“Don’t you want to know how much I charge?” Lucy asked, taken aback by the girl’s abrupt demeanor.

“Charge what you want. I need to know if it’s real.” Her voice was hard.

Lucy sighed. It would be some diary found in an attic trunk, worth no more than its sentimental value. That’s what usually walked in her door. The bookstore was just creaking by, yielding only enough income to hold body and soul together. She’d charge the woman a hundred bucks just to make the service seem worthwhile and tell her the bad news.

The large book revealed on Lucy’s counter had a beautiful tooled leather binding. Who would do something so expensive for a diary? The style was almost High Renaissance, with scenes of angels swirling up toward a radiant cloud. Lucy ran her hand over it. Not stamped. You could clearly see the mark of the awl in several places.

There was no title page, only a dedication . . . in archaic Italian:

For Contessa Donnatella Margherita Luchella di Poliziano, from her friend Leonardo da Vinci. I dedicate to you my greatest work.

A chill ran down Lucy’s spine. It couldn’t be. Get hold of yourself. A fraud. The writing was certain proof. She turned a page. Her eyes scanned the note.

What you see before you is a time machine.

Right. Somebody was trying to put one over on the academic community. They’d probably go for it, hook, line, and sinker, too. Who didn’t want to believe that Leonardo da Vinci had built a time machine? She scanned again. Something about only the Contessa having enough power to make the machine run. . . .