Veiled Magic

by Deborah Blake

  “How do we know your friend won’t tell someone about us or the painting?” Peter asked. “Even if he isn’t involved with the Cabal, he might spill the beans to someone who is.”

  “Monks don’t go around gabbing,” Magnus said with a put-upon sigh. “But I’ve already told him how important it is to keep your presence here a secret, and he’s promised to do so.”

  “But why would he help us?” Donata wanted to know. “Why would he risk getting involved in this mess? Just because you’re old friends?”

  Magnus shook his head. “No, not really.” He turned around again and gave her and Peter an earnest look. “You have to understand Friar Matthew’s point of view here. He knows the history well enough to be fully aware of his order’s role in the Inquisition. He’d like to help in part as a chance to atone for the actions of his predecessors.”

  Donata cast a doubtful glance at him. “Really?”

  “Really,” Magnus said. “It’s a monk thing.” He smiled, just a little. “Besides, he’s a canny old guy; he realizes that if this painting brings about another Inquisition, he and his order will be dragged out of their quiet existence and back onto the front lines. He doesn’t want that any more than we do. It would mean he couldn’t spend all day bent over musty old books, and he’d hate that.”

  Peter and Donata exchanged looks. It wasn’t as though they had any other options, after all.

  “What makes you think he can take the curse off of the painting?” Peter finally asked.

  “I’ll let him explain that to you himself,” Magnus said. “That is, if I have permission to keep driving so we can get there sometime before the end of time.” His grumpy tone sounded suspiciously like a bear’s growl, reverberating in the enclosed van.

  “Fine, fine,” Donata said, trying not to growl back. She hated not having control over a situation—and she hadn’t had control over this one since she’d first set foot in the museum. Now she had to wear a monk’s robe, on top of everything else? Was that the sound of the wind through the trees, or was Hecate laughing at her? “Go ahead and drive. But what are you planning on doing when we get there, walking us through the front door and introducing us to everyone?”

  She started pulling her robe on over her clothes, and Peter followed suit. Ricky looked at the Human-sized outfits unhappily.

  “Those’ll never fit me,” he said, morose at the thought of being left out. “Don’t tell me I have to stay in the car. I can make myself vanish, but what about our furry friends here?”

  Magnus rolled his eyes, including the entire backseat in his annoyance. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He slowed the car as they approached a large gravel parking lot set amidst a number of low buildings. A sign out front said St. Francis of Assisi Monastery, and about a half a dozen friars moved purposely in and out of what looked like an office and a chapel.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Magnus said in a decisive voice. “We wait until everyone goes in to lunch, which should be any minute now. Then the three of us pull our hoods up and we walk down that path on the right. It leads to Friar Matthew’s workshop. No one ever uses it except him, and he’ll meet us there as soon as he can get free.”

  He turned to Ricky. “You’ll have to wait until dusk, but then you can bring the animals and come join us, okay?”

  Ricky nodded happily. “Gotcha. No problem.” He looked at Grimalkin and Elmyr, who were studiously ignoring each other. “We’ll all just nap until then.” He yawned to emphasize his point.

  Donata felt a brief surge of jealousy. She’d much rather stay in the van and sleep than walk across a monastery in broad daylight, on her way to meet a scholarly monk. She fingered her gun wistfully, feeling even more out of her depth than usual.

  Magnus caught her at it and smirked. “Planning on shooting someone, ’Nata? This is hardly the place.”

  “Hmph,” she grumped. “Only you, if you don’t stop calling me that stupid nickname.”

  Peter cleared his throat. “What about the painting?” he asked. “We can’t just stroll around carrying a midsized framed picture.”

  Magnus thought for a second. “Why don’t we take it out of the frame and roll it up carefully? Then we can tuck it under a robe until we get to the workshop.”

  Peter winced. “It’s a priceless piece of art. You can’t just ‘roll it up,’ for god’s sake.”

  The Shapeshifter shrugged. “The whole point of the curse is that it can’t purposely be harmed, right? If you can’t tear it up or burn it, I doubt that rolling it up—carefully—is going to hurt it.”

  “Fine,” Peter agreed with reluctance. “But you can stick it under your robe, just in case the curse decides you’re trying to do something destructive.” He cheered slightly at the thought. “If anyone is going to end up with blisters in unmentionable places, I’d much rather it be you.”

  * * *

  Magnus led them down a carefully raked path to a small wooden building about half a mile away. He explained that the monks tended to pursue their specialties in solitude so that they might better contemplate God while going about their tasks. Some of the friars raised bees, made wine, or produced cheese that was eaten by the community or sold to support the order. Friar Matthew was, like Peter, an art restorer, but his area of expertise was old religious documents.

  According to Magnus, Friar Matthew was internationally renowned for his ability to restore aging or damaged books, scrolls, and hymnals, and Catholic organizations across the world sent him their precious documents to be cataloged and repaired. He could have worked anywhere, but he preferred to stay at his own monastery, hiding out from the distractions of the secular world within his workshop retreat.

