CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
A RAPTURE OF RAVENS: AWAKENING IN TAOS PROLOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Italy is a dream that keeps returning the rest of your life.
—Anna Akhmatova, Chechen poet
VILLA CELLINI, FIESOLE, ITALY, MARCH 2008
HER WHOLE BODY shakes as the ancient pillars pull loose from their Corinthian crowns and plunge into the crypt, trapping her beneath rubble. The dust of shattering sandstone smothers the oxygen in the dank air. The earth shivers ferociously. She bends with a pillar, barely catching herself as she falls to the convulsing floor, large stone slabs undulating, one slicing into her leg. All light in the crumbling crypt is extinguished. Cold sweat covers her body as she struggles for air. Turning her head violently from side to side, she grasps her injured leg, determined to stop the bleeding.
“Justine! Justine! Wake up.” Bolting upright, she struggled to focus on the intruding voice.
Fear still gripped her trembling body; light flooded through the windows, blinding her. “Where am I?”
“In your room in Fiesole. You’re home.” Her mother softly coaxed her into wakefulness. Justine had spent many a summer in this small, terraced bedroom with its embossed, baby blue wallpaper. The ancient, wobbly bed was still cozy and comfortable; but if she stayed, she would shop for another one.
“The nightmare keeps returning, Mom. Ever since St. Sergius.” Justine’s nightgown clung to her wet skin, and her hair stuck to her face like the damp ringlets on Botticelli’s Venus. “They’ve gotten worse since the churches were burned and Zachariah was killed.” Remorse and a nagging sense of guilt and shame distorted her lovely face.
“It might help if you talked to me about it. You’ve told me so little of how it ended.” Her mother sat down at the foot of the bed, placing her hand on her daughter’s ankle and turning the leg so she could see the damage. “How is it?”
“The leg is fine,” Justine said, wiping her damp face with the sheet. “But I’m humiliated. Here I am, twenty-eight, unemployed, living in my mother’s house. Am I starting over?” She swung her long legs over the side of the bed, revealing a scar nearly the length of her right calf. Despite her injury, healed now, she moved toward the bathroom with the litheness of a runner, which she was. Observers found Justine Jenner to be striking and warm, but with a brush of reserve, an occasional distant expression that arrested onlookers, as though she harbored mysterious convictions and memories.
Her mother sat there wide-eyed, mouth gaping. “Humiliated? Starting over? Those are harsh statements. Talk to me.”
“Later, Mom,” Justine called from the bathroom, “I need to take a shower to clear my head. Go for a run.”
Lucrezia pushed herself back onto the short bed, drawing her legs up under her white kaftan. She decided not to push—just yet. “Your father’s coming to breakfast,” she said.
In the bathroom, Justine looked in the mirror, shocked at her spent appearance. The nightmare receded in the wake of this news. “Father? As in Dr. Morgan Jenner, man of adventure? I didn’t know he was in Italy.” Just before Christmas, shortly after being expelled from Egypt for revealing the unthinkable, Justine had met her father on holiday in Rome. He was on the verge of returning to his archeological dig in Peru. Neither had expected to see the other for some time. Their time in Rome had not gone especially well.
Justine’s parents had divorced when she left California for graduate school, and yet, over the years, had remained friends. But she rarely saw her father, who was often on the road, digging somewhere or other for treasures. Justine had given them little to worry about, until Egypt.
The morning room of Lucrezia’s Cellini villa provided a panoramic view of the Arno River valley. As they gathered for breakfast, dark green cone-tops of cypresses, introduced to the land by the Etruscans, danced across the vista. The crown of Brunelleschi’s Duomo popped up through the mist like a cardinal’s hat, suspended in midair.
“I’ve got news,” said Morgan as he strode into the room, hugged his daughter, wedged into his favorite chair at the head of the table, and rested his feet on a small needlepoint stool. “I’ll be here in Italy a while.” He was wearing what he considered proper attire for an archaeologist: khaki shirt and pants, both thinning at the elbows and knees. The Peruvian sun had tanned him to a rich golden tone and bleached his hair nearly blonde, save for a brush of gray at each temple. Some considered his Roman nose unattractively long, others found it regal.
“For how long?” asked Justine, watching her father as though he were one of her subjects. She was often amused by his predictability, such as the casually worn, yet intact, field uniform. As an anthropologist, she prided herself on her analytical abilities, though they had sometimes failed her where men were concerned.
“More than a visit this time, honey. I’m coming here to work. A new project at an Etruscan UNESCO site. Very exciting!” he said, pausing in expectation of excited or complimentary responses.
Justine felt surprised—and confused. She smiled, choosing to provide her father with the positive response he desired. She knew that she would now have to deal more directly with the misogynist tendencies she had put up with since adolescence.
Lucrezia gave him an indulgent smile and waited for details. She picked up her fork and pushed a strawberry round and round through a dollop of yogurt.
“Archaeology is a crowded business here,” Justine cautioned. “Everyone and his sister wants to live and dig in Italy, so I’m assuming you have something good up your sleeve. My father, the famous archaeologist, would hardly be interested in a typical Roman excavation,” she said, reaching for a croissant. Maria, the family cook, had prepared a spread fit for the visiting royal she considered Justine’s father to be. Forever enchanted with Dr. Morgan, Maria—much more than a family cook—inevitably treated him like a nobleman; he reciprocated with gallantry and compliments to her cooking.
Morgan stood, stretched his muscular arms, and walked to the carved nineteenth-century buffet table, methodically filling his plate with cold cuts, tomatoes, eggs, and a large piece of banana bread, Maria’s specialty. “You’re right, honey. Not the usual Roman dig.”