Gladly Beyond (11 page)

Surely this had been done by Michelangelo himself. Or, at the very least, a remarkably competent copyist.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“Amazing.” Branwell smiled.

The Colonel beamed at us, blue eyes bright, obviously pleased by our reactions.

Branwell bent over the drawing, careful not to touch it.

“Fascinating,” he said. “It’s different.”

I looked at him, eyebrow raised.

“Here and here.” He pointed at the drawing with his gloved hands, indicating a figure in the middle and one to the left. “In Sangallo’s copy, the pointing man on the far left cuts through the rocks behind. However, he’s better framed between rocks in this sketch. Subtle but definitely different.”

I nodded. “So assuming Sangallo’s drawing is accurate, this sketch probably
isn’t
a copy of Michelangelo’s original cartoon.”

“Exactly.”

A bubble of excitement welled up. Was this the real deal? A lost Michelangelo?

Finding a long lost work of a Renaissance master like Michelangelo was almost unheard of. But this sketch . . . I better understood why the Colonel was taking no chances.

“Do you know anything about this damaged edge, Colonel?” I pointed to the playing-card-size chunk missing out of the upper right corner. The edge there was charred, as if the drawing had narrowly escaped being burned.

“No. Can’t say that I do. Like I’ve said, I can’t find any family records of where this sketch came from or its background. Claire took samples from both the burned and unburned edge. She said that’ll at least tell when the damage occurred. Maybe you boys can develop some theories about it. I like what I’m hearing so far.”

Branwell and I shared a look. We would know what had happened to the sketch in about ten minutes. The problem was going to be
proving
what we knew. We would need to scour whatever records the Colonel gave us access to for supporting tidbits.

“Would you mind giving us a little space, Colonel? We’re going to study the sketch.”

“Naturally.” He adjusted a chair and sat down behind us.

Branwell was already bending over the drawing again, pulling a magnifying glass out of his pocket. He scanned the sketch up close.

“It’s vellum,” he said.

“Really? That’s odd.”

“Very. They were definitely using paper by Michelangelo’s time. Though the vellum may explain why it survived so well. Leather is much stronger stuff.”

“Chalk?”

“Appears to be. So no carbon dating possible of the medium, as chalk isn’t organic—”

“That’s what Claire said yesterday. She’s smart, that gal.” The Colonel leaned to the side.

I suppressed a sigh. Yep. Someone was definitely the teacher’s pet.

Another sweep of the glass. “No silverpoint that I can discern,” Branwell murmured.

Mmmmm. That was telling. Nearly all other extant Michelangelo drawings involved silverpoint—using a pencil with a core of silver. It’s what gave old master drawings that oxidized, coppery look.

I scanned the lines of the sketch . . . so fluid. It seemed impossible they came from a mere student copy.

Shooting Branwell a you-know-the-drill look, I placed my hand on the table and leaned over the drawing, deliberately allowing my fingers to barely graze the edge of vellum. I didn’t need much contact.

We always started with my GUT. For one, I would often see enough to make the call. Second, noises were harder to contextualize. Branwell only stepped in if I was unsure about what I was seeing.

I slowed my breathing and concentrated, pushing with my mind. I knew I wouldn’t see Claire or the Colonel. My GUT was strictly about past lives, so I never saw scenes from people still alive.

Images floated around the sketch.

Darkness and long years in storage.

I pushed back farther.

A woman with a close-cropped bob and 1920s flapper dress leaned over the drawing. A man who looked like a younger Colonel stood behind. His grandparents maybe?

And then . . .

Nothing.

I frowned. Shifted my hand to gain more contact. Tried again, pushing out my gift.

Again. Nothing.

It was like a blanket surrounded the sketch. A wall I couldn’t break through.

My stomach churned.

What was going on? This had never happened before. Granted, I didn’t test objects like this on a daily basis. But I had never encountered something I couldn’t see past a certain point.

First weird missing shadows and now blank objects?

I took a deep, steadying breath. There would be plenty of time to freak out about this later. Right now, we had a job to do.

Branwell noted my puzzled frown.

“So what’s your GUT telling you?” he asked.

