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green plains that vanished into a white horizon. "The light," Marco said. "I love this place for the light."
    "It's good light." Luca looked around the attic. There were canvases, dozens upon dozens of them, propped against every available inch of wall space. Luca noticed that not a single one of the canvases was finished.
    Marco held the smile on his face, but he knew that Luca knew him all too well, and slowly the smile turned into a shrug. "Even if the work isn't, the light is good. Inspiration," he said. "It comes and it goes, that's the nature of the beast. You know, I had a muse once, someone who made painting easy, too easy, as though the mere sight of him moved the brush for me, and chose the colors, and so gracefully, so lovingly placed each stroke." Marco turned and began rifling through a stack of leaning canvases. He pulled one out. It was complete—old and dusty. With a gentle breath, Marco blew the age off and looked upon it proudly.
    Luca couldn't see the painting, but knew Marco was looking at one of the portraits he had done of the young Italian. He could only guess which one—there had been so many. "The balcony in Florence, overlooking Il Duomo, am I right?"
    Marco smiled and turned it around for Luca to see.
    It was like looking into a mirror of time. Luca looked upon himself, standing naked, head down, one hand resting on the handle of an open door that led out onto a small balcony. Behind him, the famous dome of Florence stood against a cloud-clustered sky. Suddenly, the memory of that day came back to him in a swirl of small details. The coffee he had burned on the stove. The empty wine bottles from the night before still on the floor by the bed. Evidence that during the night, after they had made love, once they were sleeping soundly, a mouse had done his best to finish off the bread and cheese they had left on the table.
    "It was the day after your twentieth birthday," Marco said.
    Luca was twenty-six now. Where had the years gone? "It was the first painting you did of me."
    "I hoped—still hope—there will never be a last."
    Luca turned and helped himself to the cupboards in the small kitchenette in one corner of the loft. He found two mismatched glasses and wiped the dust off them with his fingers. He set the bottle of vodka on a small table that stood in the middle of the room. "You haven't asked me what I'm doing here."
    "I didn't want to have to."
    The two men each pulled up a chair at the table. Luca poured them each a generous glass of vodka. Marco took a gulp and smiled. "From old man Zabriski's farm," he commented approvingly.
    "I kept a few bottles."
    "So you've come to get me drunk. To take advantage of me. You're copying my old tactics."
    "I need some information. You're the only person I can trust to ask."
    "Are you in trouble?"
    Luca raised his glass with a grin. "Not yet. But I'll find some."
    Marco laughed. "I'm certain of it. That's what I miss, a little adventure. I thought I moved to this village to find myself, but I was running away. I craved inspiration, while all you craved was chaos. I miss that now. I miss your little games."
    "Then let's play," Luca smirked. He clinked his glass against Marco's, and the two men polished off their first drink together in over five years. Luca put down his glass, took off his jacket and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and then filled up their glasses once more.
    Marco raised one eyebrow. "Ah, the conversation game," he grinned. "My favorite. So tell me, what is it you're after this time?"
    "A statue. Sixteenth Century. Have you ever heard of The Naked Christ ?"
    Marco nodded. "Heard of it, yes. But have I seen it? No. I don't know of anyone who ever has. It was lost, wiped from history. Just like Videlle, the artist who sculpted it."
    "He was murdered," Luca said. "I know that much."
    "Not simply murdered. He was tortured for what he did. They sliced out his eyes. They cut off his hands. And while he was still alive, they strung