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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 for bronzes 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 prepared for the day’s business. Only a few lights shone in the many windows of the city. One of them was Miranda’s.
    She dressed quickly, facing away from the stunning canvas that was quietly painting itself outside her hotel room. Her mind was on work.
    How much progress would she make that day? How much closer would she come to the answers? She dealt in facts, and would stick with facts, no matter how tempting it was to leap to the next level. Instincts couldn’t always be trusted. Science could.
    She bundled her hair back in a clip, then slipped on low-heeled pumps to go with her simple navy suit.
    Her early arrival would guarantee her a couple of hours of working in solitude. Though she appreciated having experts at her disposal, The Dark Lady had already become hers. She intended for every step of the project to bear her stamp.
    She held her ID up to the glass door for the heavy-eyed guard. He left his coffee and breakfast cakes reluctantly, and shuffled over to frown at the card, at her face, then back at the card. He seemed to sigh as he unlocked the door.
    “You’re very early, Dottoressa Jones.”
    “I have work.”
    Americans, as far as the guard was concerned, thought of little else. “You must sign the logbook.”
    “Of course.” As she approached the counter, the scent of his coffee reached out and grabbed her by the throat. She did her best not to drool as she scrawled her name and noted the time of arrival in the log.
    “Grazie.”
    “Prego,” she murmured, then started toward the elevator. So she’d make coffee first, she told herself. She could hardly expect to be sharp before she’d had at least one jolt of caffeine.
    She used her key card to access the correct floor, then entered her code once she was at the security post outside the lab. When she hit the switches, banks of fluorescent lights blinked on. A quick glance told her everything was in place, that work in progress had been tidily stored at the end of the workday.
    Her mother would expect that, she thought. She would tolerate nothing less than neat efficiency in her employees. And in her children. Miranda shrugged as if to shift the resentment off her shoulders.
    Within moments she had coffee brewing, her computer booted, and was transcribing her notes from the evening before onto the hard drive.
    If she moaned at the first taste of hot, rich