She saw Carwyn and Giovanni exchange another glance.
“We think he might be looking for your father,” Carwyn said quietly. “We’re not sure why, but that’s probably why he sent the letters here.”
“Okay, so my dad knows something…all right. And this guy’s dangerous, right? Does he make fire like Gio?”
Carwyn said, “No, he-”
“You don’t need to know-”
She glared at Giovanni. “I want to know who he is!”
“How very unfortunate for you.” He continued to examine the letters, looking over the second one and handling it as if it was made of finely spun glass.
“You arrogant ass-”
“Lorenzo,” he said. “He goes by Lorenzo now.”
Beatrice’s mouth fell open, “He’s not-”
“No,” Carwyn said. “No, not the one you’re thinking of.”
Giovanni brought the letters up to his face to finally examine them more closely. “He likes to give people the impression that he’s one of the Medici’s bastards,” he murmured as he searched the old parchment. “He’s not, but some think he is, and it adds to the mystique, I suppose. He likes notoriety.” He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, and Beatrice could see them dart behind his closed lids as if he was searching his memory for some piece that had escaped.
“You see, B,” Carwyn spoke in an even tone, “some in our world choose to seek power. Power over land, humans, riches. And he wants something from Giovanni, otherwise, he wouldn’t be doing this. There is something he thinks he can gain.”
“Or someone,” Giovanni mused quietly, and the already quiet room fell completely silent.
“Someone?” Beatrice finally asked, her eyes nervous and looking toward the door as if a threat could walk through at any time. “Not-not me, right?”
Neither of them spoke, only looked at her with those infuriatingly blank expressions. Even Carwyn was wearing one, and it made her want to scream.
“Not me! I don’t know anything. I wouldn’t know anything about anything if Giovanni hadn’t clued me in. I mean-” she suddenly turned to Giovanni. “Why did you tell me this shit?” she practically yelled, her fear palpable.
“You asked, and you figured most of it out on your own,” Carwyn said softly. “Could we have kept it from you? Even if we tried? Would you rather have us make you forget? It wouldn’t matter now.”
Beatrice watched Giovanni stand and walk toward her; it was almost as if each step in her direction forced her farther and farther away from the safe, unremarkable life she had known. She had the simultaneous urge to run away from the approaching menace and run toward him and hold on for dear life. The problem, she realized, was that she had no idea whether he would catch her either way.
“I don’t know anything,” she said hoarsely, “He can’t want me. I don’t-why does he want me?”
For a fleeting moment, she saw pity touch his eyes. “Because your father does.”
Chapter Eleven
Houston, Texas
January 2003
He looked over the translation of the letter, reading words his eyes hadn’t touched for five hundred years. Even years later, Poliziano’s warm humor shone through the pages. He frowned when he found the paragraph he had been looking for.
These texts you speak of promise much hermetic knowledge, if they are what you believe them to be. In the celebration of our classical fathers, we too often neglect the older ideas of the East. I am glad that such rare treasures have found their way to your discerning hands, and I have no doubt you will find much wisdom from their examination.
“Yes!”
Giovanni’s head shot up when he heard her. Beatrice’s triumphant shout echoed across his home library and he watched as she jumped from her desk and began to do some sort of victory dance across the room.
“Anything you want to tell me?” he asked dryly.
“Only that I am,” she said with a huge smile, “the most awesome and amazing assistant in the entire world.” She continued to dance, wiggling in no particular rhythm toward the center of the room as he looked on in amusement. He tried to keep a straight face but was soon chuckling and shaking his head.
“Not that I’m doubting your…awesomeness, but is there a particular reason it should be celebrated at the moment?” he asked with a reluctant smile.
She continued to dance, and he had an increasingly difficult time not staring at her lithe form as it moved closer to him. His eyes were drawn to her swaying hips and graceful waist, and he felt his blood begin to stir. She danced and hummed a wordless tune, a smile lighting her face and her dark eyes reflecting the gold lamp light as she leaned down toward him at the table.
“Guess who found the Lincoln speech?” she asked with a playful grin, her elbows leaning on the table and her hands cupping her chin.
He allowed a slow smile to spread across his face when he saw her delight. She had found it more quickly than he thought she would. In the midst of his current predicament, the successful completion of her task was a pleasant surprise.
“Well done, Beatrice,” he said quietly.
She narrowed her eyes at his decidedly muted response, but softened them after a moment and sat down across from him at the table. He could almost see the energy vibrating off her.
“It’s such a rush! Do you get this way after you find something?”
He nodded. “Though my dance skills obviously need work after seeing yours.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, and he had the almost irresistible urge to lean across the table and bite it. He shoved down the impulse and tried to focus on what she was saying.
“-surprised you haven’t asked me yet.”
“Hmm?”
She looked shocked. “Were you actually not listening? As in distracted? As in-”
“I was reading the letters, Beatrice. How did you find the speech? Please enlighten me, oh awesome assistant.”
She smiled and settled in her chair to relate her brilliance to him. As she recounted the steps she had taken to find, first, the auction house where it had been sold, and then the collector who had made the winning bid, he watched her, pleased to hear her methodical approach that so closely matched his own.
Despite her success, a small frown settled between her eyebrows.
“Gio?”
“What’s bothering you?”
“Why did he spend so much money? Our client? The final bid for the speech notes wasn’t nearly as much as what it must have cost him to find the documents. Why was he willing to spend so much?”
Giovanni shrugged a little and looked down at the pictures of the five hundred-year-old letter in front of him.
“What do you pay for sentiment, Beatrice? What do you pay for the memory of what an object or a book or a document evokes?”
She looked down at the pictures he held. “Is that why the letters are so important to you? Is that why you’ve looked for your books for so long?”
He paused for a moment, deliberating how much he would tell her. “The collection I seek was extensive and contained valuable texts, many of them original or unique. It has existed far longer than me-far longer. When I thought it was lost…many of the books and manuscripts contain valuable ancient knowledge, Beatrice. There is far more than my own sentiment involved.”
She looked at him skeptically.
“But,” he continued, “they hold some sentimental value as well.” He shuffled the papers in front of him. “That, of course, is secondary.”
He glanced at her, noting the thoughtful expression that had clouded her earlier glee.
“Grab your jacket,” he said as he stood and put the photographs and notes in his locked cabinet.
“What?”
“It’s your first big find. I am like your boss-”