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offer them the protection of Tuscany in perpetuity.’ And it says that this son Guido Guerra was born in Florence at a monastery called Santa Trinità. Why would the son of a count be born in a monastery? It’s…odd.”
    “It’s not the only thing that’s odd,” Roland commented. As he did so, he pointed out a name on the lineage. “Look at these names, Bérenger.”
    Bérenger stopped short as he followed Roland’s finger on the glass. On a line from the thirteenth century, there were names he recognized. A French knight by the name of Luc Saint Clair married a Tuscan noblewoman. The same names were listed in his own family genealogy as his own ancestors. But this would not be common knowledge outside their immediate and protected circle. Whoever sent this package knew, at the very least, that it had relevance to Bérenger Sinclair and that somehow these family trees intersected.
    Tammy’s attention was drawn to a card that was enclosed with the document and tied to a tiny, gilded hand mirror. The paper on the card was elegant, a heavy parchment, embossed with a strange monogram at the bottom center. A capital letter A was tied to a capital letter E by a tasseled rope that knotted in the center of both letters. That in itself was not so unusual; what made the monogram strange was that the E was facing backwards, almost as a mirror image of the A . The card was inscribed with a handwritten poem of sorts:
     
    Art Will Save the World,
    For those with eyes to see.
    In your reflection, you will find what you seek…
    Hail Ichthys!
    “Art will save the world,” Tammy repeated. “We’ve seen this concept in action a few times.” In their search for Mary Magdalene’s lost gospel, the four of them had deciphered a series of maps and clues found within European paintings from the Middle Ages and the Renaissance and Baroque periods. It had been a map painted into a fresco by Sandro Botticelli that led Maureen to find the priceless documents written in Mary Magdalene’s own hand. In the complex world of Christian esoterica, searching for symbols in art was the starting point for many a great journey. When the truth could not be told in writing for fear of fatal persecution, it had often been encoded in symbolic paintings.
    Bérenger picked up the mirror and looked in it briefly before repeating the third sentence of the poem. “In your reflection, you will find what you seek. Hmm.” He did not have time to consider this further, as Roland interrupted him, uncharacteristically animated by what had caught his eye.
    “Look at this!” Roland was pointing to the bottom of the document. “The last name on the lineage. Am I seeing this clearly?”
    Tammy put her arm around him as she leaned in to see what generated the excitement in the gentle giant. But it was Bérenger who verified it for all of them as he peered carefully at the final name at the end of the family tree, arguably the greatest name in the history of the art world.
    “Michelangelo Buonarroti.”

C HAPTER T WO
    New York City
present day
    “ M aureen! Ms. Paschal…”
    Maureen entered through the revolving door off Forty-seventh Street and into the lobby of her hotel where Nate, the bell captain, recognized her. Her publisher and publicist often left packages for her here and vice versa, so she and Nate had become fast friends on a first-name basis. Maureen tipped well and Nate was vocal in his appreciation for redheads; it was a good combination for a working relationship in New York City.
    “There was a package delivered for you this evening. I just got in and noticed it in the back room.”
    Nate emerged from the back, balancing an elegant gift box in both hands. It was easily two feet long, flat and deepest red in color. Affixed to the box with wide scarlet satin ribbon was a huge bouquet of white flowers, fragrant Casablanca lilies mixed with long-stemmed white roses.
    Maureen looked over the box carefully before taking it from him. “Was there a