The diary sat between us on the sofa, radiating my great-grandmother's spirit. I could see Christina felt it, too.
She said, "Sorry about what happened to her with that Aldo guy. I'm not sure I would've wanted to keep the baby with him as the father. It must have been terrible for her. But now you know definitely. You had a great-aunt Ginevra. She could've found the painting and hung it in her home."
"At this point, I don't even know if the baby lived or if it was Ginevra or turned out to be Giovanni. But I don't know anymore. I barely know my own name at this point."
"We should start searching for Ginevra on one of those genealogy sites," Christina said.
"We?"
Christina ignored my question. She shifted her back against the arm of the sofa and bent her head as she typed on her keyboard. "Today, Dr. Seabron showed us how the nanobes communicate. Well, not how they communicate, because they don't fully understand the mechanism." Christina peeked at me over the top of her laptop. "But we observed them communicating."
"That's cool. Maybe they were trying to communicate with you."
"It's not sophisticated communication, not really. It's more that they're aware of each other over small distances. It's probably an electrochemical signal thingy."
"Thingy? Interesting technical term."
"Fine, I suppose you're any better. Can you describe the nanotube research perfectly? Like a Nobel Prize winner, I suppose."
"Point taken. We are—well, Dr. Brunello is—experimenting with conductivity over larger distances. We have three spools of the stuff now."
"Stuff being a technical term?"
I sat sideways, my legs crossed yoga-style. Joking with Christina felt right, normal even. Digging for clues with her was fun. Especially after fighting to concentrate in the lab earlier when the diary had stuck in my head like one of those relentless song earworms.
Christina began humming and said, "I found a Ginevra Aliberti born in 1943. She immigrated to New York in 1949 with her parents, I guess. When did your great-grandmother come to the US?"
"Right after the war. I doubt that will be her."
"Let's not toss it out yet. Have you found anything?"
"I'm on the National Gallery of Art website. Remember Ms. Tyson talked about it, that they own the real portrait of Ginevra de' Benci."
"Or so you think. What if the painting at the National Gallery is her reproduction and the original is in a secret hiding place? What if she faked everybody out? What if..."
"You keep this up, and I'll decide you're one of those conspiracy nuts," I said.
"I'm just saying, your great-grandmother may have switched the paintings, kept the real one, and it's in a box in your grandparents' attic."
"You really are a nut. She didn't keep either of them. But if the one she planned to send to the US was the real one..."
"Exactly," Christina said, emphasizing the point with an arched eyebrow.
"No." I shook my head. "No way. She wouldn't have done that. She would have made sure it was seen, not stuffed away in some box. Besides, the National Gallery has experts who'd know."
"I saw a documentary about how art experts are fooled all the time. Even at big museums."
I stood. "Hold on. No way there is a multi-million-dollar painting in my grandparents' house. No way."
Sitting back down, I scrolled down the web page. "Give me a sec to read more. Okay, it says it was purchased from a royal house in Liechtenstein. Isn't that where my great-grandmother said she sent it?"
Christina flipped through the diary, checking the pages we had flagged. "Yep. Here it is. Liechtenstein."
"This is unbelievable. He left a fingerprint on the surface, in the paint. I mean, Leonardo's actual fingerprint. How cool is that?"
Christina held the diary up to my computer screen. "Here's the fingerprint from the diary. What if your great-grandmother placed it there, where it could be compared to Leonardo's? It's how we could know which painting was which. Zoom in for a closer side-by-side comparison."
I sighed. "They're not a match."
"The problem is it's one print. Out of a possible ten. We can't be sure," Christina said,
"No. I'm sure. The National Gallery definitely would be able to spot a fake. I don't care about some documentary you saw."
"We don't know what kind of tests they've done. They've had the painting a long time, way before advanced testing techniques existed. We know your great-grandmother used the right materials. She worked in conservation. She was a chemist. She would have known how to fool experts."
"Seriously? You believe my great-grandmother could have fooled experts? I know I keep saying this, but no way."
"No way what? Melisse sat down next to Christina and swiveled her head back and forth, waiting for one of us to answer.
Christina's look darted between me and Melisse.
