Christopher was thoroughly unimpressed by the Sistine Chapel. He knew that it was a famous church and that people in his era paid loads of money to come and look at it, but he personally couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. It looked like any other over-the-top church he’d ever been in. Not to mention it was cold!
He shivered as he turned to look at Malcolm. “So, genius. What now?”
“I thought you were the leader,” Malcolm replied coldly.
“Look!” Madeleine cried.
Chris followed her pointing finger to the center of the chapel. There, on the marble floor, was a strange pattern of black streaks. Scorch marks.
Chris ran over, the others following. He looked at the pattern of marks that were radiating from a central spot. They looked remarkably like footprints. They were small, the right size for Oliver, Chris knew, because he’d taken great pleasure in filling his stupid brother’s shoes with condiments.
“He was definitely here,” Chris said through gritted teeth.
He swirled on the spot, glancing about him for any clues as to where Oliver might have gone.
Just then, he saw movement coming from the pulpits.
“Hey!” he called out.
A shadow darted out. Chris went after it.
A robed figure was hurrying through the benches. Chris caught up to it and reached out with his hand, grabbing the figure by the shoulder and spinning it to face him.
It was an elderly priest. He had a wrinkled face and was a whole head shorter than Chris. He looked terrified. Chris got the distinct impression that this man knew something.
“Why are you running from me?” Chris demanded.
The old man brought his arms up to his face, cowering. “Are you with them? The angels?”
“Angels?” Chris asked. “What are you talking about?”
“The boy…” the priest stammered. “Who stood there and was bathed in the light of angels.”
He pointed at the center of the room, the spot where Chris knew Oliver had stood as he’d been imbued with celestial powers. The old fool thought he’d witnessed something divine, Chris realized, scoffing internally at the mere stupidity of normal mortals.
“Where did he go? The angel,” Chris asked, his tone turning to disgust as he used the word “angel” in relation to his awful brother.
The old man seemed hesitant, so Chris tightened his grip on his robes, bunching them into his fists. He would happily resort to violence if he needed to.
“Where?” he asked again, his voice growing louder and echoing throughout the vast chapel.
“The… the… the…”
“Spit it out!” Chris bellowed, raising a fist.
The priest cowered, bringing his hands up to protect his face. “The apothecary! They went with the apothecary!”
Chris paused. He let his fist fall. “The what now?”
“An apothecary is like an ancient pharmacist,” came Malcolm’s know-it-all voice. “Someone who works with chemicals and substances to make medicine.”
Chris let go of the elderly priest’s robes, shoving him for good measure. The man scurried away through the pews until he was swallowed by the shadows.
Chris turned to face Malcolm. “Okay, show-off,” he said. “Why don’t you take us to this apothecary then, since you’re so smart.”
Malcolm raised his haughty eyebrows to show that the challenge would be easy. “No problem. He’ll probably be the only one in town. Everyone will know him. We just have to ask for directions.”
They headed out of the chapel and back through the fancy, well-maintained streets of the Vatican, before crossing the bridge back into crumbling, run-down Rome.
It was now completely dark. Without street lamps, it was very difficult to see where they were.
As they trudged after Malcolm, Chris noticed the girls were growing more and more discontent.
“We’ve already passed this building,” Natasha complained.
“Yeah, you’re leading us in circles, Malcolm,” Madeleine added.
Chris smirked to himself. This was just what he wanted. He wanted the two girls to turn on Malcolm and follow him as their true leader.
“It’s the darkness,” Malcolm snapped, sounding increasingly frustrated. “How am I supposed to know what direction I’m going when I can’t see anything?”
Just then, Madeleine tapped into her seer powers and conjured a small floating flame. “That better?” she asked.
“Yes,” Malcolm said, pursing his lips like a bee had stung him in the mouth.
In the dim light, they could now see they were back on the bank of the river, quite close to the spot where they’d graffitied their names. In fact, Chris could see the bright blue paint poking out from behind the hedge just a little farther up the street across from them.
“Wait,” he said, realizing something. “That’s our graffiti. But look, the bushes have moved.”
Natasha and Madeleine turned to look too.
“You’re right,” Madeleine said. “Someone’s been in the bushes to look more closely at what we did.”
“I bet it was Oliver,” Chris added. “Who else would even think to?”
He felt a swell of excitement. If Oliver had come this way, they may be closer than ever to finding him.
“Look there!” Madeleine cried.
She was pointing down a side street. There was a row of tightly packed buildings that looked like cottages, and hanging on a wall sconce beside one was a burning torch. It illuminated a small wooden sign that flapped back and forth in the breeze. On the sign was a symbol that looked like the cross commonly used by pharmacists.
“Let’s try there!” Madeleine said.
Chris smiled. “Good work,” he said.
She returned his smile, clearly pleased to have been praised. Malcolm glared angrily, evidently annoyed that Madeleine had solved the search for the apothecary instead of him.
They hurried down the street, and Chris pounded on the wooden door with his fist. There came the sound of shuffling from inside, then the sound of the latch being turned. The door creaked open an inch, a small golden chain stopping it from opening fully.
A man’s face appeared in the gap.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Chris felt a grin begin to spread slowly across his cheeks. “That depends,” he said, “on how much you feel like talking.”
The apothecary only had time to gulp before Chris kicked the door. The chain snapped and the door flew fully open. Pounding his fist into his palm, Chris led his troops inside.