was just as well considering he had twenty different master builders on-site.
‘Signor! Signor, venga ora!’
He left his desk in the main palazzo and rushed outside to the site of the chapel. His stomach was twisting. Please don’t let them have found anything that would hold up the build. The last thing he needed was some unexpected hundred-year-old bones or a hoard of Roman crockery or coins.
This was Italy. It wouldn’t be the first time something unexpected had turned up on a restoration project.
He reached the entrance to the ancient chapel and the first thing that struck him was the fact there was no noise. For the last few weeks the sound of hammers on stone and the chatter of Italian voices had been constant. Now every builder stood silently, all looking towards one of the walls.
The interior of the chapel had been redecorated over the years. Much of the original details and façade had been hidden. The walls had been covered first in dark, inlaid wood and then—strangely—painted over with a variety of paints. Every time Logan came across such ‘improvements’ he cringed. Some were just trends of the time—others were individual owners’ ideas of what made the building better. In restoration terms that usually meant that original wood and stone had been ripped away and replaced with poorer, less durable materials. Sometimes the damage done was irreparable.
His eyes widened as he strode forward into the chapel. Light was streaming through the side windows and main door behind him. The small stained-glass windows behind the altar were muted and in shadow. But that didn’t stop the explosion of riotous colour on the far wall.
A few of the builders had been tasked with pulling down the painted wooden panelling to expose the original walls underneath.
There had been no indication at all that this was what would be found.
Now he understood the shouts. Now he understood the silence.
Beneath the roughly pulled-back wood emerged a beautiful fresco. So vibrant, the colours so fresh it looked as if it had just been painted.
Logan’s heart rate quickened as he reached the fresco. He started shaking his head as a smile became fixed on his face.
This was amazing. It was one of the most traditional of frescoes, depicting the Madonna and Child. Through his historical work Logan had seen hundreds of frescoes, even attending a private viewing of the most famous of all at the Sistine Chapel.
But the detail in this fresco was stunning and being able to see it so close was a gift. He could see every line, every brushstroke. The single hairs on Mary’s head, baby Jesus’s eyelashes, the downy hair on his skin, the tiny lines around Mary’s eyes.
Both heads in the fresco were turned upwards to the heavens, where the clouds were parted, a beam of light illuminating their faces.
Part of the fresco was still obscured. Logan grabbed the nearest tool and pulled back the final pieces of broken wood, being careful not to touch the wall. Finally the whole fresco was revealed to the viewers in the chapel.
It was the colour that was most spectacular. It seemed that the years behind the wood had been kind to the fresco. Most that he’d seen before had been dulled with age, eroded by touch and a variety of other elements. There had even been scientific studies about the effects of carbon dioxide on frescoes. ‘Breathing out’ could cause harm.
But this fresco hadn’t had any of that kind of exposure. It looked as fresh as the day it had been painted.
His hand reached out to touch the wall and he immediately pulled it back. It was almost magnetic—the pull of the fresco, the desire to touch it. He’d never seen one so vibrant, from the colour of Mary’s dark blue robe to the white and yellow of the brilliant beam of light. The greens of the surrounding countryside, the pink tones of Jesus’s skin, the ochre of the small stool on which Mary sat and the bright orange and red flowers depicted around them. It took his breath away.
He’d hoped to restore this chapel to its former glory—but he’d never expected to find something that would surpass all his expectations.
‘Signor? Signor? What will we do?’ Vito, one of the builders, appeared at his elbow. His eyes were wide, his face smeared with dirt.
‘Take the rest of the day off,’ Logan said quickly. ‘All of you.’ He turned to face the rest of the staff. ‘Let me decide how to proceed. Come back tomorrow.’
There were a few nods. Most eyes were still transfixed on the wall.
There was a flurry at the entranceway and Louisa, the new owner of the palazzo, appeared. ‘Logan? What’s going on? I heard shouts. Is something...?’ Her voice tailed off and her legs automatically propelled her forward.
Louisa Harrison was the American who’d inherited Palazzo di Comparino and hired him to renovate both it and the chapel back to their former beauty. She was hard to gauge. Tall and slim, her long blond hair was tied up in a ponytail and she was wearing yoga pants and a loose-fitting top. Her brow was furrowed as she looked at the fresco and shook her head. ‘This was here?’ She looked around at the debris on the floor. ‘Behind the panelling?’
He nodded while his brain tried to process his thoughts. Louisa would have no idea what the implications of this could be.
She turned back to face him, her face beaming. ‘This is wonderful. It’s amazing. The colours are so fresh it’s as if the painter just put down his paintbrush today. I’ve never seen anything like this. Have you?’
He took a deep breath and chose his words carefully. ‘I’ve seen a few.’ He gave a nod to the wall. ‘But none as spectacular as this.’
She was still smiling. It was the most animated he’d seen her since he’d got here. Louisa rarely talked to the tradesmen or contractors and when she did it was all business. No personal stuff. He’d learned quickly that she was a woman with secrets and he still had no idea how she’d managed to inherit such a wonderful part of Italian history.
But her intentions seemed honourable. She’d hired him after going along with the request for a wedding venue from Prince Antonio. And with his growing reputation, thriving architecture business and natural curiosity there had been no way he’d turn down the opportunity to do these renovations.
‘It will be the perfect backdrop for the wedding,’ Louisa said quietly, her eyes still fixed on the fresco. ‘Won’t it?’
He swallowed. Exactly how could he put this?
‘It could be. I’ll need to make some calls.’
‘To whom?’
‘Any new piece of art has to be reported and examined.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘And a fresco falls under that category?’
He nodded. ‘A fresco, any uncovered relics, a mosaic, a tiled floor...’ He waved his hand and gave a little smile. ‘We Italians like to keep our heritage safe. So much of it has already been lost.’
‘And you know who to call? You can sort this all out?’ He could almost hear her brain ticking over.
He gave a quick nod.
‘Then