I said to Melisse, "You better make yourself comfortable. You're gonna need a few minutes. And maybe a tinfoil hat."
~~~
Melisse slapped the diary closed.
"Done already?"
"Not quite. I'm texting Christina. We have to talk about this."
Ping.
"She's on her way." Melisse rolled off her bed and, following a light knock, opened the door. "C'mon in."
"What's up?" asked Christina after plopping down in one of the tufted chairs.
Melisse sat down on her bed and scooted back, resting on a pillow shoved against the headboard.
"Savanna, I know you'll try to say no, but here's how it is: You're too close to the situation to see what has to be done. Christina and I adding our perspective is critical to solving this puzzle."
It was my family, my problem, and with my old steely resentment creeping in, I had to check myself. If they could help me find the truth about whether Gramp had a sister, I should be glad for their help. I grunted in surprise.
Christina lifted her head at my grunt and said, "Give us a chance before you say no."
"I didn't mean that to be a refusal. It was more 'Go for it.' I know, shocking, right?"
"Okay then." Melisse stood up and paced back and forth at the foot of our beds as she spoke. "What do we know? Based on the part I read, we know your great-grandmother had the original Ginevra at one point and claimed to send it to safekeeping. We know she painted a copy. We don't know what happened to it."
For a hot second, I thought Christina was about to raise her hand, but instead, she waved it as she made her point. "We know she planned to send her other paintings to the United States. She would have included her Ginevra."
Melisse stopped pacing. "Yes. That's a possibility. But she mentions that she intended to send her diary along with her paintings. Either that didn't happen, or her paintings were sent much later than she planned."
Christina asked, "What does it matter when or how they were sent? What matters is where the other paintings are. Ginevra is probably with them. Savanna, have you ever seen any of her paintings?"
"Most are at my grandparents' house. And my dad has a few. I have photos of all the ones I know about. I documented them when I started this whole crazy thing. There was no Ginevra. They're all right here." I opened the photo file.
Melisse and Christina crowded around me on my bed as we scanned through the images. No Ginevra.
Melisse said, "I don't understand why Ginevra wouldn't be with these. This is unbelievably frustrating."
"Could be my great-grandmother never got over her habit of hiding it."
Christina said, "How long before you finish the diary? There could be more important stuff there." Reading from the diary, she asked, "What does this mean, this random comment she wrote, 'May Minerva watch over her'?"
I said, "No idea."
Melisse reached over me to use the touchpad and clicked on a painting of a woman in a toga. "Who's that?"
I zoomed in and scrolled over the image, passing over the helmet, shield, and spear in the woman's hand. "That's my dad's favorite painting of hers. It's in his home office. It's of..." I said as I opened the keyword link.
Christina and Melisse shouted at the same time. "Minerva!"
I grimaced. "Shhhh. People will be curious about what's going on."
Melisse bounced on my bed hard enough that my computer jumped off my lap.
Christina said, "This is the evidence she left for us to find. I absolutely know it."
I said, "Then let's go over the painting more closely to see if there are more clues." I zoomed in to examine the details. "Hold on. That's familiar to me."
Christina leaned in. "What's familiar?"
I pointed to the twig in Minerva's hand and opened the National Gallery website window showing the reverse side of their Ginevra. It depicted the exact same juniper branch.
Melisse seemed at a loss for words and flopped back on my bed. Bolting upright, she said, "Minerva is watching over Ginevra. Minerva is over Ginevra. Have you ever seen the back of this painting of Minerva?"
Christina caught my reaction and said, "Close your mouth or at least acknowledge that Melisse is a genius."
"I never looked at the back. I can't believe no one ever saw it in all these years."
Melisse thrust out her open hands. "We have to see the painting. Can we go to your house?"
Shaking her head, Christina said, "No way. We can't leave Parallax. Ask your grandmother to do it."
"I can't. I'd have to explain the whole story, and she'll think I've gone off the deep end, and she might say something to my parents. It would really hit the fan."
Christina said, "What if they expel us? Maybe we should ask Ms. Robbins."
