Gladly Beyond Page 8

I suppressed a sigh. Yep. Someone was definitely the teacher’s pet.

  Another sweep of the glass. “No silverpoint that I can discern,” Branwell murmured.

  Mmmmm. That was telling. Nearly all other extant Michelangelo drawings involved silverpoint—using a pencil with a core of silver. It’s what gave old master drawings that oxidized, coppery look.

  I scanned the lines of the sketch . . . so fluid. It seemed impossible they came from a mere student copy.

  Shooting Branwell a you-know-the-drill look, I placed my hand on the table and leaned over the drawing, deliberately allowing my fingers to barely graze the edge of vellum. I didn’t need much contact.

  We always started with my GUT. For one, I would often see enough to make the call. Second, noises were harder to contextualize. Branwell only stepped in if I was unsure about what I was seeing.

  I slowed my breathing and concentrated, pushing with my mind. I knew I wouldn’t see Claire or the Colonel. My GUT was strictly about past lives, so I never saw scenes from people still alive.

  Images floated around the sketch.

  Darkness and long years in storage.

  I pushed back farther.

  A woman with a close-cropped bob and 1920s flapper dress leaned over the drawing. A man who looked like a younger Colonel stood behind. His grandparents maybe?

  And then . . .

  Nothing.

  I frowned. Shifted my hand to gain more contact. Tried again, pushing out my gift.

  Again. Nothing.

  It was like a blanket surrounded the sketch. A wall I couldn’t break through.

  My stomach churned.

  What was going on? This had never happened before. Granted, I didn’t test objects like this on a daily basis. But I had never encountered something I couldn’t see past a certain point.

  First weird missing shadows and now blank objects?

  I took a deep, steadying breath. There would be plenty of time to freak out about this later. Right now, we had a job to do.

  Branwell noted my puzzled frown.

  “So what’s your GUT telling you?” he asked.

  I gave the tiniest shake of my head. Met his eyes. “Hard to say. I’m drawing a blank with this one.”

  Branwell shot me a concerned look and then cleared his throat, turning back to the Colonel.

  “If it’s okay with you, Colonel, I’m going to gently touch a corner of the vellum with my bare hands.” Branwell’s GUT needed more contact than mine. “I don’t usually like to touch a work, but sometimes the tactile connection can tell us a lot about the vellum’s origins.”

  That was complete bull, but Branwell was excellent at selling bull. The Colonel just nodded as if it made sense.

  Straightening his shoulders, Branwell slowly drew off the glove of his right hand. This was what Branwell hated most—touching something without knowing what he would hear.

  Though he had heard some amazing things over the years. We called in a favor from a friend at the Louvre once, and Branwell managed to place a finger on the Mona Lisa. He heard Da Vinci ask the signora to angle her head a little more.

  How fascinating to know the sound of Leonardo da Vinci’s voice.

  Sometimes I thought Branwell was a little OCD about his gift. Why did random, unexpected noises cause him so much stress? It was just sound. For only the millionth time, I wondered if something had happened to make him this skittish. I asked him about it at least once a month, but he never gave me a solid answer.

  Tentatively, Branwell placed one finger gently on a corner of the vellum, careful not to touch anything else. This would take a few minutes. He had to sort through the voices at each point of change, working his way backward through time, from most recent to oldest. And, unlike me, Branwell wasn’t limited to just hearing dead people.

  Branwell stood still, eyes closed. Looking a little too much like someone in a magical trance.

  I turned back to the Colonel, who was eyeing my brother speculatively.

  I deliberately stepped in front, hiding him from view.

  “So what are Pierce and Claire saying?” I asked.

  The Colonel folded his arm across his chest. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I want honest answers from each of you. Not a collaboration on what answer would make me happiest or gain you the most notoriety. No plagiarizing. Sandbox Rule.”

  I grinned. “Fair enough, I suppose.” I leaned back against a nearby chair, more fully blocking my brother. “Though you have to know Branwell and I have never been the pandering sort. It’s not really our vibe.”

