Page 38 of Homeport

“Everything’s wrong. It’s a disaster. I didn’t dare call you earlier, but I felt you had to know, as soon as possible, before . . . before morning.”

Her heart jerked once, brutally hard, and the earring she’d removed fell to bounce musically on her desk. “My mother? Has something happened to my mother?”

“Yes—no. She’s well, she’s not hurt. I’m sorry. I’m upset.”

“It’s all right.” To calm herself she closed her eyes, took deep, quiet breaths. “Just tell me what’s happened.”

“The bronze, the Fiesole bronze. It’s a fake.”

“That’s ridiculous.” She sat straight up, her voice snapping out. “Of course it’s not a fake. Who says so?”

“The results came back earlier today from the tests taken in Rome. Arcana-Jasper Laboratories. Dr. Ponti oversaw the testing. You know his work?”

“Yes, of course. You have bad information, Giovanni.”

“I tell you, I saw the results myself. Dr. Standford-Jones called me in, along with Richard and Elise, as we were on the original team. She even raked Vincente. She’s furious, Miranda, and humiliated and not a little sick. The bronze is fake. It was probably cast no more than months ago, if that. The formula was right for the metal, even the patina was perfect, and could have been mistaken.”

“I didn’t mistake anything,” she insisted, but could feel crab claws of panic crawling up her spine.

“The corrosion levels were wrong, all wrong. I don’t know how we missed it, Miranda, but they were wrong. Some attempt had been made to create them in the metal, but it wasn’t successful.”

“You saw the results, the computer photos, the X rays.”

“I know it. I told your mother this, but . . .”

“But what, Giovanni?”

“She asked me who took the X rays, who programmed the computer. Who ran the radiation tests. Cara, I’m sorry.”

“I understand.” She was numb now, her mind clouding. “It’s my responsibility. I took the tests, I wrote the reports.”

“If it hadn’t been for the leak to the press, we could have swept this under the rug, at least part of it.”

“Ponti could be wrong.” She rubbed her hand over her mouth. “He could be wrong. I didn’t miss something as basic as corrosion levels. I need to think about this, Giovanni. I appreciate you telling me.”

“I hate to ask, Miranda, but I must if I hope to keep my position. Your mother can’t know I spoke with you about this, spoke with you at all. I believe she intends to contact you in the morning herself.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t mention your name. I can’t talk now. I need to think.”

“All right. I’m sorry, so sorry.”

Slowly, deliberately, she replaced the receiver and sat, still as a stone, staring at nothing. She struggled to bring all the data back into her mind, to make order of it, to see it again as clearly as she had in Florence. But there was nothing but a buzzing that made her give in and drop her head between her knees.

A fake? It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. Her breath came short, making it impossible to fill her lungs. Then her fingertips began to tingle as the numbness passed and the shaking began.

She’d been careful, she assured herself. She’d been thorough. She’d been accurate. Her heart thudded so painfully she pressed the heel of her hand against her sternum.

Oh God, she hadn’t been careful enough, thorough enough, accurate enough.

Had her mother been right? Despite all her claims to the contrary, had she made up her mind about the bronze the moment she’d seen it?

Wanted it, she admitted, and lifted her head to lean back in the chair in the slow, deliberate movement of the aged or ill. She’d wanted it to be real, wanted to know that she’d held something that important, that precious and rare in her hands.

Arrogance, Elizabeth had called it. Her arrogance and her ambition. Had she let that cockiness, that wanting, that thirst for approval cloud her judgment and affect her work?

No, no, no. She fisted her hands, pressed them against her eyes. She’d seen the pictures, the radiation results, the chemical tests. Studied them. They were fact, and fact didn’t lie. Every test had proven her belief. There had to be a mistake, but she hadn’t made it.

Because if she had, she thought, and lowered her fists to the desk, it was worse than failure. No one would trust her again. She wouldn’t even trust herself.

---