Melisse frowned. "A big part of being an astronaut is being a risk-taker. We have to do this. For Savanna. And her grandfather. As far as Ms. Robbins goes, I don't think we should give her a chance to say no. My dad always says, 'Ask for forgiveness, not permission.' We should just do it."
Christina placed her hand on my arm. "I'm out. Savanna, you shouldn't do this. All the way to Alexandria? You'll be caught. I won't gamble my opportunity with Parallax. I hope you understand."
Christina's expression was serious and also worried. Worried about me. About whether I'd be mad. Whether I'd still be her friend. It was written in her eyes. And I knew, to be a real friend, I couldn't ask her to sacrifice herself for me. Not for this.
"I do understand. Completely. I won't be mad at you. But it's better if you go now. That way, if we're caught, you won't have to lie about being involved."
After the door closed behind Christina, I asked, "Who'll drive?"
Melisse said, "Duncan. You'll have to convince Duncan."
~~~
"There he is." Melisse nudged me in Duncan's direction.
"Don't push me." I turned my back to where Duncan stood in the lobby and moved close to Melisse. "Remind me again how I'm supposed to walk up to him and casually ask him to drive me four hours to Alexandria. And then back."
"Yes, walk up to him and..."
I interrupted her. "I didn't mean literally remind me."
"Geez. Lighten up. I was kidding."
"Sorry. It feels weird."
In that moment between thinking and acting, I gave Kate an opening I hadn't foreseen. From the opposite side, she crossed the lobby calling Duncan's name. Her side-eye in our direction suggested she was aware of us, but I couldn't be sure of anything with Kate.
Duncan turned at his name and smiled the kind of smile I'd hoped he'd save for me. Kate hesitated as if his reaction was unexpected, but then she recovered, linking her arm through his and whispering in his ear. Duncan dipped his chin and Kate kissed him on his cheek. She swept away, with her mission accomplished. Assuming said mission was to upset me.
I did an about-face, ready to cut my losses. I continued with my objections. "It's eight hours roundtrip, plus the time spent there. And we'll have to do it at night. If we left at seven, the earliest we'd be back is around six a.m. He'd have to stay awake all night and work the next day. I can't ask him to do that. Why would Duncan help me?"
"Help you with what? Duncan asked as he stopped his luggage cart next to us.
I froze. Asking for such a huge favor, along with the idea of spending so much time with Duncan, made my thought process shut down like the Spinning Beach Ball of Death on my computer. The odds of getting caught seemed high. I might be kicked out of Parallax. Would he lose his job, even if his father was president of Hidden Springs? On the other hand, my problem would be solved. I'd be a step closer to answers about my great-grandmother. And maybe I'd be just fine and have plenty to talk about with Duncan.
Melisse jumped in. "Savanna has to go to Alexandria. By car. Without anyone knowing."
"What?" Duncan looked at us like we were out of our minds. It was a reasonable assessment. "Why on earth are you planning a secret trip to Alexandria?"
Breathe in. Breathe out.
"Remember the diary and my plan to help my grandfather? Well, we're pretty sure the answer to whether or not Gramp has a sister is at my house."
"Pretty sure or sure?"
"Hear us out."
Melisse and I explained the details that we'd gone over a bunch of times after Christina had left our room. It made sense then and it still made sense. As we finished, Duncan began nodding, showing us he understood.
Heaving a gigantic sigh, Duncan otherwise remained silent. Then, as he rolled the cart away, he said, "Okay, I'll do it."
I ran after him and hugged him even though I couldn't help but think this was a stupid idea that could backfire. In fact, it probably would. But for Gramp, it was worth it.
"Thank you. It means a lot. But only do it if you're sure you won't get in trouble. I'll text you later to see when we can go."
"Oh. No, that's not necessary. We're going now. I have the afternoon off. Melisse will stay here to cover for you."
"I can't have her cover for me. She's going with us."
"No, she has to stay here. If it goes wrong, she'll be in worse trouble if she's with us. Give me an hour, and then be ready to go."
~~~
A fence separated our backyard from the park. Duncan and I skirted the edge of the yard, staying close to the tall shrubbery. I hesitated at the door, reminding myself to key in the maintenance code instead of my personal code. We both sighed loudly when the lock clicked open.