  “You’ll like him,” Magnus commented to Peter, opening the unlocked door to the small isolated building. “He’s a bit eccentric, but the Church leaves him more or less alone, because his work brings in money for the order and gives them something to brag about.”

  Peter raised an eyebrow. “So you think I’ll like him because he’s a little odd? What are you implying?”

  Donata snorted. “I think he means you’ll like him because you’re both interested in restoration,” she said, then added, “But I wouldn’t mention the bit about being a forger, if I were you.”

  They trooped into the low, wood-shingled building. Peter took a deep breath, taking in the familiar scents: the musty odor of old paper, the sharp tang of fresh ink, the acrid sweetness of paint pigments and turpentine. A smile crept across his face as he noted the orderly bookshelves, less neat easels with their various works in progress, and the familiar pile of white gloves. He probably felt at home already.

  Donata was smiling, too, but for a different reason. She’d found the pot of coffee left for them on a warming pad and the plate of huge, raisin-studded oatmeal cookies sitting beside it, with a note that read, simply: Make yourselves comfortable.

  She grabbed a cookie and shoved it into her mouth, savoring the bite of cinnamon and a hint of nutmeg.

  “I like him already,” she said around a mouthful of crumbs. She plopped onto a couch in the sitting area of the cabin. “Although I think my cookie tastes a little like turpentine.”

  Magnus cracked the back window open a little, wrinkling his sensitive nose. “That smell gets into everything. The last time I visited him, I had to shower three times when I got home.”

  They all jumped a little as the door creaked open and a light voice said, “Maybe if you hadn’t knocked the can over, it wouldn’t have stunk so much.”

  Donata looked up as a figure clad in robes like the ones they wore came into the room. That was where the resemblance ended, however. Unlike them, Friar Matthew had the bearing of a true monk, seeming to be a part of the world, yet somehow separate from it. She’d met one or two Witches with that same air of arcane wisdom and connection with deity. They always made her vaguely uncomfortable, as if they
knew something she didn’t—and that lack made her in some way lesser.

  The diminutive friar, on the other hand, just made her want to grin. He was a small, meek-looking man with wispy white hair and faded blue eyes. He looked like he would blow away in a strong wind. All except his beaming smile, which could have outpowered the sun.

  “Greetings, my friends,” he exclaimed. “Welcome to my humble workshop.”

  He nodded at Donata and Peter, and walked over to shake Magnus’s hand vigorously.

  “Magnus, it is so good to see you again,” the little monk said. “Please, you must introduce me to your companions.” He turned, encompassing them all with his broad smile.

  “Ah, Friar Matthew, this is Peter Casaventi, the art restorer I told you about, and my friend Donata Santori.” Magnus gestured from one to the other. “And this is Friar Matthew. He is passionate about God, the Franciscans, and history.”

  The blue eyes twinkled. “Not necessarily in that order,” Matthew said. “Although, of course, God always comes first.”

  Donata returned his grin involuntarily. Being in the same room with Friar Matthew was like breathing pure oxygen. She hadn’t felt this energized in days.

  “So,” he said, slightly more serious. “Come, show me this painting you think is one of the long-lost Pentacle Pentimentos.” He led them over to a corner of the studio that held a table with a light above it, not unlike the one at Peter’s apartment.

  Magnus pulled the painting out from under the skirts of his robe and unrolled it on top of the table. Friar Matthew made a tsking noise.

  “Shame on you, Magnus,” he said. “You should know better than to treat an old painting so carelessly.” He smoothed out the canvas with age-spotted hands that trembled slightly.

  Peter gave Magnus an “I told you so” look but fairly said to the monk, “It doesn’t appear to be possible to harm this painting in the usual ways.” He pointed to the area around the black splotch, which had returned to its original size and shape. “I managed to remove a little bit of that paint yesterday, but today it is back to looking exactly the way it was before I started.”

  Friar Matthew’s fluffy white eyebrows edged up toward his receding hairline, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he took a magnifying glass and looked at the section in question, then stepped back and looked at the painting as a whole. Finally, after a few minutes, he put one gnarled finger gently on top of the black spot.

  Donata reached out to stop him. “Friar! Be careful—” She didn’t want to see this gentle man covered with blisters, or whatever other strange effects the painting decided to mete out.

  He gave her a small nod of thanks. “Magnus told me about the picture’s effects on Peter, which are certainly in keeping with a genuine Pentimento. But you needn’t worry about me; the curse is only meant to affect Paranormals. As a mundane Human, I should be quite safe.” He went back to peering at the painting, an intent look on his surprisingly youthful face.

  Donata flushed. “Oh, of course. I didn’t think of that.” Then she added, “And I think you are anything but mundane, sir.”

  The old man aimed another of his stunning smiles at her. “You are a considerate and gracious young woman, Donata. Please just call me Matthew.”

  Magnus stifled a laugh at hearing Donata called gracious, and she surreptitiously kicked him on the ankle. Peter ignored them both to look over the friar’s shoulder.

  “What do you think?” he asked. “Is it genuine?” His tall, muscular frame made a strong contrast with the smaller figure of the monk next to him. “All the tests I managed to do on it seemed to prove it was the right age and pigment composition, anyway. And it certainly doesn’t look like any normal pentimento I’ve ever come across.”

