Free The Medusa Amulet by Robert Masello

smoke, and there were dots of mold and decay, like age spots on an elderly hand, sprinkled throughout. But as he turned one page over and glanced at the next, and the next, he could see that they were a virtual treasure trove. These weren’t mundane records of grain purchases or wool deliveries. This was a rough draft, with many crossouts and markings, of something called La Chiave alla Vita Eterna . The Key to Life Eternal. And in its margins, and in some cases on the backs of the pages, there were drawings and schematics, and references to smelting processes and glassblowing. There was a sketch on one sheet that could only have been the plans for a kiln—a large kiln, big enough to cast a mighty statue. David’s heart was hammering in his chest, and he distractedly removed his glasses and wiped them clean on his tie before exploring an underlying page, a page that had been folded over. His fingers paused above it, until Mrs. Van Owen herself said, “Unfold it.”
    Still, he paused, afraid of doing it some damage—normally he’d be doing this on a lab bench, with some cotton and tweezers, under a dim and indirect light—but Dr. Armbruster, her own curiosity piqued, said, “Go ahead, David. Somebody has to.”
    Standing up, he unfolded the sheet of paper, maybe two feet square, then simply stood there, stunned.
    It was an elaborate drawing, in red and black ink, of the Medusa—the mythological Gorgon whose gaze could turn an onlooker to stone. It was circular, and a reverse view—largely blank, or unfinished—was drawn at its lower right. Although he could not tell what artist had done it, David could see that it was the work of a master—a Raphael, a Verrocchio, or a Michelangelo. And because of its shape, it must have been the design for a medallion, a coin, or the cope on a cloak.
    “It was a looking glass,” Mrs. Van Owen said, answering his unspoken question. “ La Medusa , as you can see it was called.”
    Indeed, the words were written on the page. And of course—that made perfect sense. The back was simply a mirror. “But do you know whose design it is?” He scanned the page for a signature, but there was nothing. Nor had there been one on any of the previous pages.
    “I do.”
    He waited.
    “Like all of this, including the copy of Dante, it is from the hand of the greatest and most versatile artisan who ever lived,” she said, her violet eyes holding firmly on his. “Benvenuto Cellini.”
    He sat down quickly, the sketch still spread before him on the table. He could hardly believe his ears. Cellini? One of his heroes ever since Amherst, when he had read every word of his celebrated autobiography in a Renaissance art course? The rebel spirit who had created some of the greatest sculptures of his day, works that had played a role in David’s very choice of career? For several moments, he was dumbfounded, before asking, “And what do you want me to do?” Already he was itching to start in on his research. “Verify the drawing somehow?”
    She frowned at the very suggestion. “There is no question of its authenticity.”
    David could see that she was not someone who brooked argumenteasily, and he was sorry he’d crossed her already. Even Dr. Armbruster looked cowed.
    “Then what would you like me to do?”
    With one long, lacquered nail tapping the sketch, and her foot tapping the floor impatiently, she said, “I want you to find it.”
    “The actual mirror?” he asked uncertainly. What did she take him for, Indiana Jones? Dr. Armbruster, too, looked surprised at the nature of the request, though she was not about to start raising any objections. “Wouldn’t a gemologist, or a specialist in antique jewelry, be your best bet?” he said, but she grimaced in disgust.
    “I have tried that route. They found nothing. It needs a scholar to find it; I am sure of that now.”
    “Is it possible,” he said, almost afraid to complete the thought, “that they didn’t find it because it does not