There it was.
We lifted the painting off the wall behind my dad's desk. I turned the painting over and laid it down carefully on a towel.
Using needle-nose pliers, I pulled at the edge of the nails that held the linen backing in place. The nail heads were tacked down too tightly, and the cloth began to tear. I searched the toolbox for another tool; it had to be thin to wedge under the nail and strong enough to force it out of the frame.
"Will this do?" Duncan took a box cutter from the mug my dad used for pens.
"Might as well try." I slid the button that pushed the blade out of the safety handle.
Duncan held the frame steady. His voice rose as the blade edged under the nail. "It's working."
I pried the nails loose and pulled the backing from the frame.
When I gasped, Duncan asked, "What's wrong? It's like you've seen a ghost."
I compared the image on my phone to the painting in front of me. It was a duplicate of the reverse of the real da Vinci with the same symbolic references about the virtues of the young Ginevra, all the details Ms. Tyson had talked about. I skimmed my fingers over the painting, touching the canvas that my great-grandmother had painted, confident that her copy of Ginevra was on the other side.
"In a way, I am seeing a ghost. I can't explain it, but mentally, I'm being transported back to the war and watching over my great-grandmother's shoulder as she paints."
"Shhh. Someone's coming." Duncan jumped at a noise from the yard. He went to the window then said, "No, it's a cat."
"Geez, don't do that. You scared me. This has to be done carefully. We don't know what's under here, and I don't want to do any damage, assuming there's anything that could be damaged."
Duncan sucked in his lips. "This will be better than any prize in a cereal box; you can count on that. Here's my flashlight."
I peeled back the corner. The vague shape of a head, then the light glinted off the hair—Ginevra's curls. As I pried more of the canvas free, there was an edge of paper, so I held the light closer. "There's an envelope! It's not thick, but it's too big to pull out this way. Two more nails now, that's all."
As I pulled the envelope from its forgotten hiding place, the only sounds were the cicadas outside chirruping for mates. Duncan and I locked eyes and simultaneously leaned forward. This was it.
"You open it. I can't do it. It could be nothing."
"You can't possibly believe that. Nobody hides an envelope in a painting unless there's a good reason." Duncan took the envelope from me.
"Well, now that's interesting."
"What? Tell me." I tried to grab the papers from his hand.
"Careful. The paper's brittle. It's old." Duncan handed me a page.
The cicadas went silent. "Someone's really coming this time!"
I opened my backpack and slipped the papers and envelope between my laptop and notebook. We darted upstairs, careful to avoid being seen, and I yanked Duncan into the cubbyhole near the back door. From years of hide and seek, I knew that we wouldn't be seen from outside.
"Hello? Is there someone in there? I'm calling the police." Mr. Wickson. I recognized the raspiness and knew my parents had given him a key and our alarm passcode. I hoped he wouldn't decide to be brave and come in the house.
I waited about a minute, then jumped from the cabinet and peeked out the window. I could see Mr. Wickson crossing the yard to his back door. I waited until the hedge hid him from view.
"Okay. Now!"
We ran out, climbed over the fence into the park, and down the path to the parking lot where we'd left the car. When we got to the car, we were both breathing hard. A police siren screamed.
"The park entrance is too close to our house. We'll never make it down the street without being stopped." I slumped against the car.
"Hop in. I have an idea." Duncan turned on the ignition and flicked through his phone. Music wafted from the car speakers.
"What the hell, Duncan? We're about to be arrested and you put on mood music?"
When the police cruiser pulled up, Duncan winked at me, and then his expression went blank. He put his hand behind my head and pulled me towards him. As he kissed me, a car door slammed. At least, I think it was a car door.
"Hey, you kids! Take it out of the park. It's too late for you to be out fooling around. Do your parents know you're out here?" The flashlight blinded me a bit.
"Sorry, officer. We didn't mean to cause any trouble," Duncan said. I saw only the back of Duncan's head, but I imagined he wore a suitably self-conscious expression.
"Okay, get on out of here. When I come back through later, I better not see you."