  “Agreed. You researched the history behind the sketch more?” The Colonel’s tone hinted that this was a test question.

  “Of course,” I said.

  Fortunately, I had come prepared for an exam. Teacher’s pet or no, I was determined to prove myself the perfect person for this job.

  The Colonel waved a hand. Go on.

  “The Battle of Cascina was fought between Pisa and Florence in July of 1364.” I rested my body more firmly against the chair. “The armies met in the shadow of the Abbey of San Savino, which is an old monastery east of Pisa. You can still visit the abbey church today, by the way.”

  The Colonel nodded, folding his arms across his chest. I took this as a good sign.

  “The Florentines won,” I continued. “As was typical with Renaissance Florence, the city leaders decided in 1504 to commemorate the victory in painting. Michelangelo was only twenty-nine at the time and one of the most sought-after artists in Italy after the monumental success of his sculpture of David. The city leaders jumped at the chance to get him to do the painting. But the money ran out after Michelangelo completed the full-scale cartoon—the one Sangallo copied—but before Michelangelo had a chance to actually transfer the cartoon design to the wall and paint it into wet plaster, creating the finished fresco. By the time city leaders had cash again, Michelangelo was in Rome painting the Sistine Chapel and had forgotten the entire Battle of Cascina project.”

  The Colonel smiled with approval.

  “Excellent, boy. You’ll do.”

  Branwell stirred behind me, clearing his throat. I turned as he pulled his leather glove back onto his hand.

  “So what is your GUT telling you?” I asked, repeating his same question from earlier.

  “I’m not sure, to be honest.” Branwell shrugged.

  I raised an eyebrow. Branwell met my eyes with a steady gaze.

  “We definitely have our work cut out for us.” I turned to the Colonel. “This is going to be a fascinating project.”

  The Colonel beamed, standing up. “Well, I’ll leave you boys to it. I need to check and see if Claire needs anything else before sending the samples over to the University of Florence for analysis.”

  Naturally. Teacher’s pet and all.

  The Colonel walked out of the room.

  I snapped back to my brother. He swung his head, motioning me to bend over the drawing like we were studying it together.

  “Dimmi cos’è successo,” Branwell said, switching from English to Italian. “What happened? You couldn’t get a read on it?”

  “No. I went back about a hundred years and then nothing. Vuoto,” I said.

  “You’ve never encountered a blank object before, have you?”

  “No. But then I hadn’t seen a blank stranger before three days ago either.”

  “Weird.”

  “Tell me about it. First the thing with Claire. Now this.”

  “Maybe you were madly in love with this Michelangelo sketch in a past life, too.” Branwell smirked. “Wrote it sonnets. Called it your soulmate.”

  “Sometimes I really hate you.”

  He laughed. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t get a clear read either. But then when do I ever? You know how it goes. I never get a sense of time. The events could happen minutes or millenia apart, so it’s hard to know what’s important to provenance and what’s just happenstance.” He gave his head a subtle shake.

  �
��So what happened?”

  “Well, I skimmed past Claire talking to the Colonel while taking samples. From there . . . it was confusing. There was a loud cracking noise with a lot of reverb. It could have been something crashing to the ground or even a gunshot in a tight space. I couldn’t tell for sure. Then, I heard a man distinctly say”—here Branwell switched from Italian to English—“‘I figure we are even now. You have taken something from me. And now I have taken it from you. Never forget—I always win the game.’”

  “In inglese?”

  “Sì. English. Upper-crust British accent with a hint of a brogue. Probably Scottish. Definitely modern. No earlier than late eighteenth century.”

  I pondered the phrase in my head: I figure we are even now. You have taken something from me. And now I have taken it from you. Never forget—I always win the game.

  “Intriguing,” I said.

  “Definitely.”

  “It implies there was perhaps a conflict over this sketch at some point.”

