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determine the positive.
    Was the lady true or false?
    She took time for one cup of coffee and some of the pretty crackers and cheese Elise had provided for her in lieu of lunch. Jet lag was threatening, and she refused to acknowledge it. The coffee, strong, black, and potent as only the Italians could brew, pumped through her system, providing a caffeine mask over fatigue. She’d crash eventually, Miranda knew, but not for a little while yet.
    Placing her hands over the keyboard, she began hammering out the preliminary report for her mother. It was as strict and dry as a maiden aunt, thus far devoid of speculation and with very little personality. She may have thought of the bronze as a puzzle, a mystery to be solved, but none of the romance of that found its way into her report.
    She sent the report via e-mail, saved it on the hard drive under her password, then took the bronze with her for the last test of the day.
    The technician had little English and entirely too much awe for the daughter of the direttrice for Miranda to find comfortable. Miranda conjured up an errand, and sent her off for more coffee. Alone, she began the thermoluminescence process.
    Ionizing radiation would trap electrons in higher-energy states in the clay core of a bronze. When heated, the crystals in the clay would give off bursts of light. Miranda set the equipment, taking quick notes on each step and result in a notebook. She took the measurements of those bursts, logging them in, adding them to her notes as well as for backup. She increased the radiation, heated the clay again, to measure how susceptible it was to electron trapping. Those measurements were carefully logged in turn.
    The next step was to test the radiation levels from the location where the bronze had been discovered. She tested both the dirt samples and the wood.
    It was a matter of math now. Though the accuracy of the method was hardly foolproof, it was one more weight to add to the whole.
    Late fifteenth century. She had no doubt of it.
    Savonarola had been preaching against luxury and pagan art during that period, Miranda mused. The piece was a glorious kick in the ass to that narrow-minded view. The Medicis were in control of Florence, with the incompetent Piero the Unfortunate taking the helm for a short period before he was expelled from the city by King Charles VIII of France.
    The Renaissance was moving from its early glory, when the architect Brunelleschi, the sculptor Donatello, and the painter Masaccio revolutionized the conception, and the functions, of art.
    Coming from that, the next generation and the dawn of the sixteenth century—Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael, nonconformists searching for pure originality.
    She knew the artist. Knew in her heart, her gut. There was nothing he had created that she hadn’t studied as intensely and completely as a woman studies the face of her lover.
    But the lab wasn’t the place for heart, she reminded herself, or gut instinct. She would run all the tests again. And a third time. She would compare the known formula forbronzes of that era and check and recheck every ingredient and alloy in the statue. She would dog Richard Hawthorne for documentation.
    And she’d find the answers.

three
    S unrise over the rooftops and domes of Florence was a magnificent moment. It was art and glory. The same delicate light had shimmered over the city when men had conceived and constructed the grand domes and great towers, had faced them with marble mined from the hills and decorated them with the images of saints and gods.
    The stars winked out as the sky turned from black velvet to pearl gray. The silhouettes of the long, slender pines that dotted the Tuscan hillsides blurred as the light shifted, wavered, then bloomed.
    The city was quiet, as it was so rarely, while the sun inched upward, misting the air with hints of gold. The iron gates over the storefront newsstand rattled and clanged while the proprietor yawned and