Chapter 10 - The Restoration of Light
One year later, the light in the Tenth Avenue studio was the color of chilled honey.
The October sun poured through the high, clean glass of the northern skylights, illuminating the dust motes that danced above a long table covered in glass jars of natural earth pigments—burnt umber from Cyprus, raw sienna from Tuscany, and genuine lapis lazuli ground by hand from Afghan stones that cost more than their weight in bullion.
In the center of the room, resting on an easel carved from solid English walnut, stood the Rogier van der Weyden panel.
The yellowed varnish was gone.
The prayer book in the young woman's hands now glowed with an impossible, luminous ivory; the dark green velvet of her hood had returned to its original, deep emerald splendor; and the tears painted on her cheeks looked so wet, so fresh, that a visitor might have reached out with a linen handkerchief to dry them.
Gemma stood before the panel, wearing a linen smock over a simple pair of dark wool trousers. Her hair was pinned up with an antique tortoiseshell comb that had belonged to the Duchess of Alba—a gift that had arrived on her birthday without a card, bearing only a small wax seal of an eagle clutching a broken wheel.
Her hands were steady. She held a tiny sable brush, its tip loaded with a microscopic drop of dammar glaze, applying the final protective layer over the edge of the velvet hood.
A key turned in the biometric deadbolt at the landing.
The heavy oak door swung open with a soft, clean click.
Roman Costa walked in.
He was not wearing his overcoat. He wore a navy three-piece suit, his tie loosened by two inches, his white cuffs turned back once over his wrists. He looked older, perhaps, around the eyes—the weight of governing an empire that now stretched from Boston to the Chesapeake did not leave a man unlined—but the predatory tension that had once defined his every movement had softened into something far more dangerous: absolute, serene authority.
He walked across the studio floorboards, his footsteps quiet, and stopped behind her right shoulder.
He did not speak. He leaned down, resting his chin against the crown of her head, his hands sliding around her waist to rest against the linen of her smock.
"It's finished," Gemma said softly, not lifting the brush until the stroke was complete.
"Is it?" Roman murmured, his eyes scanning the glowing panel.
"The varnish has stabilized. The craquelure is secure. It will survive another four hundred years without another hand touching it."
Roman turned her gently in his arms until she was facing him. His slate eyes took in her face—the smudge of burnt umber near her left cheekbone, the faint gray shadows of focused work beneath her hazel eyes, the curve of her mouth that had learned how to smile without looking over her shoulder.
"The triptych from the gallery sold this morning," Roman said.
Gemma arched an eyebrow. "The apprentice copies?"
"A hedge fund manager from Greenwich bought them for one point four million dollars," Roman said with a low, rumbling chuckle. "He told the auctioneer they had an exceptional provenance because they were once owned by the Costa Heritage Trust."
"You robbed him," she laughed, resting her hands against the crisp linen of his waistcoat.
"I educated him," Roman corrected. "There is a difference."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, flat box wrapped in midnight-blue velvet. He placed it in her hand.
"What is this?" she asked.
"Open it."
Gemma lifted the lid.
Inside lay a pair of dressmaker's shears, six inches long, forged from Japanese high-carbon steel and damascened with an intricate pattern of swirling water. The handles were wrapped in fine, dark green leather—the exact shade of the emerald dress that had torn on a Tuesday night twelve months ago.
Engraved along the spine of the steel blade were three words in Latin:
Noli Me Tangere.
Touch me not.
Gemma looked up at him, her eyes shining with a mixture of wonder and fierce, shared history. "Are you telling me to cut up your suits?"
Roman leaned down, his mouth catching hers in a deep, slow kiss that tasted of cedar, autumn air, and twelve months of unshakeable devotion.
"I’m telling you that you never have to wear anything you don't choose to wear again, Gemma," he whispered against her lips. "Except for one thing."
"And what is that?"
Roman reached into his pocket once more, his fingers closing around a platinum band set with a single, uncut green diamond that caught the northern light and fractured it into a thousand needles of brilliant emerald fire.
May you like
"This," Roman Costa said.
And as the bells of the church on Tenth Avenue began to chime for noon across the rooftops of Manhattan, the woman who had once stood bleeding on a gallery floor smiled, took the ring, and closed her hand over his.
