Page 21 of Homeport

He drove through the rain, wondering what it would be like to just keep driving. To go until he just ran out of gas and start fresh wherever that might be. He could change his name, get a job in construction. He had a strong back and good hands. Maybe hard, manual labor was the answer.

No one would know him, or expect anything of him.

But he knew he wouldn’t. He would never leave the Institute. It was, as nothing else had ever been, home. He needed it every bit as much as it needed him.

Well, he had a bottle or two at the house. There was no reason he couldn’t have a couple drinks in front of his own fire to lull him to sleep.

But he saw the lights winking through the rain as he drove up the winding lane. Miranda. He hadn’t expected his sister home, not for days yet. His fingers tightened on the wheel as he thought of her in Florence, with Elise. It took him several minutes after he’d stopped the car before he was able to relax them.

The wind whipped at him as he shoved the car door open. Rain slapped at his face and streamed down his collar. Directly over the peaks and gables of the house, the sky exploded with sharp forks of lightning.

A wild night. He imagined Miranda was inside enjoying it. She loved a good storm. For himself, he would take peace, quiet, and oblivion.

He dashed toward the door, then shook himself like a dog the minute he was inside the foyer. He hung his wet coat on the old oak hall rack, dragged a hand through his hair without glancing in the antique mirror. He could hear the funereal tones of Mozart’s Requiem coming from the parlor.

If Miranda was playing that, he knew the trip hadn’t gone well.

He found her curled up in a chair in front of the fire, bundled into her favored gray cashmere robe, sipping tea from their grandmother’s best china.

All of her comfort tools, he noted, neatly in place.

“You’re back early.”

“Looks that way.” She studied him. She was sure he’d been drinking, but his eyes were clear, his color normal. At least he was still marginally sober.

Though he wanted a drink, he sat down across from her. It was easy to spot the signs of simmering temper. But he knew her better than anyone, and could also see the misery under it. “So, what’s the deal?”

“She had a project for me.” Because she’d hoped he would come home before she went to bed, Miranda had brought two cups. She poured tea into the second now and pretended she didn’t see Andrew’s wince of distaste.

She knew very well he’d prefer a glass of whiskey.

“An incredible project,” Miranda continued, holding out the cup and saucer. “A bronze was discovered in the cellar of the Villa della Donna Oscura. Do you know the history of the place?”

“Refresh me.”

“Giulietta Buonadoni.”

“Okay, got it. The Dark Lady, a mistress of one of the Medicis.”

“Lorenzo the Magnificent—at least he was her first protector,” Miranda specified, grateful that Andrew’s knowledge of the era was thorough enough. It would save time. “The bronze was of the lady herself, no mistaking that face. She wanted me to do the tests, the dating.”

He waited a beat. “Elise could have handled it.”

“Elise’s field is broader than mine.” There was a hint of annoyance in Miranda’s tone. “Renaissance is my era, bronzes my specialty. Elizabeth wanted the best.”

“She always does. So, you ran the tests?”

“I ran them. I ran them again. I had top members of the staff assisting me. I did everything, personally, step by step. Then I went back and did it all again.”

“And?”

“It was genuine, Andrew.” Some of the excitement leaked through as she leaned forward. “Late fifteenth century.”

“That’s incredible. Wonderful. Why aren’t you celebrating?”

“There’s more.” She had to take a breath, steady herself. “It’s a Michelangelo.”

“Jesus.” He set his cup aside hurriedly. “Are you sure? I don’t remember anything about a lost bronze.”

---