Geraint quietly and subtly handed one of the men a tip as the others milled in the hallway admiring the paintings and various busts.
“Never mind those. There’s a genuine Donatello in the dining room apparently,” Geraint told them, opening the double doors to that room with a sweeping gesture. His gaze passed over the superb mahogany dining table and chairs, over the gleaming silverware and crystal, to the carved alcove at the far end of the room.
The depiction was very unusual. No Mother of Christ stood facing them, but the Magdalene. It was a Magdalene to rival Donatello’s most famous, and one that was alleged to be a first study for that later work. If so, it seemed even to surpass it. While the final version was a portrait of decay and dissolution, the artist influenced by Gothic tradition, this statue seemed serene by comparison. Ragged and poor though the figure was, the face of the Magdalene did not have the ravaged look of the later statue, and the clasped hands of the bronze seemed more relaxed the pose more peaceful, than Donatello’s final nightmare vision. The quality of the piece was stunning, simple and radiant, and the whole group stood staring in silence for a few moments.
Even Streak. “Now that really is something.” he mumbled. In an odd gesture, he seemed to feel for a nonexistent hat as if to take it off his head, and then realized he wasn’t wearing one. The effect was comical, but his sincerity was genuine.
Michael walked up to the bronze and stared at it intently. “A mysterious lady,” he said wonderingly.
They could find little else to say. The great artist’s work could hardly he done justice by hasty words. They carried their bags up the stairs, despite the protestations of the domestic staff who’d arrived belatedly on the scene. The scent of freshly ground coffee and baking bread wafted gently after them.
I know we just scarfed up that breakfast,” Streak said, “but slot if I don’t half feel peckish again.”
“I just saw the cook with a basket of cheeses,” Serrin whispered to him conspiratorially. The other elf licked his lips.
“And prosciutto with melon,” Serrin added. Streak flung his bag at a bedroom doorway chosen at random and scurried downstairs to the dining room.
Serrin glanced around at the others and grinned. “I’ll be down later,” he said. “Save some melon for me.” He reached out a hand to Kristen and, with a nod, she took it. They closed their bedroom door behind them.
Michael winked at Geraint. “I don’t think we should disturb the loving couple, should we?”
“I thought he’d lived in Britain long enough that his libido had waned by now,” Geraint joked.
“Come now, Geraint, I think that you of all people can hardly subscribe to that old myth,” Michael said tartly. “By the way, how is the Countess?”
“Just fine,” Geraint said. “Let’s have a second breakfast. That ham did look awfully good.”
Kristen watched over Serrin’s physical body as he breathed quietly, the rest of him utterly still. Quite unconsciously, her hands were clasped together and, if she’d lived in Donatello’s day, something quite different might have stood in the dining room, the subject of admiring gazes from visitors of later centuries.
The spirit had not wanted to materialize. He was not entirely sure what place they were in, and he didn’t want to enquire where the guiding watcher spirit had directed him.
“I shouldn’t really be here,” Merlin fretted. “But matters move so swiftly and I’m restless and troubled.”
“I plan to go to the Baptistery,” Serrin told him. Despite the endless immensity of astral space around them, their astral forms were huddled close together. They might have looked, in some far more mundane context, like a pair of third-rate spies exchanging secrets on some dingy, muggy street Corner.
“Yes. That’s good.”
“Merlin, it’s hard to play a game when I don’t know any of the other players nor the rules of the game,” Serrin said exasperatedly.
“I think he will come to you,” Merlin replied slowly. “Or he’ll send some message, some sign. He wants to see you make the right moves. Visit the Baptistery. Don’t forget what it means to this city.”
“I don’t understand,” Serrin said.
Merlin looked around him, as if fearing some menace or threat. His face was furrowed with anxiety and sadness. “I can’t put it more bluntly. Consider what the Baptistery means to this city and consider how he has depicted it. Then you’ll have more understanding of him.
“When you see him, take your wife,” the spirit concluded, quite unexpectedly. “That is vital.”
“What do you-”
“Just listen and do what I tell you.” Merlin was, by all appearances, struggling to contain a rising anger, but then he calmed down and seemed filled with sadness again. “Oh, Serrin, when you understand all this, you’ll look back and kick yourself for being so slow. Though that’s not any consolation to you now. I must go. My absence will be noted if I do not.”
The figure moved away with astounding speed. Serrin swam his way wonderingly back to his meat body, settling down into his physical shell, then roused himself to wakefulness.
Kristen saw his eyes flutter beneath his eyelids and smiled. When he woke, she hugged him and cradled his head against her chest.
“I met him,” Serrin told her. “He says that when we finally catch up with whoever it is that’s behind all of this, you must be there too.”
“I told you he was wise,” Kristen said, teasing but also pleased.
Serrin looked at her a little darkly.
“And I like that he makes you jealous. Well, I like it a little,” she said, with the coquettish smile that at times drove him to distraction. This was one of those times.
They didn’t make breakfast for a while.
The ornate carriage clock was chiming nine when they finally emerged, to be greeted in the dining room by the vulture-stripped carcass of what must once have been a massive breakfast. Michael looked distinctly as if he needed his corset for more than supporting his back.
“Middle-age spread,” Serrin taunted him, threatening to poke his stomach. Michael groaned, unable to take evasive action. “You look like Hecate when she was a kitten.”
“I what?” Michael said, inelegantly.
“Our cat. When she was a kitten she once stole a cooked chicken off a table and ate the whole thing. All of it. All she could do afterward was lie on her back and make pathetic mewling noises. She couldn’t walk for a day and a half. You remind me of her.”
“Thanks, friend,” Michael said witheringly.
“At least I kept him off el vino,” Streak put in.
“Good job too,” Serrin said, sitting down and spreading some goat’s cheese on a stray slice of bread. “Mmmmm,” he purred through his first mouthful. “Swunnerful.”
“Enough,” Geraint clapped his hands together. “Michael and I are going to check out some corp systems for a few hours and then I’m off for lunch.” He grimaced a little at the thought of any more food. “You’re going-”
“-to visit the Baptistery. Where are my guide books?” Serrin made a dive for his bag.
“What do you need to know?” Michael asked. “I did some preparation, and Geraint’s been here before.”
“The Baptistery. I know it has some of the finest art in the city, but what’s the most important thing about it?”
“Depends on what you mean,” Geraint said. “The most obvious thing is that John the Baptist is the patron saint of Florence.”
Serrin stopped searching through his bag for a moment. “Uh-huh,” he said thoughtfully.
“Why did you ask?”
“No special reason,” Serrin lied. He was still mulling over that interesting fact. and remembering something he wanted to check out. There was a painting, wasn’t there?
Geraint let it pass. The mage seemed even more absentminded than ever this morning. He wondered if the months in the lonely wilds of the Hebrides had accentuated the trait. He wiped the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin, then he and Michael made for their decks awaiting them upstairs.