The glittering vision that had taken shape in my imagination faded, to be replaced by another picture, equally vivid and far less appealing. My imagination is excellent, and it had plenty of information to work with; in my naïve youth I had visited several torture museums, before it occurred to me that my subsequent nightmares might have some connection with the grisly exhibits. You don’t forget things like that—ugly things like thumbscrews and the rack, the iron boot that crushed flesh and bone, the black metal shape of the Maiden, with her sickly archaic smile. I could see the old man in my mind’s eye too. There is a self-portrait of Riemenschneider on the altarpiece he did for the church at Creglingen. His face is jowly and a little plump in that carving. It wouldn’t have been plump after a few weeks in the bishop’s prison. It would have been emaciated and smeared with filth, like his aging body—marred by festering rat-bites and the marks of pincer, awl, and fire. Oh, yes, I could see the whole thing only too clearly, and I could see Burckhardt standing by, cheering the torturers on. One of the great creative artists of his century, gloated over by a lout whose skull was as thick as his armor—who couldn’t even write his own name.

I worked myself into such a state of rage and horror that I made a fatal mistake. I didn’t feel Tony’s breath on the back of my neck until he let it out in a windy gasp.

Clutching the book to my bosom, I turned my head. My forehead hit Tony on the nose. A blow on that appendage hurts; it maddens the victim. Holding his nose with one hand, Tony grabbed with the other. Instinctively I resisted. An undignified struggle ensued. I gave up the book, finally, rather than see it damaged. Tony was mad enough to tear the pages apart.

He was panting when he sat back, clutching his prize and eyeing me warily.

“Don’t worry,” I said coldly. “You’re safe from me.”

“Thanks. You female Benedict Arnold, were you going to keep this a secret?”

“Keep what a secret?”

“Don’t be cute, it doesn’t suit you. I was reading over your shoulder for some time, Vicky. And I know my Riemenschneider as well as you do.”

I maintained a haughty silence while he read the letters again. When he looked up from the book, his eyes were shining.

“Hey,” he said, grinning like a boy idiot. “Hey. Do you realize—”

“I realize that we are late. That we are going to be even later. If you want to offend Mr. Myers—”

“All right,” Tony said. “All right!”

He got to his feet—always a fascinating process to watch, because of the length of his arms and legs—and glowered down at me.

“All right,” he repeated monotonously. “If that’s how you’re going to be, then that’s how—uh—you’re going to be. Let’s go.”

He was still carrying the book when he stormed out the door.