Stay the Night by Lynn Viehl Page A

ton.”
    â€œForty-three pounds, eleven and a half ounces,” Chris corrected him absently as she lifted an edge of the protective padding to admire the gem-encrusted front cover. “It looks as if it were handmade yesterday, doesn’t it? Time, war, and ignorance destroyed almost all of the paintings made during the Middle Ages, but manuscripts like these were usually overlooked or better protected. They’re like time capsules of lost art.”
    â€œI thought even the most expensive books fell apart after a century,” Hutch said.
    â€œBrother Crewes developed some secret recipes to make his inks, paints, and vellum more colorful and, at the same time, more resistant to smearing and tearing. Experts have analyzed samples and identified linen, hair, and bone fibers, all preserved by a blend of five or six unknown organic substances. Whatever he used made the ink and paint permeate the vellum—that’s why he glued the back of each page to the front of the next one—and rendered it as sturdy as varnished canvas, but as flexible as wood-pulp paper. Over time, his formulas also prevented mold, fungus, and every other deteriorating agent from attacking the manuscript.”
    The binding made an odd, slithering sound as Chris opened the cover to gaze at the first page, which had been covered with a layer of solid gold leaf, inlaid with enameled eluminures in the shapes of letters that spelled out the title. The brilliant jewel-tone colors of the lettering appeared as if they had been painted an hour ago.
    â€œAre those rubies?” Hutch asked, peering at the rows of square-cut flat gems forming a rectangle around the words.
    â€œBeryls.” Chris had to clench her fingers to keep from touching the surface of the page. “Rubies over three carats are rare, and they’re harder to find, so they didn’t come into common use until a few centuries later.” She took a letter opener from the desk drawer and used it to carefully turn the page. The next illustration, a miniature painting of the Garden of Eden bordered by interlacing colonnades of angels with flaming swords, took her breath away. “You can count the veins on every leaf. I read one book about Crewes that claimed he painted the smallest details with an eyelash he had filed down and glued to his own fingertip.”
    Hutch’s whistle stirred the edge of the page. “He had some steady hands on him—and skinny eyelashes.”
    â€œThis is an incredibly well-preserved artifact, but it’s seven hundred years old. Even our breathing on it could damage the pages.” Chris gently closed the manuscript and returned it to the case. “It’s wrong to use this. It shouldn’t be handled by anyone but a trained conservationist. It should be in the Smithsonian, right next to the Hope Diamond.”
    â€œWe’re putting it in a hermetically sealed glass case,” Dennis put in. “Coincidentally, we convinced the Smithsonian to lend us one of their new laser security nets for arming the case. Don’t worry, Agent Renshaw. No one will be putting a finger on it.”
    Chris thought of some of the security systems the Magician had disabled, pulled off her gloves, and stood. “I’d like to personally oversee the installation.”
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    All the wrong Jane Moran had done was shoplift some diet pills that her mother refused to buy her. She could have bought them, but they were expensive, and she was saving her allowance for a new wardrobe. By summer she planned to be in size threes. That was it; that was all.
    But the stupid clerk at the stupid drugstore had seen Jane put the pills in her purse, and the manager had called the police, and everyone had totally overreacted. Then the family-court judge had decided to really make her suffer.
    She would never have touched so much as a Slim-Fast bar if she’d known about community service. For the next six months she had to spend