  “Agreed. Some change to the sketch happened at that point, otherwise I wouldn’t have heard what I did. The loud noise certainly didn’t clarify things—”

  “Not to mention that singed corner.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What else?”

  Branwell paused, remembering. “After that, the scratch scratch of what I assume was chalk on vellum. The pop of a fire. Occasionally, I heard the murmur of voices in the distance, all indistinct, though some of it sounded Italian.”

  Mmmm. “That’s it?”

  “Pretty much. You know how it goes. It’s not like Michelangelo sat there saying, ‘I, Michelangelo Buonarotti, will now create a sketch of the Battle of Cascina.’ The actual creation of a work of art is usually limited to breathing and not much more. If someone walks in the room and asks a question while the artist is drawing, we’ve hit pay dirt.”

  “True. Usually we use our gifts in tandem, but without mine in play this time . . .”

  I studied the sketch again. The sinuous lines. The moving forms. It really was remarkable. Was this a true Michelangelo?

  “I didn’t get a sense of how this happened. Maybe that loud noise was something dropping on it.” Branwell moved a hand over the singed corner. Shrugged. “Hopefully the mass spec analysis will clue us in on that.”

  I grunted. Frowning.

  How were we going to figure out this enormous puzzle?

  “Don’t be glum.” Branwell nudged my shoulder with his. A serious breach of his no-contact protocol. He could be so caring sometimes. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. It’ll just take old-fashioned research.”

  “I don’t excel at that.”

  “Fortunately, for you, I like to help where I can.” Branwell shot me a decidedly dry look. “Take pity on you, as it were.”

  “Touché.”

  He chuckled. “Not my fault I actually studied in college. I’ll see what I can dig up. Like I said, the mass spec results should be helpful. They will at least give us approximate dates for things.”

  Branwell and I stayed in the dining room for another two hours, studying the drawing and taking detailed photos. We wrapped up after lunch.

  We passed the staircase to the upper floor and were halfway across the grandiose entrance hall when a voice stopped us.

  “Mr. D’Angelo!”

  As we both answer to that name, Branwell and I spun around.

  Claire strode down the stairs, dressed in a light blue suit with just the right amount of curve-hugging tightness. Pale hair wrapped into a loose bun accentuating her clean bone structure. Killer heels and legs, legs, legs.

  Yep. She was truly trophy girlfriend material, no doubt about it. That scum Pierce had never deserved her—

  I felt more than heard Branwell’s grunt of appreciation next to me.

  “Claire. Nice to see you today.” Though still no shadows.

  She stopped in front of me. Chest heaving.

  It was a very nice chest. Not that I looked down to notice . . . well, not too much.

  I was a gentleman.

  And then I saw her eyes. Snapping fire. Glaring like I imagine a dragon does before roasting its dinner.

  So . . . still more psycho girlfriend than trophy . . .

  “May I introduce my brother, Branwell?” I gestured.

  She popped her hands onto her hips.

  “Nice to meet you.” Branwell had never been slow.

  Claire barely glanced at him.

  “You know, I almost called the police—”

  “Police?” That was me.

  “—or, at very least, brought this up with the Colonel as I’m sure it violates his Sandbox Rule—”

  “Violated? What?” That was Branwell.

  “—but I’m a big girl and I like solving my own problems and don’t want to be a tattle-tale. So I decided to give you a chance to explain first.”

  My eyebrows flew upward. “Explain?”

  Her hands moved from her hips to folding across her ribcage. “Don’t even think about pretending not to understand, Mr. D’Angelo—”

  “Dante.”

  “—I know you’re going to say it’s just all a harmless joke and I’m overreacting. Being psycho—”

  Branwell let out a full-on guffaw.

  Claire and I swiveled our heads in his direction.

  “Sorry.” He held up a palm. “Continue.”

  Claire fixed him with that steely stare of hers. He squirmed. It really was remarkably effective now that it was no longer trained on me.

  “Do you mind?” she asked him. “Or are you in on this little game too? Despite that man-bun and beard, you are his identical twin.” She nodded in my direction.

