The Raven (The Florentine #1)(49)
Raven spent the day in the archives, completing menial tasks and trying not to draw attention to herself.
Her doctor called, informing her that her blood test was inconclusive because the sample had been contaminated with at least two foreign substances of indeterminable origin. Unfortunately, the window to see if she’d been drugged was now closed. The doctor apologized on behalf of the lab, which had obviously made an egregious error in contaminating her sample, but said there was no point in repeating the test.
The X-rays, however, were another matter. The films the doctor had received obviously belonged to another patient, because they showed no evidence of the break in her leg and ankle that had occurred when she was twelve. So the doctor suggested Raven be x-rayed again.
Raven declined, citing a busy schedule. She said that she would follow up with the doctor when things at the gallery calmed down.
She didn’t bother trying to explain that it was possible her injury had been spontaneously reversed. Certainly she didn’t want to have her doctor examine her leg only to see that the scar, which was absent on Tuesday, was once again visible.
Given all the strange and unexplained events swirling in her head, she was grateful for the distraction work provided. She spent the afternoon compiling files on the digital database and staring from time to time at an image of Primavera.
She wanted to ask Professor Urbano, who’d worked on the restoration of the painting, if he’d realized that Mercury’s appearance had been altered. But since, for the moment at least, she was not welcome in the restoration lab, she didn’t.
She spent some time examining the images of Cupid and Venus, recalling the intruder’s reference to the myth of Cupid and Psyche. According to myth, Zephyr, who hovered in the orange grove at the right-hand side of Primavera, had helped Psyche when she was in distress.
I am the monster, hiding in the darkness, the intruder had whispered.
She wondered idly if he was like Zephyr.
Raven was glad she’d studied Greek and Roman mythology as an undergraduate, for it helped her understand Botticelli’s work. She knew, for example, that Maia and Jove were the parents of Mercury and that Atlas was his grandfather.
She knew that Chloris had been raped by Zephyr but that he’d repented of his violence and married her, renaming her Flora. Ovid, who told the story in his Fasti, quoted Flora as claiming she had no complaint in bed, which signified that her husband was kind to her after his former brutality.
She wondered if the intruder was like that—a man who’d engaged in acts of violence, only to regret them later and repent.
She gazed at Zephyr’s face and quivered, recalling how gentle the intruder’s touch had been.
Raven closed the window on her computer and quickly logged in to her e-mail account. Scrolling through a few unopened messages, she found an e-mail from Father Jack Kavanaugh.
Dear Raven,
I hope this e-mail finds you well.
I’ve been transferred to Rome, effective July 1st.
It’s a long, Jesuitical story. The short of it is that I’ve had to resign my position at Covenant House in Orlando. Don’t worry, I’m leaving the house in good hands and I intend to continue helping them in any way I can.
I’m hoping to visit Florence and hear about your good work at the Uffizi Gallery.
How is your sister?
How is your mother?
I remember you and your family in my prayers, praying that you all will find peace, forgiveness, and hope in the extravagance of God’s love,
Fr. Jack
Raven sat back in her chair.
This was an e-mail she had not expected to receive.
She’d known Father Kavanaugh for years. He’d helped her and her sister when they were in crisis. Later, he’d helped her attend Barry University, finding scholarship money to pay for her tuition and residence. Even now, long after graduation, he was still trying to help her by praying to a god she didn’t believe in.
Father Kavanaugh was a holy man. He was pious and he was good. He’d worked with Mother Teresa in Calcutta, and he’d founded orphanages and schools in Uganda.
But more than that, he was the one person in Raven’s life who had never disappointed her. She knew without doubt that if she were in trouble and went to him, he would do everything in his power to help her and he would expect nothing in return.
She wondered what he’d say when he saw her altered appearance. She wondered what miraculous account he would give of her experience wearing the relic.
Although she respected him, loved him even, she was not looking forward to those conversations.
It would be some time before he was settled in Rome and able to travel. She would have to work up the courage to listen to him and not blurt out cynical, offensive words.
She sighed at the thought.
“You don’t look so good.”
Raven was jolted from her musings by Patrick’s voice. He was standing next to her desk in the archives, wearing a concerned expression.
“Thanks a lot.” She grimaced.
“I didn’t mean it that way.” He touched her shoulder. “Are you sick?”
She shook her head.
“Dark.” He pointed to the purple smudges below her eyes. “Aren’t you sleeping?”
“Not really.” Her eyes moved in the direction of the archivist and back to her friend. “I can’t talk about it here.”