Free The Raven by Sylvain Reynard

at last, waving at his friend. “Speak to Ispettor Batelli. He’s in charge.”
    “Thank you.” Professor Emerson straightened and, without another word, walked out.
    Raven waited, watching as Dottor Vitali closed his eyes and bent forward, almost as if he were praying.
    At last he opened his eyes and gestured to a chair. “Signorina Wood. Explain your sudden change in appearance. And tell me where you were last week.”
    Raven sat down, took a deep breath, and began her story.

    On leaving Vitali’s office, Raven walked, deep in thought, down the corridor.
    He hadn’t suspended her. He’d asked pointed questions about her appearance, her absence, and her interview with the police. His cool demeanor seemed to warm with her answers. By the time their conversation concluded, Raven believed she’d convinced him she had nothing to do with the robbery.
    He’d sent her back to her job, informing her that the weeklong absence would be deducted from her vacation days. She was relieved she hadn’t been suspended or fired.
    She walked down the hall, reflecting on Botticelli’s original illustrations of
The Divine Comedy
. They’d been prepared for Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici, who also owned
Primavera
.
    She wondered if the thieves knew that. She wondered if the thieves were particularly devoted to Botticelli or simply opportunist.
    She imagined a group of hardened criminals, dumping the priceless illustrations into plastic bags and shoving them into backpacks. They wouldn’t treat the artwork properly. They wouldn’t protect it.
    They’ve probably spread them on a kitchen table somewhere and are eating breakfast on top of them right now.
    She shuddered, imagining drops of milk or coffee marring the beautiful ink and the rare, brilliant colors. She imagined the thieves smoking, perhaps flicking pieces of ash over the faces of Dante and Beatrice.
    Assholes.
    If the thieves were devotees of Botticelli, small wonder they stole the illustrations. The size and weight of
Primavera
was so great, the painting couldn’t have been removed from the Uffizi without a team of men and the use of heavy equipment.
    The thieves were probably unaware that the
Birth of Venus
was housed in the restoration lab on the lower floor. The lab was secure, but its security was not as elaborate or sophisticated as that of the exhibition halls. However, like
Primavera
, the painting was large and heavy and would require several people to carry it. It wasn’t exactly a piece someone could pass through a window.
    With such thoughts in mind, Raven found herself entering the Botticelli room. Immediately, she walked over to stand in front of
Primavera
.
    The room felt off center. The large and imposing painting was usually balanced by the
Birth of Venus
, but it had been taken down almost a year before. It would be a few more months before it could be returned to its rightful place.
    Raven stepped close to
Primavera
, her eyes alighting on the lone male figure on the left. She was drawn to his hands, the muscles and shape of his arms, and his perfect skin. She admired his chest and neck and, finally, his face. He possessed pale eyes and a straight nose, his lips full, his hair long.
    Something about his hair displeased her, as if it were incongruous with the rest of him. But his face . . .
    She heard a voice whispering in her ear, but she couldn’t quite make out the words.
    She whirled around. There was no one behind her.
    She took a moment to close her eyes and focus on her breathing, trying with all her might to stave off the anxiety that plagued her.
    With one last glance at the painted figure of Mercury, she walked to the door, bracing herself for her meeting with Professor Urbano.

Chapter Seven
    A fter nightfall, Aoibhe sat in Teatro drinking from a glass specially designed to keep its contents warm and liquid.
    Teatro was a secret club, located in the city center. It had been founded by the Prince in the seventeenth century as a kind