  Branwell scrubbed a gloved hand over his beard which he had, at least, trimmed up that morning. It was now more George-Clooney-suave than Hagrid-the-Giant-bushy.

  “I’m clueless,” he said.

  “That I don’t doubt.” So very dry.

  “Right. I’m just going to go examine the paintings I saw in the drawing room over here.” Branwell couldn’t get out of earshot fast enough.

  Figured my own flesh and blood would abandon me.

  I turned my attention back to Medusa Claire of the No Shadows. She had added foot-tapping to her anger show.

  “Well?” She cocked her head. Expectantly.

  I took a step closer to her. “Okay, so let’s say I’m a really bad actor and I’m not pretending here, Claire—”

  “That’s Ms. Raythorn, to you.” She stepped back.

  “Fine. Ms. Raythorn.” I moved closer again. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I should call your twin back here. Maybe he’ll be more forthcoming.” She sidestepped two paces. I swiveled with her.

  “Look, just tell me what you’re—”

  “Is frightening me amusing to you somehow?” She took another step back. “You get your big alpha-male kicks out of intimidation?”

  “Excuse me?!”

  “What are you trying to accomplish with this whole thing? Are you behind all those harassing texts, too?”

  “Claire, please—”

  “Ms. Raythorn.”

  “—I truly, honestly, from the bottom of the soul-you-have-blackened have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I canted forward, intent on moving closer to her again and then stopped myself. Damn. I was doing that Italian lack-of-personal-space thing where I crowded too close to someone.

  Italians, as a general rule, have personal space bubbles that are at least fifty percent smaller than Americans’. I forced my feet to stand still.

  “Fine. You want to do this?” She pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket with a flourish. “Let’s do this.”

  She swiped and tapped and then held the screen up to me.

  A chill zapped my spine, spiking goosebumps into frantic attention. I gasped.

  What the hell?!!

  Without thinking, I grabbed the phone from her. So
much for respecting her bubble.

  “Hey—” She reached for it.

  I moved it higher, staring at the image.

  The interior of the Duomo.

  Claire’s cute face in the corner.

  A man standing behind. Tailcoat, cravat, tasseled boots, top hat in hand—all early nineteenth century. Gazing straight at her.

  Me.

  Or at least someone who looked a tremendous amount like me.

  Madonna mia!

  Vaguely, I processed that my hands were shaking. I tried to swallow, but something stuck in my throat.

  What was going on here?

  “So tell me.” Her tone brought to mind tundra and frozen wastelands. “Did you and your sidekick brother decide it would be fun to follow me around and jump into my selfies? And then duck out of view as soon as I turned around?”

  Dimly, I noted her questions. “Wait. What?!”

  I tore my eyes off her phone. She had her arms crossed again.

  “Or have you planted some sort of random phone virus that inserts pictures of you in different positions into my photos?”

  She paused. Even she could hear how silly that sounded.

  “So you’re saying this only happens in a selfie? When you’re in the picture too? Did you see this guy in any other kind of photo? One without you in it?”

  She paused. My shock/panic/surprise finally registering. The toe tapping edged off.

  “No. Just selfies.”

  “Every selfie?”

  “Uhmm . . . I don’t remember.”

  I swiped through her photos. Interior shots of the Duomo. I looked at them. Sure enough, no weird BBC costumed extras.

  And then . . . bam. There he was. Shot after shot. In Piazza della Republica. The Ponte Vecchio. Always dressed in the same Regency-era clothing. Always turned toward her.

  “You don’t see him except in the photo?”

  “Him? Don’t try to pretend like this isn’t you.”

  “Just answer the question, please.”

  The toe tapping started up again.

  “Fine.” Finally she nodded. “I take the photo and you’re nowhere to be seen, I swear it. But when I look at the photo on my phone—”

  “He’s there.”

  “You are there. It’s like a magic trick.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Do you practice magic?”

  “No. Never got my owl letter from Hogwarts—”