I gave the tiniest shake of my head. Met his eyes. “Hard to say. I’m drawing a blank with this one.”

Branwell shot me a concerned look and then cleared his throat, turning back to the Colonel.

“If it’s okay with you, Colonel, I’m going to gently touch a corner of the vellum with my bare hands.” Branwell’s GUT needed more contact than mine. “I don’t usually like to touch a work, but sometimes the tactile connection can tell us a lot about the vellum’s origins.”

That was complete bull, but Branwell was excellent at selling bull. The Colonel just nodded as if it made sense.

Straightening his shoulders, Branwell slowly drew off the glove of his right hand. This was what Branwell hated most—touching something without knowing what he would hear.

Though he
had
heard some amazing things over the years. We called in a favor from a friend at the Louvre once, and Branwell managed to place a finger on the
Mona Lisa
. He heard Da Vinci ask the
signora
to angle her head a little more.

How fascinating to
know
the sound of Leonardo da Vinci’s voice.

Sometimes I thought Branwell was a little OCD about his gift. Why did random, unexpected noises cause him so much stress? It was just sound. For only the millionth time, I wondered if something had happened to make him this skittish. I asked him about it at least once a month, but he never gave me a solid answer.

Tentatively, Branwell placed one finger gently on a corner of the vellum, careful not to touch anything else. This would take a few minutes. He had to sort through the voices at each point of change, working his way backward through time, from most recent to oldest. And, unlike me, Branwell wasn’t limited to just hearing dead people.

Branwell stood still, eyes closed. Looking a little too much like someone in a magical trance.

I turned back to the Colonel, who was eyeing my brother speculatively.

I deliberately stepped in front, hiding him from view.

“So what are Pierce and Claire saying?” I asked.

The Colonel folded his arm across his chest. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I want honest answers from each of you. Not a collaboration on what answer would make me happiest or gain you the most notoriety. No plagiarizing. Sandbox Rule.”

I grinned. “Fair enough, I suppose.” I leaned back against a nearby chair, more fully blocking my brother. “Though you
have
to know Branwell and I have never been the pandering sort. It’s not really our vibe.”

“Agreed. You researched the history behind the sketch more?” The Colonel’s tone hinted that this was a test question.

“Of course,” I said.

Fortunately, I had come prepared for an exam. Teacher’s pet or no, I was determined to prove myself the perfect person for this job.

The Colonel waved a hand.
Go on.

“The Battle of Cascina was fought between Pisa and Florence in July of 1364.” I rested my body more firmly against the chair. “The armies met in the shadow of the Abbey of San Savino, which is an old monastery east of Pisa. You can still visit the abbey church today, by the way.”

The Colonel nodded, folding his arms across his chest. I took this as a good sign.

“The Florentines won,” I continued. “As was typical with Renaissance Florence, the city leaders decided in 1504 to commemorate the victory in painting. Michelangelo was only twenty-nine at the time and one of the most sought-after artists in Italy after the monumental success of his sculpture of
David
. The city leaders jumped at the chance to get him to do the painting. But the money ran out after Michelangelo completed the full-scale cartoon—the one Sangallo copied—but before Michelangelo had a chance to actually transfer the cartoon design to the wall and paint it into wet plaster, creating the finished fresco. By the time city leaders had cash again, Michelangelo was in Rome painting the Sistine Chapel and had forgotten the entire Battle of Cascina project.”

The Colonel smiled with approval.

“Excellent, boy. You’ll do.”

Branwell stirred behind me, clearing his throat. I turned as he pulled his leather glove back onto his hand.

“So what is your GUT telling
you
?” I asked, repeating his same question from earlier.

“I’m not sure, to be honest.” Branwell shrugged.

I raised an eyebrow. Branwell met my eyes with a steady gaze.

“We definitely have our work cut out for us.” I turned to the Colonel. “This is going to be a fascinating project.”

The Colonel beamed, standing up. “Well, I’ll leave you boys to it. I need to check and see if Claire needs anything else before sending the samples over to the University of Florence for analysis.”

Naturally. Teacher’s pet and all.