We drove out to the street and away from the house and headed back to Hidden Springs.
Duncan whistled lightly. "I guess we must have been pretty convincing."
"Yeah. Must have been." I looked straight ahead at the road. "Shit." I couldn't believe it.
"What's wrong?"
"The painting." I began to rub my temples, but it didn't help.
"What about it?" Duncan turned toward me.
"We left the painting on the desk."
"Oh, boy. What should we do?"
I stared out at the road again. "Keep going. The police will think someone was trying to steal the painting, but they'll never connect it to us. My fingerprints can be explained away. Did you touch anything?"
Duncan didn't answer immediately, then said with a nervous edge, "The box cutter."
"Is that all?"
"Is that all! That's enough for me to be arrested," Duncan said as he held the steering wheel in a death grip.
"First of all, I'd never let it go that far. I'd tell them the truth. Second of all..."
"Second of all what?" When Duncan saw me holding up the box cutter, he tilted his head back before laughing.
It was one of those honest laughs that are a reaction to the moment, not planned or filtered for some hidden purpose. It reminded me of the way I used to laugh. When I trusted people.
"Can I ask you something? Do you think I'm unfriendly?" I looked out the side window even though it was too dark to see anything.
"I think you prefer to be on your own."
"Do you think people can change?"
"Do you want to? You're kind of independent. But in a good way."
I was silent for a few minutes while I thought about it. Then I asked, "Would you still like me if I wasn't?"
"If it meant we'd spend more time together, yeah, I think I would." With a hint of a smile, Duncan glanced at me and then back at the road. "You sure have been full of surprises lately."
For the first time in forever, I felt truly myself with someone besides Gramp. I turned on my overhead light and began to read.
I whispered, "It's a birth certificate for Ginevra. And possibly adoption papers. I'm not exactly sure what this one says."
"Why would a painting have a birth certificate? That doesn't even make sense."
"You don't understand. She named the baby after the painting. This is the evidence I was trying to find, proving that my grandfather had a half-sister. If these other papers are what I'm guessing they are, then it means the baby was given up for adoption."
I'd done it, but not alone. I had help from Melisse and Christina. And Duncan. I guess that made us a team. I'd have tee shirts made: Team Missing Sister. No, too depressing, which was so far from my mood. Team Ancestor Hunt? No, that was a yawner. Nothing could express the bundle of happiness, excitement, and thankfulness that seemed about to burst out of me.
There was no way a tee shirt slogan could capture my mood. Because, after all, they weren't just a team. They were my friends. Friends who would help me give a gift to Gramp that would make me smile for the rest of my life, RBF aside.
The only thing left was to keep reading to find out if my great-grandmother wrote more about Ginevra and hope that I could somehow trace her.
My obsession was about to end. I'd learn if Ginevra had lived and what had happened to her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
10 giugno 1944
They call it D-Day. The day the Americans landed in France and engaged in a battle they say will change the course of the war.
If it is true, my baby will grow up in a free Italy. It is my greatest hope and my greatest fear. For if John cannot accept her, I will not return to America.
14 novembre 1944
Ginevra is here. I was fortunate that Signora Ossola has worked as a midwife. The experience was less dangerous than it might have been. I am exhausted but elated to see this tiny person fight to enter the world, as we have fought to survive the war for these many years. The drive is strong, the one we humans have, to grasp life and not let go.
12 dicembre 1944
How can the bombings be worse? Yet they are, even here in the country. The devastation seems endless. There is little food. The weather continues to be brutal; I wonder at our ability to endure.
Mira Ossola and I are both nursing. Her son, Matteo, is four months older than my Ginevra. We two must stay healthy for our babies. We must find food if we are all to survive.
22 dicembre 1944
Matteo is gone. Illness has swept the farm, many have succumbed. Influenza perhaps, it has hit the very young and the oldest among us the hardest. My grief is as great as Mira's, though my child lives and shows no signs of the brutal cough. I cannot bear to lose her.
I am nearly ruined by the knowledge the world is a brutish place, taking from us something so precious when the war is turning. I will protect Ginevra from the harshness as long as I can, but I don't know how much more any of us can take.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~