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coffee, there was no one to hear. If she leaned back in her chair, eyes closed, smile dreamy, there was no one to see. For five minutes she allowed herself to indulge, to be a woman lost in one of life’s small pleasures. Her feet slipped out of her practical pumps, her sharp-boned face softened. She all but purred.
    If the guard had seen her now, he would have approved completely.
    Then she rose, poured a second cup, donned her lab coat, and got to work.
    She retested the dirt from the site first, measuring the radiation, running figures. Once again she tested the clay that had been carefully extracted. She put a smear of each on a slide, then made a third with the scrapings of bronze and patina, and studied each under the microscope.
    She was studying her computer screen when the first of the staff began to trickle in. It was there Giovanni hunted her down with a fresh cup of coffee and a delicately sugared roll.
    “Tell me what you see,” she demanded, and continued to study the colors and shapes on the screen.
    “I see a woman who doesn’t know how to relax.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, rubbed gently. “Miranda, you’ve been here a week now, and haven’t taken an hour to yourself.”
    “The imaging, Giovanni.”
    “Ah.” Still massaging, he shifted so that their heads were close. “The primary decay process, corrosion. The white line there indicates the original surface of the bronze, no ?”
    “Yes.”
    “The corrosion is thick on the surface, and it grows downward, deep into the metal, which would be typical of a bronze of four hundred years.”
    “We need to pinpoint the rate of growth.”
    “Never easy,” he said. “And she was in a damp basement. The corrosion would have grown quickly there.”
    “I’m taking that into account.” She removed her glasses to pinch out the pressure in the bridge of her nose. “The temperature and the humidity. We can calculate an average there. I’ve never heard of corrosion levels like this being faked. They’re there, Giovanni, inside her.”
    “The cloth is no more than a hundred years old. Less, I think by a decade or two.”
    “A hundred?” Irritated, Miranda turned to face him. “You’re certain?”
    “Yes. You’ll run tests of your own, but you’ll find I’m right. Eighty to a hundred years. No more.”
    She turned back to the computer. Her eyes saw what they saw, her brain knew what it knew. “All right. Then we’re to believe that the bronze was wrapped in that cloth and in that cellar for eighty to a hundred years. But all tests indicate the bronze itself is a great deal older.”
    “Perhaps. Here, eat your breakfast.”
    “Um.” She took the roll absently and bit in. “Eighty years ago—the early part of the century. World War One. Valuables are often hidden during wartime.”
    “True enough.”
    “But where was she before that? Why have we never heard of her? Hidden again,” she murmured. “When Piero Medici was expelled from the city. During the Italian Wars perhaps. Hidden, yes, that could be accepted. But forgotten?” Dissatisfied, she shook her head. “This isn’t the work of an amateur, Giovanni.” She ordered the computer to print out the image. “It’s the work of a master. There has to be some documentation, somewhere. I need to know more about that villa, more about the woman. Who did she leave her possessions to, who lived in the villa immediately after she died? Did she have children?”
    “I’m a chemist,” he said with a smile. “Not a historian. For this you want Richard.”
    “Is he in yet?”
    “He is ever punctual. Wait.” He laughed a little, taking her arm before she could hurry away. “Have dinner with me tonight.”

    “Giovanni.” She gave his hand an affectionate squeeze, then drew hers away. “I appreciate the fact that you’re worried about me, but I’m fine. I’m too busy to go out to dinner.”
    “You’re working too hard, and not taking care of yourself. I’m your friend,