The Scepter of Fire. Морган Райс

Oliver whispered back.

      Ralph folded his arms. Hazel pouted.

      “No fair,” she said. “I’d love to know what he’s saying. Can you translate?”

      But Oliver shushed her. “I can’t translate if I can’t actually hear what he’s saying, can I?”

      Hazel frowned and slunk down in her seat, adopting the same folded arm pose as Ralph. Oliver felt bad that they were going to have to sit through an hour of what was sure to be an extremely fascinating lecture without understanding a single word of it.

      “As we can see here,” Galileo was saying, pointing to a painting that depicted a woman in a blue and red dress holding a little creature, “the figure has been positioned diagonally within the space, her head turned to her left shoulder, which is closest to the viewer. Thus the back of her head and right shoulder have been deeply shaded. Meanwhile, her right hand, resting here upon the ermine’s flank, and indeed, the ermine itself, as well as her nose, face, and left shoulder, have all been lightened. Thus, the artist has given the impression of the light diffusing. This gives us an understanding of distance, of position in relation to light.”

      Lady with an Ermine, Oliver thought, the name of the painting suddenly popping into his head from nowhere.

      Hazel leaned in closer to Oliver. “That’s one of da Vinci’s paintings,” she said.

      Of course.

      Again, the memory was being pulled from the ones da Vinci had instilled inside his mind. But this time, the memory felt more visceral, as though it brought with it not just information but feeling. A pang of melancholy throbbed in Oliver’s chest as it dawned on him that, in this timeline, the man whose knowledge, memories, and emotions he now carried was deceased. And even though Oliver knew all time existed at once, that it was not linear, it still made him sad to think that at this point in history, the brilliant Leonardo was gone. That his awesome mind lived on only inside of the recesses of Oliver’s.

      A hand on his brought Oliver back to the moment. He looked over and saw Hazel’s earnest gray eyes.

      “Are you worrying about Esther?” she whispered, her tone gentle.

      Oliver let out a sad chuckle. “I am now.”

      “Oops, sorry,” Hazel replied, realizing her mistake. She frowned. “What were you thinking about then, if not her? You looked utterly miserable.”

      Oliver twisted his lips. He didn’t want to burden Hazel, but he also knew it would only harm him in the long run if he kept his secret in.

      “Da Vinci,” he whispered, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the focused students sitting all around them. “I can feel him.” He tapped his head. “Up here.”

      Hazel’s eyes widened. “You mean his knowledge?”

      “His knowledge. His memories.” Oliver moved his hand so the fingers rested over his heart. “His feelings.”

      “Goodness,” Hazel replied, looking shocked.

      Just then, Ralph leaned over. “What are you whispering about?” he asked, his voice far louder than the others’ had been.

      Several students sitting on the bench ahead of them turned around with angry glares and their fingers to their lips. “Shh!”

      Ralph went red with embarrassment and sunk into his seat. He folded his arms, looking miffed at having been kept out of the secret.

      The three friends remained throughout the entire lecture. Hazel spent the whole time sitting straight-backed and eager. Ralph, on the other hand, seemed bored out of his mind. At one point, he almost seemed to doze off.

      But Oliver himself was filled with a mixture of sensations. Memories and feelings that belonged to Leonardo were being tugged up through him as Galileo discussed his theories of perspective in art throughout the class. It was peculiar, to say the least, and Oliver was relieved when the lecture was finally over.

      As the students filed out, the children headed the opposite direction, going down the steps and approaching Galileo.

      “Excuse me,” Oliver said, finding the Italian language roll effortlessly off his tongue. “Mr. Galilei?”

      “You’re a bit young to be in my class, aren’t you?” Galileo said, looking him up and down.

      “We’re not in your class,” Oliver told him. “We’re seers.”

      He decided to lay it all out on the table. Professor Amethyst had sent them to this time and place for a reason, and every great inventor they’d met during prior missions had turned out to either be a seer or know about seers. There was little point beating about the bush.

      He saw a flicker of recognition in the young man’s eyes. But Galileo played dumb.

      “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, collecting up his papers.

      “I think you do,” Oliver pressed. “We were sent to Florence. By Professor Amethyst. Perhaps you know him? He runs the School for Seers. We’re on a mission to find the Scepter of Fire. Have you heard of it, by any chance?”

      By the way Galileo was now shoving papers into his satchel, Oliver could tell that he did, indeed, know something. Something he, for reasons unknown, was not comfortable discussing.

      “I’ve never heard of it,” he claimed, no longer meeting Oliver’s eyes.

      Oliver strongly suspected that Galileo was lying, though he didn’t know why. Perhaps he wasn’t a seer. But there was certainly something unusual about him.

      Oliver decided to be bold. “We’re from the future,” he said.

      “Oh really?” Galileo said. He stopped what he was doing. “Then tell me something that’s not yet been discovered to prove it.”

      Oliver hesitated. He knew how finely balanced everything was. How cautious they had to be in order not to upset things. How one small misstep could cause a catastrophic reaction.

      “I can’t,” he said.

      “Hah,” Galileo replied. “Just as I thought. You’re lying.”

      “We’re not,” Oliver said. “Challenge me to something else. Something only Leonardo da Vinci would know.”

      Hazel tugged at his elbow. “Oliver, what are you doing?”

      “Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” Oliver told her, speaking out the side of his mouth.

      “Okay then,” Galileo said, tapping his chin ponderously. “The Duke of Valentinois commissioned da Vinci to draw a map of the town of Imola. In what year?”

      Oliver searched in his mind for da Vinci’s memories. “1502,” he said.

      Galileo frowned. “A lucky guess.”

      “Ask me another,” Oliver challenged. “And I’ll prove it wasn’t a guess.”

      “Okay,” Galileo said. “Perhaps a question related to geometry. Tell me about the five terms of mathematicians.” He smiled smugly, as though he believed there was absolutely no way Oliver would be able to answer correctly.

      Once again, Oliver tapped into the part of his mind that had been bestowed to him by da Vinci. “The point, the line, the angle, the superficies, and the solid.”

      Galileo looked stunned, but also impressed. “And what is unique about the point?”

      “Why,” Oliver said, “it has neither height, breadth, length, nor depth, whence it is to be regarded as indivisible and as having no dimensions in space.”

      He was directly quoting da Vinci now, pulling forth the inventor’s very words from the recesses of his mind. Hazel looked utterly stunned. Ralph, on the other hand, seemed to be finding it a little disconcerting that Oliver had access to such knowledge, and that he seemed able to draw it out of himself at a moment’s notice.

      But that was beside the point, Oliver thought. He looked at