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information science can offer. We require an objective eye, someone who believes in facts, not romance.”
    “There’s no room for romance in science,” Miranda murmured, and carefully unwrapped the velvet.
    Her heart gave one hard thud against her ribs when the bronze lay naked. Her skilled and experienced eye recognized the brilliance of the workmanship, the glory of it. But she frowned, instinctively burying admiration under skepticism.
    “It’s beautifully conceived and executed—certainly the style falls within the realm of the Renaissance.” She slipped her glasses out of the case in her pocket, put them on before she lifted the bronze. She judged the weight, turning it slowly.
    The proportions were perfect, the sensuality of the subject obvious. The smallest details—toenails, each tendril of hair, the definition of calf muscles—were stunningly depicted.
    She was glorious, free, wonderfully aware of her own power. The long curvy body was arched back, the arms lifted up, not in prayer or supplication, Miranda noted. In triumph. The face wasn’t delicate, but stunning, the eyes half closed as if in pleasure, the mouth curved slyly in enjoyment of that pleasure.
    She was balanced on the balls of her feet, like a woman about to leap into a warm, scented pool. Or a lover’s arms.
    It was unashamedly sexual, and for one baffling instant, Miranda thought she could feel the heat of it. Like life.
    The patina indicated age, but such things were deceiving, she knew. Patinas could be created. The style of the artist was unmistakable. But such a thing was all but impossible. Styles could be mimicked.
    “It’s the Dark Lady,” she said. “Giulietta Buonadoni. There’s no doubt about that. I’ve seen this face often enough in paintings and sculpture of the period. But I’ve never seen or heard of this bronze. I’ll do some research on it, but I doubt I’d have missed it.”
    Elizabeth studied Miranda’s face rather than the bronze. She’d seen that quick flicker of excitement, of delight, both of which had been quickly controlled. Exactly as she’d expected them to be.
    “But you agree it is a bronze of Renaissance style.”
    “Yes. That hardly makes it a lost piece from the fifteenth century.” Her eyes were narrowed as she slowly turned the bronze in her hands. “Any art student with a clever eye has sketched and copied her face over the years. I’ve done so myself.” Idly, she scraped a bit at the blue-green patina with her thumbnail. The surface corrosion was visibly thick, but she needed more, much more.
    “I’ll start right away.”
     
    Vivaldi played lightly in the air of the lab. The walls were a pale hospital green, the floor a spotlessly white linoleum. Each station was militarily neat, fitted with microscopes, computer terminals, vials or tubes or sample bags. There were no personal items, no pretty framed family pictures, no mascots or souvenirs.
    The men wore ties, the women skirts, and over all were the crisp white lab coats with the Standjo logo stitched in black on the breast pocket.
    Conversation was muted and minimal, and equipment hummed like well-oiled clocks.
    Elizabeth expected a tight ship, and her former daughter-in-law knew how to run one.
    The house in Maine where Miranda had grown up had presented precisely the same atmosphere. It made for a cold home, Miranda thought as she scanned the area, but an efficient workplace.
    “It’s been some time since you were here,” Elizabeth began. “But Elise will refresh your memory as to the setup. You’ll have free access to all areas, of course. I have your security card and your codes.”
    “Fine.” Miranda fixed a polite smile on her face as Elise turned from a microscope and started toward them.
    “Miranda, welcome to Florence.” Elise’s voice was quiet, not quite breathy, but with the promise it could be if she were properly aroused.
    “It’s nice to be back. How are you?”
    “Fine. Busy.” She flashed a