“Hello?” Bee’s voice echoed like in a horror movie. She tiptoed backward, feeling for the railing.
“Mrow,” Juno yowled from below.
Bee sprinted down the stairs.
The first floor was even worse. The living room was bare. Just a battered wood floor.
Bee dashed into the dining room. “Miss Bother?” But the dining room was empty, too. No table or envelopes or bed. No curtains. No art—
“Excuse me!”
“Aah!” Bee screamed.
A woman stepped out of the kitchen, her heels tapping. She carried a clipboard like it was attached to her arm. “What are you doing here?” She eyed Bee’s hose.
Bee bent over, trying to breathe. “You gave me a heart attack. . . . Who are you?”
A guy in a plaid jacket wandered into the front hall. “That cat door needs to be sealed,” he told the woman. “I don’t want strays in the house.” He frowned at Bee. “Who’s that?”
Bee stared at the wall above the dining room fireplace. There wasn’t a mark. Not a nail. Like nothing hung there, ever.
Like Raphael’s drawing had never existed.
The woman yanked open the front door. “I don’t know who you are or how you got in this house, but you have to leave.”
Bee backed up. “I—I just need my cat. . . .”
“The cat left.” The guy shifted, blocking the kitchen.
“Yeah—I—” Bee bit her lip. “I need—” She couldn’t think!
The guy stepped toward her. “You need to exit this building.”
“Yeah. Gotcha.” Bee took another step—and spun. As fast as she could, she fled up the stairs.
“Hey, kid! Get back here!”
Bee pounded to the landing—the second floor—the third. She hurled herself into Herbert’s office. With all her strength, she slammed the bookcase closed—
“Aah!” she screamed. “What are you doing here?”
Fred stood in the office, knife in hand. Candy wrappers covered the floor, and flies. The encyclopedia stood open on the desk. “I am dead.”
“No, you’re not. Listen, I found Juno but there’s this huge enormous problem—”
“Read it to me.” Dully Fred gestured at the encyclopedia.
“—with Miss Bother. . . . Are you okay?”
“Read it.” Fred stabbed the page. He looked gray.
Bee squinted. “It says—I’ll just translate—following the death of both Federico Gonzaga and Michelangelo in 1511—” Her head shot up. “This is wrong. Michelangelo lived to be eighty-something.”
“What does it say?”
“Moo told me. He was, like, eighty-five. . . .” She bent back over the book. “So blah blah blah 1511, Pope Julius II claimed Mantua, ending the family line.” She swallowed. “And that’s it.”
“Why does it say I’m dead? I’m not dead. I am here.”
“I know, right?” Bee flipped to the next bookmark. “Mennonite, Mexico . . . MICHELANGELO. Huh.” The entry had been longer before. Uh-oh.
“What is it? Tell me.”
“Let me just read the end, okay? Um, in July 1511, Michelangelo was involved in the disappearance and presumed death of young Federico Gonzaga—” She looked up. “Meaning people think something but they’re not sure—”
“I know the word ‘presumed.’”
“Yeah. Okay. Michelangelo fled to Florence, where he died”—she took a deep breath—“two weeks later.”
“What else?”
“Bramante immediately ordered the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel painted over. No images remain.” Bee felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. “This is wrong. This has to be wrong. Because you’re alive, right? And Michelangelo isn’t in Florence.”
“Yes, he is.” Fred’s voice sounded like the end of the world. “He’s going there now.”
“Um, so? This is just a book. It doesn’t know what happened—”
“I am dead.” Fred stepped into the wardrobe. “’Erbert is dead. Michelangelo will be dead soon.”
Bee grabbed for the wardrobe door. “Wait—what about Juno? We need to—”
Fred slammed the door shut.
Bee yanked it open. The wardrobe was empty. Desperately she peered around the office. The phone! She sprang for it, knocking away candy wrappers. “Pick up, Mom,” she begged, dialing.
“You’ve reached Miriam Bliss. Please leave a message.”
