psycho,” someone hissed. More laughter.

  I pressed back against the white-washed wall and met their stares. Tucking my shaking hands behind my back.

  They pushed their way through a group of Chinese tourists and headed toward the exit. I watched them leave.

  With a tight breath, I finally braved walking into the center of the nave. Hands still trembling, I raised my phone. Took another photo. Examined the image. All normal.

  But, just to be sure, I turned around. Reversed my camera and framed my own face in the corner. Again, I studied the length of the cathedral behind me.

  No Mr. Darcy. Just that wandering group of Chinese tourists.

  I snapped the selfie. And then held my position for a few moments more.

  Nothing.

  No man appeared or disappeared.

  I lowered my phone and swiped into my photos.

  All the air in the cathedral vanished. My vision darkened at the edges.

  Just . . . bloody hell!

  How?!

  I collapsed onto the floor. One minute, my legs were holding me upright and, the next, they stopped functioning. I sat with a thump.

  There he was again. About fifteen feet back. Towering over two small Asian women. Hat in his hand. Dark hair sweeping across his brow. Looking straight at me.

  Clear as day.

  I recognized him now.

  Despite the Regency clothing. The different hair style. The complete lack of context . . .

  Dante D’Angelo.

  Eight

  Dante

  The Michelangelo sketch is right through here.” The Colonel waved Branwell and me through another oversized, pedimented doorway into a well-lit dining room.

  We had pulled up the long, cypress-lined drive to the Colonel’s villa ten minutes earlier and had been ushered inside. I had caught a glimpse of Claire chatting with Natalia in a side-room. The Colonel said Claire was here to finalize the samples for mass spectrometry analysis.

  Claire looked much the same—no shadows. Though I could see the silvery shadows of a Victorian lady and 1950s housewife clinging to Natalia easily enough.

  Branwell and I had hashed through the whole weirdness of Claire of the Missing Shadows the day before, even conferencing Tennyson in on a call. There was no consensus. Was she my soulmate and we had been in love life after life? Or was my gift morphing and changing, fracturing in different ways?

  I wasn’t sure which answer I preferred.

  Branwell and I walked across the room, following the Colonel.

  The dining room was much like the rest of the villa—opulent and Baroque. Frescoes dotted the ceiling in gilded, recessed panels. An enormous table stood in the center with chairs pushed back from the end nearest the door.

  Branwell and I stepped over to the massive table, staring at the paper lying on top of protective white muslin.

  I caught my breath. Michelangelo’s sinuous lines jumped off the page.

  “It’s pretty, isn’t it, boys?” The Colonel tucked his thumbs into his sport coat and rocked back on his heels.

  Branwell and I both nodded.

  I had studied Sangallo’s copy of Michelangelo’s original cartoon the day before. It was excellent, but the Colonel’s sketch on the table in front of me . . . it was detailed. Subtle. Like fine silk instead of the coarse wool of Sangallo’s copy. The lines drawn with that mixture of precision and joie di vivre that only the greatest of the great ever mastered.

  Surely this had been done by Michelangelo himself. Or, at the very least, a remarkably competent copyist.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Amazing.” Branwell smiled.

  The Colonel beamed at us, blue eyes bright, obviously pleased by our reactions.

  Branwell bent over the drawing, careful not to touch it.

  “Fascinating,” he said. “It’s dif
ferent.”

  I looked at him, eyebrow raised.

  “Here and here.” He pointed at the drawing with his gloved hands, indicating a figure in the middle and one to the left. “In Sangallo’s copy, the pointing man on the far left cuts through the rocks behind. However, he’s better framed between rocks in this sketch. Subtle but definitely different.”

  I nodded. “So assuming Sangallo’s drawing is accurate, this sketch probably isn’t a copy of Michelangelo’s original cartoon.”

  “Exactly.”

  A bubble of excitement welled up. Was this the real deal? A lost Michelangelo?

  Finding a long lost work of a Renaissance master like Michelangelo was almost unheard of. But this sketch . . . I better understood why the Colonel was taking no chances.

  “Do you know anything about this damaged edge, Colonel?” I pointed to the playing-card-size chunk missing out of the upper right corner. The edge there was charred, as if the drawing had narrowly escaped being burned.

  “No. Can’t say that I do. Like I’ve said, I can’t find any family records of where this sketch came from or its background. Claire took samples from both the burned and unburned edge. She said that’ll at least tell when the damage occurred. Maybe you boys can develop some theories about it. I like what I’m hearing so far.”

  Branwell and I shared a look. We would know what had happened to the sketch in about ten minutes. The problem was going to be proving what we knew. We would need to scour whatever records the Colonel gave us access to for supporting tidbits.

  “Would you mind giving us a little space, Colonel? We’re going to study the sketch.”

  “Naturally.” He adjusted a chair and sat down behind us.

  Branwell was already bending over the drawing again, pulling a magnifying glass out of his pocket. He scanned the sketch up close.

  “It’s vellum,” he said.

  “Really? That’s odd.”

  “Very. They were definitely using paper by Michelangelo’s time. Though the vellum may explain why it survived so well. Leather is much stronger stuff.”

  “Chalk?”

  “Appears to be. So no carbon dating possible of the medium, as chalk isn’t organic—”

  “That’s what Claire said yesterday. She’s smart, that gal.” The Colonel leaned to the side.