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head.
    Miranda had often wondered just what the choice of art in the entrance lobby said about her mother. Defeat all enemies, she supposed, with one swift stroke.
    She stopped at the lobby counter, swiveling the logbook around and dashing off her name, noting the time on her watch, then adding it.
    She’d dressed carefully, even strategically, for the day, selecting a suit of royal-blue silk that was military and trim in style. Miranda considered it both dashing and powerful.
    When you were to meet with the director of one of the top archeometry laboratories in the world, your appearancewas vitally important. Even if that director was your mother.
    Especially, Miranda thought with the faintest of sneers, if that director was your mother.
    She punched the button on the elevator and waited, impatience shimmering. Nerves were jumping gleefully in her stomach, tickling in her throat, buzzing in her head. But she didn’t let them show.
    The minute she stepped into the elevator, she flipped open her compact and freshened her lipstick. A single tube of color could last her a year, sometimes more. She only bothered with such small annoyances when they couldn’t be avoided.
    Satisfied she’d done her best, she replaced the compact, and ran a hand over the sophisticated French twist that had taken her entirely too much time and trouble to create. She jammed a few loosened pins back firmly in place just as the doors opened again.
    She stepped out into the quiet, elegant lobby of what she thought of as the inner sanctum. The pearl-gray carpet and ivory walls, the stern-backed antique chairs, suited her mother, she thought. Lovely, tasteful, and detached. The sleek console where the receptionist worked with its top-grade computer and phone system was also all Elizabeth. Efficient, brisk, and state-of-the-art.
    â€œBuon giorno.” Miranda approached the desk and stated her business briefly and in flawless Italian. “Sono la Dottoressa Jones. Ho un appuntamento con la Signora Standford-Jones.”
    â€œSì, Dottoressa. Un momento.”
    In her head, Miranda shifted her feet, tugged at her jacket, rolled her shoulders. It sometimes helped her keep her body still and calm if she imagined twitching and shuffling. She was just finishing up some imaginary pacing when the receptionist smiled and gave her the go-ahead.
    Miranda walked through the double glass doors to her left and down the cool white hallway that led to the office of the Signora Direttrice.
    She knocked. One was always expected to knock on anydoor of Elizabeth’s. The responding “Entri” came immediately.
    Elizabeth was at her desk, an elegant satinwood Hepplewhite that suited her aristocratic New England looks perfectly. Framed in the window behind her was Florence, in all its sunny splendor.
    They faced each other across the room, both appraising swiftly.
    Elizabeth spoke first. “How was your trip?”
    â€œUneventful.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œYou look well.”
    â€œI am, quite well. And you?”
    â€œFine.” Miranda imagined herself doing a wild tap dance around the perfectly appointed office, and stood straight as a cadet at inspection.
    â€œWould you like some coffee? Something cold?”
    â€œNo, thank you.” Miranda arched a brow. “You haven’t asked about Andrew.”
    Elizabeth waved toward a chair. “How’s your brother?”
    Miserable, Miranda thought. Drinking too much. Angry, depressed, bitter. “He’s fine. He sends his best.” She lied without a qualm. “I assume you told Elise I was coming.”
    â€œOf course.” Because Miranda had remained standing, Elizabeth rose. “All the department heads, and the appropriate staff members, are aware that you’ll be working here temporarily. The Fiesole Bronze is a priority. Naturally you’ll have full use of the labs and equipment, and the cooperation and assistance of any members of the