“Hi, Mom. I’m at Miss Bother’s and I, um, I need to find Juno and Fred’s really upset and the drawing is gone. . . .” The message didn’t make sense even to her. “Never mind. I’ll call Moo.” Quickly she dialed. A click. “Hi, Moo, I’ve got this thing going on and I really need your help—”
A lady’s voice came on the line. A robot lady. “We’re sorry,” the robot announced, “but this number is not in service. Please check your number and try again.”
Bee hung up the phone.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’ve got this. Don’t freak.”
She dialed again.
“We’re sorry but this number is not in service.”
Slowly Bee hung up. Where was Moo? “Where are you?” Bee asked the air. She stared at the dusty yellow note cards. NO TIME PASSES. HOW DOES THE CAT MOVE? The 1942 calendar. A blank spot on the wall. Something should be in that blank spot. Bee couldn’t remember what, though, because her brain was too busy freaking.
Part IV
The Untangling
Chapter 25
An Hour’s Head Start
Federico stepped out of the closet holding his breath. If this was his last bit of air, he wanted to save it. His tread echoed in the dark corridor, the scratch of grit as loud as a scream. Moonlight fell like scars across the floor. The breeze carried wood smoke and orange blossoms, incense and pee. Bells tolled somewhere, the pealing almost visible in the thick air: Santo Spirito. Santa Rufina.
Federico stood listening, every nerve alert. He was—it seemed—still alive.
Santo Spirito faded to silence, but Santa Rufina continued her sweet tolling. . . . Ah, the feast day. Federico had been gone two hours at most. As Herbert predicted, the closet had returned him at midnight.
He straightened his cloak—his sky-blue cloak with the cream silk detail—and adjusted his cap trimmed in pearls. Never again, he vowed, would he disobey. He’d not sneak from his room, nor straggle through Latin, nor better His Holiness at backgammon. . . .
His Holiness.
Federico’s joy vanished. Michelangelo had fled Rome. He was the pope’s favorite artist, however the two men might argue. When His Holiness discovered Michelangelo gone, Federico’s life would be as good as over. Federico had stolen the key to the chapel and opened the chapel door. Palace gossips would tell the pope as much—social climbers desperate to smirk that the Gonzaga could not be trusted, that Federico’s father must be replaced and the castle given to someone more deserving. . . .
A sob bubbled in Federico’s chest. He was going to perish, exactly as Herbert’s book said. The Gonzaga family would end, due to him.
The bells of Santa Rufina tolled. Between each note, silence swelled. Silence, and a rustle.
Federico leaped to attention, knife in hand.
Bee stumbled out of the closet already jabbering.
Federico sheathed his knife. “Bee,” he said dully. “Hello.”
“Hey, you’re not dead. Told you.”
“But I am. When His Holiness learns that Michelangelo has left, he’ll end the Gonzaga.”
But Bee was too busy chattering to listen—something about family. His sisters in Mantua might soon be dead, too. At the very least, dishonored.
Federico’s grief swelled into rage. “This is all your fault!” he yelled, jabbing at her jerkin—his jerkin! “If you hadn’t shown up with your stupid ideas—”
It was no use. Why waste breath fighting girls? Federico must find peace elsewhere. Seething, he marched away.
“Where are you going?” Bee called. “Back
to your fancy-shmancy bedroom?”
He was too angry to reply.
“What, you’re going to chase Michelangelo?”
“A Gonzaga does not chase—” He bit his tongue. He had no interest in Bee, nor Michelangelo; not even Juno. His sole focus—the most important concern in the world—was his family.
How dare Bee suggest he chase Michelangelo like a puppy after a rabbit. He could not leave the palace, for one thing. Only bandits and murderers traveled the city this late, and messengers. Soldiers. He shuddered, remembering his mortifying encounter with the Swiss Guard. Besides, Michelangelo was doubtless halfway to the Florence border. Catching him would require the fastest horse in Rome. An Arabian, bred for distance and speed. Federico knew of such a creature, yes, but she belonged to the ambassador of Venice, for official business. By messengers.
Federico was not a messenger—just look at his cloak, and his cap trimmed with pearls. To play the part of a messenger would mean hiding everything that gave him meaning. He’d have to erase himself in the hope—the faint hope—of somehow convincing Michelangelo to return to Rome. Ridiculous.
