The Fresco Restorers – Part 2: The Veil

They painted the veil in April.

It took a week. They mixed the tone together, a pale warm grey with a breath of rose, thin as watercolour. Lorenzo laid the first wash with a brush so small it seemed to hover. Beatrice stood by with the palette. Neither spoke. Dust motes drifted in the light from the high windows.

When the last stroke dried, they stepped back to the edge of the scaffold and looked up.

The messenger hung in the blue, his body radiant, his wings spread, his face a soft cloud of light. It was neither a lie nor a gap. It was exactly right.

"Oh," breathed Beatrice.

"Yes."

"It's beautiful."

"It's yours," said Lorenzo. "I only said no first."

She laughed, and her eyes filled. "You were right."

"We were both right."

The scaffold creaked. Below, the hall was dim and cool, the benches empty, the marble hearth glowing faintly. A tram bell rang somewhere across the river. The light through the window had turned the colour of honey.

"Can I ask you something?" said Lorenzo.

"Yes."

"When the work ends, in June, may I take you to dinner? Somewhere that isn't a scaffold."

"I'd like that." She turned to him, breathless. "May I kiss you first?"

"Yes," said Lorenzo. "And if you say stop, you must clean the whole north wall."

"That's six months of work."

"I would help."

She kissed him, softly, a dust-pale hand on his chest. He kissed her back with slow, grave sweetness, his hands rising to cradle her face. The light shifted over the veiled messenger above them, and the whole hall seemed to hold its breath.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Beatrice. "Very green."

The messenger is still there, with his soft veil of light. A small plaque beneath it says only: Restored by two people, who disagreed.

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