Page 51

They exited the Hall of Reflections, and Angelo triggered the mechanism to close the entrance. The bookshelf swung back into place, clicking shut so seamlessly that no one would suspect it was anything other than a normal section of library shelving.

Angelo began knocking methodically on the shelf surface, listening to the quality of sound it produced. Solid, dense, exactly what one would expect from a wooden shelf backed by the stone wall of the hall.

He moved to the adjacent section, normal shelving that he knew held nothing but books and the library wall beyond, and knocked on it in the same pattern.

The sound was identical.

Angelo frowned, moving back to the hidden entrance and repeating the test. Then to the section on the other side. Then to a shelf several feet away.

Every single section produced the same sound when struck. Dense, solid, with no variation in pitch or resonance that might indicate hollow spaces beyond.

“Madonna,” Angelo muttered in Italian. “How is this possible?”

Lorenzo, having conducted his own tests, now rose from his haunches with an expression of mingled frustration and admiration. “Matteo must have engineered the false shelving to produce the same acoustic properties as genuine shelving. Added layers behind the visible surface to create the same density, the same sound quality.”

He triggered the mechanism again, and they all stepped forward as the shelf swung open. Lorenzo moved into the gap and examined the back of the shelving unit with his candle held high.

“Look,” he said, pointing. “Multiple layers of wood and stone, precisely calculated to produce the exact resonance of a normal shelf. He wanted to ensure that even if someone tested by sound, they would find nothing suspicious.”

Angelo leaned in to examine what Lorenzo indicated. The back of the false shelving was indeed far more complex than it appeared from the front. Alternating layers of wood of different densities, stone slabs of varying thickness, even what appeared to be pockets of air sealed between layers. All engineered to create specific acoustic properties.

It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. And utterly maddening from the perspective of someone trying to find hidden passages.

Angelo ran his hands through his hair, his Italian escaping before he could stop it. “Questo è assurdo!” Then, for Nicholas’s benefit, “This is absurd. How are we supposed to find anything if Matteo was so careful to hide every trace?”

Lorenzo nodded, agreeing with Angelo’s assessment even as he showed grudging respect. “It is a miracle that Henri and Gabriel found this entrance at all. They were remarkably fortunate or remarkably perceptive. Perhaps both.”

Nicholas had followed them to examine Lorenzo’s findings, and now he crossed his arms skeptically. “If Matteo was this thorough about hiding his secrets, what is the point of searching? We could spend years examining every surface of this hall and find nothing. Perhaps we should accept that some mysteries are meant to remain unsolved.”

“If I had that attitude, I would never have left Florence,” Lorenzo repeated, heat entering his voice again. “I would have spent my life wondering, never knowing, accepting defeat before even attempting the challenge. But here we are, centuries after Matteo’s disappearance, following in his footsteps. I have discovered more about him than any of my family before me, have proven that he worked on projects of extraordinary complexity. I will persevere until I prove that Matteo di Bianchi was a Grand Master. The perfection of this hall is all the confirmation I need of his mastery of both art and science.”

Angelo opened his mouth to offer support, but movement caught his eye. A flicker of black cape visible for just an instant in the gap between the organ and the wall beyond.

Isolde.

She had been watching, listening to their examination and discussion. And now she had revealed herself, however briefly, before retreating back into the shadows.

Angelo’s heart clenched with longing. He wanted to call out to her, to ask her to stay, to beg her to share what she knew about the hall’s secrets. But he could not do any of those things without revealing her existence to Lorenzo and Nicholas.

Not yet. Not when she had trusted him to keep her secret. Not until she was ready to come out of hiding.

“I agree with Lorenzo,” Angelo said, forcing his attention back to his companions. “Matteo’s thoroughness is not a reason to give up. It is proof that what he hid is valuable enough to protect with such elaborate measures.”

He moved back into the Hall of Reflections, deliberately heading toward the organ so he could position himself near where Isolde had appeared. “Let us continue our examination. I will investigate this end of the chamber more thoroughly.”

Lorenzo nodded and returned to his methodical tapping of mirrors. Nicholas sighed dramatically but also resumed his assigned section, muttering under his breath about the foolishness of childish treasure hunts and the superior sense of staying home by a warm fire.

Angelo knelt beside the organ, ostensibly examining the carved base but actually searching for any sign of Isolde. He could not see her in the shadows, could not hear any sound that might indicate her presence. But he knew she was there, watching, listening.

“Isolde,” he whispered, too quietly for the others to hear over their own activities. “I wish I could speak with you properly. Not just in darkness, not just in stolen moments. I want to know you in daylight, to share more than midnight conversations.”

No response came, but Angelo thought he detected a subtle shift in the shadows. As if someone had moved, perhaps leaning closer to hear him better.

He ran his hands along the organ’s base, finding the alcove he knew existed behind the pipes. The space was narrow, barely wide enough for a person to slip through sideways. And beyond it … what? Where did the passage lead? How extensive was the network Isolde used to move through the hall unseen?

Glancing over his shoulder to ensure the other men were occupied, Angelo surreptitiously reached out to push against the back wall of the alcove, searching once more for any seam or mechanism that might reveal the entrance. His fingers found nothing but smooth stone, cold and unyielding.

Yet Isolde passed through this barrier as easily as walking through an open door.