The Italian Letters. Linda Lambert

gown between her white legs before sitting down. “You were with your dad in Cerveteri?”

      “I was. He’s back from Peru and is part of a new UNESCO team searching for Etruscan ruins. He and another member of the team will be joining us for dinner tonight. Also, to my surprise, Amir is here, as Dad’s new archaeologist.”

      “You mean that dashing, sexy man with the curly hair and flashing black eyes? Ibrahim’s grandson? I could eat him up,” said Andrea.

      Justine blushed. “The very one,” she said flatly, turning toward the stairs.

      Andrea stared at her but changed tack. “Well . . . that gives us the day together—I’ve so many questions. And a few ideas.”

      Whatever you know, I’m bound not to hear all of it at once, thought Justine with affection. Andrea revealed information slowly, a habit that had driven Justine crazy until she’d taught herself to tolerate the power play as an affectation. “I’ll change and meet you in the garden. Mom will want to be part of this conversation.”

      Once back, in black linen shorts, a white cotton shirt, and carrying her buckskin sandals, Justine moved gingerly down the stepping-stones into the garden. Her damp hair corkscrewed into ringlets around her face. In the small patch of lush grass halfway down the garden, Andrea stood talking with Lucrezia, who was on her knees weeding a patch of herbs: oregano, winter savory, sage, and chives.

      “Put on your sandals, my dear. You know bare feet are scandalous in Italy,” cautioned her mother without looking up. Lucrezia seemed consumed by her renegade herbs.

      “I have trouble following rules that I don’t understand.” Nonetheless, she sat down on a stone and slipped into her sandals. “This is nonsense.”

      Her mother ignored her.

      “Justine, the independent woman,” Andrea teased, ignoring the frowns from both women. She changed the subject. “All right. I want to know what was in that little brown package you left Cairo with. Either answer will be scandalous.” She grinned and leaned back in the garden chair, drinking in the warmth, her pale blue blouse falling in folds around her. “Paris is still dreary this time of year.”

      Lucrezia raised an eyebrow and turned to Justine. “What is she talking about?”

      “You already know the answer. The day before I left Cairo, Amir brought me a package from Ibrahim. By the way, Mom, Amir is here. He’ll probably join us tonight for dinner. I didn’t know until I landed in Florence what was in the package. Was it the actual codex, or a copy?”

      Lucrezia relaxed; she knew the answer.

      Andrea fidgeted with impatience. “And??”

      “I’m afraid it’s a copy—but a good copy. Fortunately, it had been almost entirely translated, so it gives us much to work with for our requested article for Archaeology. Did you bring the translations? Hopefully we’ll find time to write while you’re here.”

      “I don’t see why not—although I only brought one file of the translations. I thought we’d start when Mary was yet a young girl.”

      “I’m going to need a copy of those translations, Andrea. I’m certainly not a linguist, so having the copy in and of itself will do me little good.”

      “I realize that, Justine,” Andrea said, lifting her hand in a mock salute. “Those pages should give us a good start, and I do have to go to Rome for a few days.”

      “I’ll come with you. Dad expects me to work with him, but we haven’t found a slot for me yet—and Cerveteri is close by.”

      “But you’ll be here for dinner tonight?” Lucrezia interrupted, waving a small spade in her gloved hand.

      “Absolutement!” exclaimed Andrea, as though it was the only thought worth harboring.

      Prego moved unsteadily down the stepping-stones, balancing a tray with three cups of tea. “Prego,” said Lucrezia sharply, “you must let Maria do that. I don’t want you breaking your neck . . . or my good china.” Before she could stand, Justine stepped in front of her to take the tray from Prego and kiss him softly on the cheek.

      Andrea paid no attention to the tea drama. “If we had the original codex,” she said, “we’d be able to digitize it, which would make it much easier to read. Stanford has a Synchrotron Radiation Lab X-ray scanner that can strike ink on parchment or papyrus and cause certain elements in the ink to glow. These detectors pick up each element’s distinctive wavelength of fluorescence and a computer converts the data into images. Isn’t that amazing?”

      “Doesn’t the fluorescent glow come from the iron in ink?” asked Lucrezia, brushing dirt off her knees to attend to the tea. “I don’t think Mary’s ink could have contained iron, since such technology wasn’t in use until about 700.”

      “Very astute,” acknowledged Justine. “But isn’t such X-ray action needed only if the ink has been scraped off and the paper reused? In this case, the equipment might show us the original text closer to the way it was written, imaging the missing formations, completing the words, so to speak, like bringing the binary code of computer language into full formation.” She said casually, thinking it through and adding a squeeze of lemon to her tea as she spoke, “I hate to dampen your enthusiasm, but this is just not to be, Andrea. At least for now.”

      Andrea nodded and added two lumps of sugar to her tea before looking up at the scrutinizing stares of her friends. “I like sweet things,” she said defensively. “I know. I know. We’ll get the original back one of these days, perhaps sooner than you think,” she said, rather mysteriously, not looking them in the eye.

      “You seem uncharacteristically optimistic,” said Justine, narrowing her eyebrows while balancing her teacup on her knee. “I’d like to reread the few translations you brought before we start writing.”

      Andrea ran both hands under her long, dark hair, lifting it off her neck. “It’s beginning to get very warm.” Then, as though reading Justine’s mind, she said guardedly, “It’s not as though I’m unaware of my secretive tendencies, dear friends. But my suspicions can be quite useful. A strength, really.”

      Justine rolled her eyes and grinned. She knew Andrea only too well. At least, she thought so.

      Lucrezia laughed fully. “The heat will soon be unrelenting, too intense to sit out here without an umbrella,” said Lucrezia, ignoring Andrea’s confession. “But spring weather in Northern Italy is so unpredictable. Hot one day, cool the next.” Soon she was back on her knees, digging among the savory. “How long can you stay?”

      “A week—perhaps longer, if things get interesting.”

      “And you must be Morgan,” said Andrea, stepping forward to take his hand in both of hers. She had dressed in her favorite traveling outfit, a red linen suit with matching heels. She stared into his deep blue eyes with unguarded curiosity. Morgan blinked.

      It was evening now, and family and guests had gathered for dinner. A ribbon of tangerine trimmed the horizon, buffering the deep purple sky. Amir had not accompanied Morgan and Riccardo. Justine was disappointed, hurt. Does he regret last night? Or . . . ?

      The still-humid air flowing through the French doors warmed Andrea’s jacket, which she slowly removed to reveal an almost sheer white camisole. The sweet scent of lilacs and honeysuckle arose from the garden, blending with the garlicky aromas of roasting wild boar.

      Justine paused momentarily in the doorway, watching her father and Andrea, a gentle evening breeze claiming the tender chiffon of her mauve dress. She noticed the slight flush at her father’s temples and was amused to realize that Andrea had rendered him speechless. She had seen her mother accomplish this feat a few times, but Lucrezia was not in the room at the moment to enjoy the rare occurrence. She walked in just as Morgan spoke.

      “May