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that once-in-a-lifetime gifted student, and Lorenzo Cossa had uttered daily prayers of thanks for him. The Good Lord knew what he was doing when he sent Thomas to Lorenzo. In fact Lorenzo saw it as a sign: his time was coming.
    And now, had come.
    Many of those around Lorenzo assumed that, having achieved his current exalted positions (both at once!), he’d fulfilled his ambitions and would now happily putter among the manuscripts and books for the rest of his days. A valued and important cardinal, a senior official, and a trusted adviser, yes of course—but sidelined, as the Librarians always were.
    Not true. Oh, no, not true. Lorenzo’s work had just begun.

5

    The wind made a grab for Livia Pietro’s hat as she raced out the door. The magnolia’s thick green leaves gleamed in the sunlight but she dashed by without a glance, charging across the uneven stones of Piazza Trilussa, heading for the bridge. A strong breeze carried the loamy scent of the Tiber; the more she sped up the harder it pushed against her. As an external manifestation of her internal state, that was perfect; she’d have laughed if she hadn’t felt queasy. She didn’t remove the wide straw hat, only clamped her hand on it as she ran. She felt foolish, hand square on head like that, though her neighbors’ indulgent smiles would have told her—if she hadn’t already known—that eccentricity from her was nothing new. The hats, the sunglasses, her ancient tower house, the gray streaks she refused to banish from her long, dark hair, and, worst, her unmarried state at the age of gray streaks, all conspired, though her academic status provided partial explanation. ( “Professoressa,” they’d confide to one another knowingly.) Gossip, Livia was resigned, was inevitable. Through friendliness and liberal spending in the local shops she managed at least to keep the gossip benign.
    A horn bleated. She let a motorino pass, then darted across the road in a nimble dance with oncoming traffic. She hurried over the bridge as fast as she dared, though not as fast as she could. Among Livia’s Blessings were agility and speed. A horsewoman in her youth, she retained a high level of athletic skill. But a middle-aged professoressa speeding like Mercury along the Ponte Sisto would invite exactly the kind of attention Livia was at pains to avoid.
    Odd, she thought as she ran, to be rushing someplace she so very much didn’t want to go; but a Summons was neither a happy event nor an occasion for choice. Although the Conclave met regularly to debate issues of importance to the Community, it was possible to live a long and happy life without ever being Summoned before it. In fact that was the experience of most Noantri; but this was Livia’s second time.
    Worse, she feared this Summons was not unrelated to the first.
    Across the river she cut left, onto Via Giulia, where the cobbles led past the Palazzo Farnese’s ivy-draped wall. The Fontana del Mascherone—the Big Mask Fountain—looked particularly apprehensive and unhappy today. Before her Michelangelo’s bridge curved over the road. Livia loved that bridge, its perfect arch and trailing leaves, but right now her heart lurched at the sight. Immediately past it stood, to the right, an apartment building where people lived comfortable, normal lives; and to the left, her destination: Santa Maria dell’Orazione e Morte.
    The art historian in her wanted to stop and stand, to drink in the church’s bone-bedecked façade, her eyes tracing the path the sculptor took as, inch by inch, he’d coaxed cherubs and skulls from the stone. At times, before a statue or a painting, Livia felt tiny contractions in her arms and hands. Her body, more insightful by far than her mind or even her heart, was re-creating the artist’s movements, teaching her how the piece had come to life. Those moments of perception, which after so many years still thrilled her, had been part of the Change for Livia; the works where she felt