She drew the mirror closer to her face—close enough that her breath clouded its lower half, close enough that she could see her own bright eyes, looking back at her as if she were not looking into the glass at all, but was inside it instead, and looking out. It felt as if the thing had come alive, as if it were beating with a subtle pulse. The moonlight flooded across the glass like a silver tide, washing over her image, eclipsing her … and that was the last thing she remembered.
When she awoke, she found herself lying flat out on the floor, with the morning sun pouring through the window. A rooster was crowing on the rooftop.
And Cellini himself—in nothing but a pair of loose cotton drawers—was kneeling above her.
“What have you done?” he said, his expression a complex mixture of fear, anger, and concern. “What did you do?”
She looked around, but the mirror, the garland, and the iron box were gone.
Benvenuto helped her to her feet, throwing a sheet around her naked shoulders, and she stumbled, as if she had been at sea for weeks, across the studio. There was a pewter basin and pitcher on the bureau by the bed, and she filled the bowl with water. Her skin felt as if it had been scoured with sand. But when she bent down to throw the cold water on her face and saw her reflection, the breath caught in her throat. Her lush black hair, one of her most prized assets, had turned as white as snow—as white as if the Medusa herself had terrified her beyond imagining.
She whipped around to look at Benvenuto, praying for an explanation. “What have I done?” she exclaimed. “What have you done?”
But he simply stood there, silent.
“Is this one of your silly pranks?” she demanded. “Because if it is, I don’t think it’s very funny.”
But shaking his head, he came to her and put one of his rough hands to her cheek. “If only it were, il mio gatto … if only it were.”
Chapter 5
David had barely hung his coat on the back of his office door before his phone rang with a call from Dr. Armbruster.
“Guess what we received by courier this morning?”
She was not normally this playful, and it took David a second to say he had no clue.
“A generous check for our library restoration fund from Ambassador Schillinger and his wife. It seems he was very impressed by your lecture last week.”
“That’s great,” David said, wondering how this might affect his chances of clinching that spot as the new Director of Acquisitions.
“And I have some other good news, too.”
At last.
“Another of the audience members would like to come in today and meet with you in person.”
As quickly as his hopes had been raised, they plummeted again. He prayed it wasn’t just some frustrated academic who wanted to debate Dante’s indebtedness to Ovid.
“Who is it?”
“Her name is Kathryn Van Owen.”
Anyone who lived in Chicago knew the Van Owen name. At one point, the family had owned much of the Loop. And Kathryn, the recently widowed wife of Randolph, was a prominent, if rather reticent, figure in local society.
“Up until now,” Dr. Armbruster continued, “she had asked to remain anonymous, but as you may have figured out already, she was the donor of the Florentine Dante.”
For some reason, David instantly knew that she was also the Lady in Black—the one who had come in late, wearing the veil.
“She’s arriving here this afternoon, with her lawyer. Apparently, she’s bringing along something else for your opinion. I don’t need to tell you that it, too, could wind up in our collections.”
“Do you want me to prepare anything in advance?”
“I can’t think what it would be. Are you wearing a decent shirt?”
“Yes,” he said, quickly looking down to check. “Do you have any idea what she’s planning to give us this time?”
David could almost hear her shrug. “Her late husband’s family is as rich as Croesus—though you probably know that already—but frankly, he never showed much interest in culture or the arts. He built that car museum in Elk Grove, but I think it’s really Mrs. Van Owen herself who’s donating these things, from her own collection. And she’s what you would call,” she said, plainly pausing to find a neutral term, “an unusual woman. You’ll see what I mean when you meet her. Be in the conference room at a quarter of three.”