The Colonel walked out of the room.

I snapped back to my brother. He swung his head, motioning me to bend over the drawing like we were studying it together.

“
Dimmi cos’è successo,
” Branwell said, switching from English to Italian. “What happened? You couldn’t get a read on it?”

“No. I went back about a hundred years and then nothing.
Vuoto,
” I said.

“You’ve never encountered a blank object before, have you?”

“No. But then I hadn’t seen a blank stranger before three days ago either.”

“Weird.”

“Tell me about it. First the thing with Claire. Now this.”

“Maybe you were madly in love with this Michelangelo sketch in a past life, too.” Branwell smirked. “Wrote it sonnets. Called it your soulmate.”

“Sometimes I really hate you.”

He laughed. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t get a clear read either. But then when do I ever? You know how it goes. I never get a sense of time. The events could happen minutes or millenia apart, so it’s hard to know what’s important to provenance and what’s just happenstance.” He gave his head a subtle shake.

“So what happened?”

“Well, I skimmed past Claire talking to the Colonel while taking samples. From there . . . it was confusing. There was a loud cracking noise with a lot of reverb. It could have been something crashing to the ground or even a gunshot in a tight space. I couldn’t tell for sure. Then, I heard a man distinctly say”—here Branwell switched from Italian to English—“‘I figure we are even now. You have taken something from me. And now I have taken it from you. Never forget—I always win the game.’”

“
In inglese
?”

“
Sì
. English. Upper-crust British accent with a hint of a brogue. Probably Scottish. Definitely modern. No earlier than late eighteenth century.”

I pondered the phrase in my head:
I figure we are even now. You have taken something from me. And now I have taken it from you. Never forget—I always win the game.

“Intriguing,” I said.

“Definitely.”

“It implies there was perhaps a conflict over this sketch at some point.”

“Agreed.
Some
change to the sketch happened at that point, otherwise I wouldn’t have heard what I did. The loud noise certainly didn’t clarify things—”

“Not to mention that singed corner.”

“Exactly.”

“What else?”

Branwell paused, remembering. “After that, the
scratch scratch
of what I assume was chalk on vellum. The pop of a fire. Occasionally, I heard the murmur of voices in the distance, all indistinct, though some of it sounded Italian.”

Mmmm. “That’s it?”

“Pretty much. You know how it goes. It’s not like Michelangelo sat there saying, ‘I, Michelangelo Buonarotti, will now create a sketch of the Battle of Cascina.’ The actual creation of a work of art is usually limited to breathing and not much more. If someone walks in the room and asks a question
while
the artist is drawing, we’ve hit pay dirt.”

“True. Usually we use our gifts in tandem, but without mine in play this time . . .”

I studied the sketch again. The sinuous lines. The moving forms. It really was remarkable. Was this a true Michelangelo?

“I didn’t get a sense of how this happened. Maybe that loud noise was something dropping on it.” Branwell moved a hand over the singed corner. Shrugged. “Hopefully the mass spec analysis will clue us in on that.”

I grunted. Frowning.

How were we going to figure out this enormous puzzle?

“Don’t be glum.” Branwell nudged my shoulder with his. A serious breach of his no-contact protocol. He could be so caring sometimes. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. It’ll just take old-fashioned research.”

“I don’t excel at that.”

“Fortunately, for you, I like to help where I can.” Branwell shot me a decidedly dry look. “Take pity on you, as it were.”

“
Touché
.”

He chuckled. “Not my fault I actually studied in college. I’ll see what I can dig up. Like I said, the mass spec results should be helpful. They will at least give us approximate dates for things.”

Branwell and I stayed in the dining room for another two hours, studying the drawing and taking detailed photos. We wrapped up after lunch.

We passed the staircase to the upper floor and were halfway across the grandiose entrance hall when a voice stopped us.

“Mr. D’Angelo!”

As we both answer to that name, Branwell and I spun around.

Claire strode down the stairs, dressed in a light blue suit with just the right amount of curve-hugging tightness. Pale hair wrapped into a loose bun accentuating her clean bone structure. Killer heels and legs, legs, legs.