But.
But what choice did he have? He could retreat to his bedroom, to Celeste and Señor Pedro and Master Sniffly, but that would end badly.
He could run away—
Greater shame still.
He could plead with His Holiness. Which would not work. Or it might, but His Holiness would make it a spectacle, and force Federico to crawl on his knees before the whole city, begging forgiveness. His Holiness enjoyed such displays. Federico was a hostage, after all. It would be a good message to convey to the many enemies of the pope.
Federico removed his cap, stroking the pearls. How they shone in the moonlight. Two hundred ducats they were worth, easily. A workman toiled years to earn so much.
To catch Michelangelo, he would need a horse and a squadron’s worth of bravery. Courage he could muster. He was a warrior, after all, or would be; he was almost the age of a man. A fast horse, however, required wealth. Wealth, and cunning . . .
Slowly at first, Federico began to run. Through the long corridor, all the way to its end. Through the vast shadowy garden. Through the maze of the stables to the room of the saddler. God willing, the man slept lightly. He tapped at the door. “Excuse me. It is late for good men, but I must speak.”
It was late for good men, yes. But the saddler was not good.
The door cracked open. The saddler squinted at Federico, a smile tugging at the scar on his cheek. “The little troublemaker.”
Federico had no time to take offense. “I need a horse. Please.”
The saddler leaned on the doorframe. “The sculptor was here. Michelangelo. That’s what he called you. ‘Federico, the troublemaker,’ he said, before he rode off. Ordered me to repeat it.”
“Ah.” Federico kept his face stony. “Fascinating.” He took a deep breath. “Master Saddler, you are—we both know—a man of business.”
The saddler smirked. “That I am.”
He looked the saddler in the eye. “I need the fastest horse in this stable.”
“That’s quite a request.” The saddler stroked his scar. “The Venetian ambassador has a mare that can outrun the wind. But she’s not mine to sell.”
“Certainly she’s not yours to sell.” Federico slipped off his cloak—the sky-colored cloak lined with silk. “I do not need to buy a horse.” He shook it, and the silk shimmered like a warm private sea. The fabric alone cost a hundred ducats. “I need to borrow one for several hours. Nothing more.”
The saddler stared at the gleaming fabric. “She’s not been ridden for days. But the risk I take . . .” His eyes darted to Federico.
Federico removed his blue silk cap. Six years of wages, just for the pearls. “A risk we both take.”
The saddler’s eyes narrowed. “Michelangelo was right about you. Quite the little rule breaker.”
Federico shrugged. “A gentleman does not break rules. You taught me that.” He tossed the cap to the saddler. “A gentleman learns how to bend them.”
The saddler caught it. Of course he did. What sort of man drops six years of wages on the floor of a stable?
Federico held out the cloak. “And a saddle. Please.”
Not fifteen minutes later, Federico was trotting into the city on a black mare named Bathsheba, the fastest horse in all of Rome. He rode in his jerkin, bare sleeved and bareheaded, his rings tucked in a pocket, for the slightest flash of gold would expose him. Knife in hand, he inspected every shadow as the mare’s hoofbeats thumped the dirt. Men would kill for a horse such as this. Men would kill their own brothers, and for good reason. Federico had been riding horses since before he could walk; he knew horses like his mother knew art. But never had he met a horse like Bathsheba.
He slowed the mare as they approached the city gates. “I am a messenger,” he cried. “Open, please.” I must retrieve Michelangelo, he wanted to add—but did not.
“For whom do you ride?” called a voice from the tower.
“For His Holiness.” These were, after all, the pope’s men. “And for Venice,” in case they knew the mare.
He could not see the men in the darkness. Perhaps the gates never opened so late. Perhaps a messenger was too lowly to heed.
In one motion he dismounted, reins in his left hand, knife in his right. “There is no time!” he called, desperation lacing his words.
A gate man in armored breastplate stepped from the shadows. “You’re small for a messenger.” He lounged against a narrow door built into the wall—a sally port, for just such moments when a single soul needed to leave.