  The friar nodded. “Oh, I believe it is, although I must admit, I had never expected to see one in my lifetime.” He shook his head, his white hair floating through the air like snow. “How amazing.”

  “Do you really think you can take the curse off of it?” Donata asked, eagerness making her impatient. “We really need to find out what’s under that black mark. And figure out a way to make it safe afterwards, if that’s possible.”

  “Hmmm.” The old man looked pensive. “I do hope there is a way to preserve the painting while still rendering it harmless should it fall into the wrong hands.” He and Peter shared a moment of silent appreciation for its age, if not its beauty. Donata just tried not to grab the sweet-natured monk and shake him until he answered her question. She really wanted this particular monkey off her back. Like yesterday.

  Magnus cleared his throat. “Matthew? The curse?”

  “Oh. Oh, yes.” The friar walked over to a glass-fronted bookcase. “Indeed, I have every reason to believe I can remove the curse.” He pulled on a pair of thin white gloves and carefully took out an old manuscript, bound in flaking brown leather and edged with gold leaf. He put the manuscript down on the table next to the painting, touching it with reverence.

  “When Magnus called me, I went looking among the works I have that discuss the Inquisition,” he said. “The real Inquisition, that is; not the books the Church wrote afterward that explained things in a more . . . unimaginative . . . way.” He opened the book gingerly and turned to a page with a tiny slip of tissue paper stuck in it as a marker.

  “This seems to concur with the book Peter was given by his friend in Rome,” the monk said, missing the pained look Peter and Donata exchanged. “The one that suggested that the curse could be removed by one of faith?” He looked at all of them with open eagerness. “I do believe that my faith is strong enough to remove the curse, should you allow me the privilege of doing so.”

  The three Paranormals all breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Absolutely,” Donata said. “As long as you’re sure it’s safe.”

  The monk frowned a little, like the sun going behind a cloud. “It should be quite safe for me to remove the curse,” he said pensively. “I am not altogether certain that it will be safe to reveal whatever secret lies behind this black mark, however.”

  “What do you mean, Friar Matthew?” Peter asked. “Didn’t Magnus tell you what the museum’s restorer said about how vital it was to discover the identity of the lost sixth Paranormal race?” He shot a critical glance toward Magnus. “He seems to have told you everything else.”

  The little monk nodded. “Oh, yes. Magnus included that piece of information with all the others he gave me.” He turned a gentle beam in Magnus’s direction. “He felt it was important that I knew exactly what I was getting myself into, before I agreed to become involved.”

  Peter grimaced. “Yes, of course. He was right to do that, considering what a dangerous cock-up this is turning into.” He shrugged an apology at Magnus, who nodded back.

  “Well,” Friar Matthew said, “I’m not worried about physical danger. I am an old man, and my God will call me to Him when he sees fit.” He reached out and touched the manuscript again. “I am more concerned with spiritual danger. The sin of pride, to be exact. This secret was hidden by the Church many years ago. Do I have the right to reveal it now, just because I can?”

  He looked at each of them in turn, worry etching lines in his face where time had not.

  “And what of the secret itself? I know that you were told it was time for it to be made known—but who knows what effect this knowledge will have, on us, and on the rest of the world.” He folded his hands in front of his black-clad chest. “Have you considered that perhaps the truth will turn out to be even more harmful than the secret that concealed it?”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Magnus frowned. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” He turned to Donata. “Do we have any way of knowing whether or not Clive Farmingham was telling the truth when he said that the sixth race was a threat?”

  She made a face. “I think we can say for sure that he believed he was telling me the trut
h. Whether or not that makes it true, I can’t say.” She paused, chewing on the tip of an already ragged fingernail. “I’ve got to tell you, though, in all my years of dealing with dead people, I’ve yet to have one of them be wrong about something important.”

  “Well, there’s a sentence you don’t hear every day,” Peter said dryly. “But I think we have to go on the assumption that Clive was right. We need to know the identity of that lost Paranormal race. And that means we have to get the curse off the painting before we decide whether or not to turn it over to the Alliance Council.”

  Donata nodded. Once the painting was given to the Council, they might be able to find someone to take the curse off it if they decided they cared enough to do so—but whether they’d decide to share any information they got with the rest of the Paranormals was seriously in question. And they almost certainly wouldn’t warn the Humans, even if Farmingham had been right about them being in danger too. Clive certainly hadn’t given the impression that he even believed in the sixth race, not to mention attaching any importance to their possible presence on the painting.

  “Sorry, Friar, er, Matthew,” she said, regret coloring her voice. “I think you’d better go ahead and do it. If you can.”

  The old man seated himself on a stool in front of the painting and held one hand out to Peter. “Might I see your book, please? I just want to double-check something.”

  Peter handed it over. “Certainly.” He looked half eager and half nervous, a mix of emotions Donata shared.

  Friar Matthew compared the smaller book with the larger manuscript on the table next to the picture, looking back and forth between the two with a frown.