His eyes bulged wider than usual. “To what’s buried beneath?”

I nodded.

He violently shook his head.

I slung my arm around his shoulder and said, “I know a dealer up in the hill towns who specializes in rare birds.”

His raven squawked, “Rare birds,” and with that, Sodoma led me away.

The downstairs hallway was so cold that my breath hung in the air. Spiderwebs collected in corners. Dust thickened on floorboards. I recounted our steps. “We’re directly beneath Pope Julius’s apartments, aren’t we?”

Sodoma’s hand paused on the handle of a closed door. “I shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here.” He backed away from the door. “Let the accursed Spaniard be,” he said and then turned and stumbled back up the stairs.

“Thank you, Sodoma,” I called but got no response. His fumbling footsteps faded.

I was desperate for a place to sleep—I couldn’t survive those wolves again—but thinking about what was buried down there made my stomach wobble. Would I find the accursed Spaniard— whoever he was—lying in a sarcophagus or hanging from the ceiling or rotting in some arcane torture device? The door handle— bronze with a crusty patina of teal—opened with a light touch. The hinges creaked.

I put my arm over my mouth and nostrils and stepped into the room. There was no window or torch, so it took several moments for my eyes to adjust. Tarps covered the ceiling, walls, furniture, floors. I moved through the adjoining rooms. More tarps, but no coffins or dead bodies. I lowered my sleeve and took in a hesitant breath—musty and dusty but no hint of rot. I found a window and pulled back the drapery, letting in light. Dust billowed. Behind another tarp, I found a cabinet. The handles were rusted, but the drawers were empty. Wipe them out, and I could keep a few clothes inside. My foot caught on one of the floor tarps; it moved, exposing blue-and-white tile floors. Wait, were those Spanish tiles? The back of my neck tingled.

Santa Sara. I knew where I was.

I tore tarps off walls and ceilings. It wasn’t a body buried down there, was it? No. It was worse than a hanging corpse or ghost. What was buried down there—in those rooms, covered by tarps, shrouded from view—was fresco after fresco after fresco decorating those walls. Masterpiece after masterpiece after masterpiece.