“So they tell me,” Federico said humbly. I must catch Michelangelo! he wanted to scream.
Bathsheba huffed in irritation at the delay. Federico held the knife behind his back, shifting his grip. He did not want to attack this man, but Señor Pedro had taught him ways to pierce armor.
“Clear,” the voice called down, finally.
With a shrug, the gate man lifted the sally port’s crossbar.
Reins in hand, Federico brushed past. “Thank you.”
“Another cup of grain and she wouldn’t make it.” The gate man laughed. But Federico did not reply, for already he was swinging himself into the saddle—
And already Bathsheba was running. She reached full gallop before he even sat down, her hoofs pounding over the drawbridge. A lesser horseman would have ended up in the ditch. As it was, Federico clutched her mane for dear life. Oh, she was fast. She let out one triumphant snort and shook her ears and she flew.
The men behind him cheered, but Federico could not hear their words for the thunder of hoofbeats. He clung like a flea, his cheek pressed to Bathsheba’s neck. Her mane whipped his face; the wind clawed tears from his eyes. The road lay before them, every stone bright in the moonlight. “Run, Bathsheba,” he whispered. “Find him.”
Chapter 26
Everything Is Worse
Bee tumbled through the wardrobe back into Rome. She didn’t have a choice. Those two people were going to kick her out of Miss Bother’s house!
She’d heard them coming up the stairs outside Herbert’s office. “She’s got to be here somewhere,” the woman said, her heels tapping.
“Why are there still books in the bookcase?” the guy asked—the guy in that ugly plaid jacket. “All this junk is supposed to be gone. . . . Whoa, what’s that?”
Bee stared in horror as the bookcase shifted. She hadn’t shut it completely.
“Interesting,” the woman murmured. “I don’t think it’s attached to the wall.” Bee watched in terror as red fingernails came into view. “Is there a room back here—?”
Bee edged away, groping for somewhere to hide—and hurled herself through the wardrobe . . . into the palace corridor. “Fred!” she cried, catching sight of him. “It’s so terrible—there are these people in Miss Bother’s house but she’s not there and her stuff isn’t either, and Moo’s phone isn’t working which is total
ly awful, and I tried to get Juno but she ran away—”
Fred stared at her. “Bee. Hello.”
“Hey, you’re not dead.” Obviously the encyclopedia was wrong. “Told you.”
“But I am. . . .”
Bee stared at the wardrobe. What if those people were in Herbert’s office right now? Why was the house so empty? “I think something happened to Miss Bother. I don’t know how because I wasn’t gone at all because no time passes and Juno was sitting in the exact same place—Hello, Fred? Herbert’s daughter? His family? Don’t you care?”
Without warning, Fred poked her in the chest. “This is all your fault!” he hissed.
Bee slapped his hand away. “What are you talking about? This is a quest, remember? For both of us. We’ve got to make everything better.”
“We do not! It is not my quest!” With a snarl of fury, Fred stomped away.
“Where are you going?” she called, as sarcastically as she could. “Back to your fancy-shmancy bedroom?”
He didn’t answer. His cloak rippled in the moonlight.
“What, you’re going to chase Michelangelo?”
He didn’t flinch. Even his footsteps sounded mad.
“Don’t you care about Juno?” Her words echoed down the corridor. “You’re not the boss of me, you know.”
He paused in a patch of moonlight.
“Fred?”
But it was like he didn’t even hear. Instead he took off running, his feet a fast-fading drumbeat.
What was she supposed to do now? I should call Moo, she thought automatically, glancing at the wardrobe. Moo would know—
But Moo’s phone didn’t work.
Bee stared at the wardrobe with its eight glass balls. What had happened to Miss Bother? And why was Fred being such a jerk? This wasn’t Bee’s fault. If anything, it was Fred’s fault, because now she was crying. This whole thing was so dumb! It couldn’t get any worse—
Thud. The door to the palace closed.
Bee’s heart dropped to the floor.
“Where is he?” a deep voice growled. Footsteps approached. “Where is the young lord?” The Swiss Guard! The Swiss Guard the size of an oil tanker, his face dark under his helmet. His sword alone was bigger than Bee.
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