Musei e Cornetti

Sunset Clouds

A/N: First off, a note about religion: It's impossible to avoid the Catholic Church in Italy, there's one at practically every street corner! So, it had to end up in this story sometime. However, no matter what religion you're part of (or if you're a member of none at all), everyone can feel the magic of ancient cathedrals. In short: I'm not Christian, but whether you are or not you can appreciate the austere comfort these structures provide and have provided for centuries.

OK, long controversy-avoiding-disclaimer over! Hope you enjoy this chapter, and thanks to my lovely reviewers: NJ2001, Macca40, ThisBirdHasFlown, MaccasWeirdFriend, Sunderious, Swimmer girl 17, and PurlyandGirly

The evening sun hung low over the clay tiles of the rooftops of Florence. The orange hues of plaster facades, burnt clay, and sunset clouds gently warmed one's skin, like a warm bath or a puffy winter coat. In the centre of the Piazza del Duomo stood the great cathedral of Florence, Brunelleschi's red-brown dome arcing the white cathedral somehow both grandly and comfortingly – a careful hand cupping precious fireflies in the summer twilight.

Under the fresco-covered palm of this hand strolled John and Ringo.

"Echo!" shouted John. The call bounced up from the elaborate marble floor, off the white walls, up to Vasari's fresco on the interior of the dome. Concentric circles of painted gold, blue, and white depicted men and angels in the end of all.

"The clue said something about a bird's-eye view," muttered Ringo, spinning in a slow circle where he stood between the pews. "Think we can get up to one of these windows?"

"That stuff's a load of crap," proclaimed John loudly, pointing at the fresco above. An elderly woman lighting a candle a few paces away shot him a death-glare.

"John! We're in a church!" hissed Ringo, horrified.

Though the fires of Hell in the fresco above seemed to condemn John's blasphemy, the church itself passed no judgement. The dying embers of the sun shone through the high windows of the nave, sinking into the cool grey columns and white plaster walls. The elderly woman shuffled away from the candles and knelt in one of the pews. Her murmured prayers leapt up from her shawls to dance in the fading sunlight and beams of dust.

John scratched his nose. "I wonder why they didn't decorate at all in here," he wondered aloud. "D'you think they used up all the money on those statues and stuff on the front of the building outside?"

"We're in the wrong place," muttered Ringo. "There's no staircase here!" He hopelessly collapsed into the pew in front of the elderly woman's and stared up at the austerely peaceful arches of the ceiling above.

"Well, we weren't supposed to come in here," pointed out John. The elderly woman's prayers escalated a little in volume and intensity, as though she intended to drown out his loud remarks.

"What do you mean, we weren't supposed to come in here?" asked Ringo. "And can you keep your voice down a little?"

"Why should I?" inquired John, wandering away from the dome over to the rack of small candles pushed against one wall of the nave.

"I dunno, it sort of . . . ruins the mood, I guess," replied Ringo, staring up at the ornate fresco inside the dome.

John bent over the candles, apparently entranced by the miniscule, dancing flames. They leapt fuzzily in his unaided vision. He squinted at them.

Ringo heaved himself back up from the smooth wooden bench and trudged to John's side.

"So why weren't we supposed to be here?" inquired Ringo quietly.

John shrugged. "Wouldn't the bell tower be the obvious place to go?"

"Of course!" breathed the drummer, staring at John. "Let's go!"

Ringo raced across the nave to the doors at the far end, his Beatle boots slapping the rose, green, and white marble of the floor and echoing throughout the church.

"Come on!" he called, pulling open the door.

On a whim, John delved into his pocket, found a coin, and dropped it into the collection box on the candle rack. The coin thunked against the bottom of the container, the hollow sound rolling across fast-fading beams of soon-to-be resurrected sunlight.

The guitarist followed his bandmate out of the cathedral, whistling. The elderly woman finished her Latin prayers, her wrinkled lips trembling with the last, fading syllable.

...

The Galleria Palatina, at about the same time

Two young men with slicked-back hair and Saville Row suits stood before Gottfried Schalcken's painting 'Young Girl with a Candle.'

"She's simply marvelous, isn't she?" inquired one with black hair softly. "Especially in this lighting."

The girl in the painting seemed to laugh in the fading sunshine and shadows of the room, so akin to the oranges and blacks of her own painting.

"Right, let's find the message, then," replied the other, who had blonde hair. He ran his hands carefully along the elaborately gilded frame, confidently at first, then a little more frantically.

The black-haired man glanced around the empty room through his thin, rectangular spectacles. He stared down the row of connecting rooms through their doors for a second: all empty. Only then did he join his companion in running his hands across the picture frame.

The pair exchanged a horror-filled glance. Schlacken's girl smiled in the darkening room.