When I stared at the paper, I let go a sound of disgust. It was blank, utterly blank. The Devil had played a joke—and a poor one, at that.
Had the hearth been lit, I would have thrown it into the fire. But I curbed my temper, smoothed out the creases, and put it in a drawer. I intended to use it for correspondence, since it was of fine quality, neatly cut and bleached white.
Late that night, the sound of Matteo’s wailing in the distant nursery woke me; it stopped quickly once the wet nurse rose to feed him, but I could not return to sleep. The air was unseasonably warm; I lay sweating on my bed and fidgeted restlessly while Zalumma slept on her cot.
The words of the priest returned to me:
Read this only at night—tonight, when you are alone.
I rose. In the darkness, I moved with deliberation and care, despite the fact that Zalumma was difficult to wake. I lit a candle, opened the drawer beside my bed very slowly, and retrieved the paper given me by the priest.
Feeling both foolish and frightened, I held it up to the flame.
I stared into the white blankness and frowned—until inspiration struck. I brought the paper closer to the heat, so close that the flame flared toward it and began to darkly smoke.
Before my eyes, letters began to appear, transparent and watery brown. I drew in a silent, startled breath.
Greetings.
I regret I could not respond to your earlier letter.
Tomorrow at sext, go unaccompanied to ask God for the answer.
For centuries, the faithful had divided the day into hours of prayer: The most familiar were matins, at dawn, and vespers, in the evening. After dawn, there came the third hour of the morning, terce, and the sixth hour, sext, at midday.
I stared at the writing, at the perfectly vertical letters, with the long, flourished
f
’s and
l
’s, the squat
n
’s, the careless spelling. I had seen it only twice before in my life, but I recognized it at once.
Greetings, Madonna Lisa, from Milan. . . .
F
or the remainder of the night I did not sleep, but lay in my bed pondering the letter. Go pray, it had said.
Unaccompanied.
Surely this meant I should leave the palazzo; but there were easily a hundred churches in Florence. Where had he meant for me to go?
In the end, I decided only one place was logical: Santissima Annunziata, our family chapel, where I could easily go to pray at matins or sext without arousing suspicion, where I had last encountered the Devil.
In the morning, I rose without saying anything to Zalumma, but she sensed my agitation and asked me what was troubling me. When I told her of my intention to pray—alone—she scowled. I rarely went anywhere without her.
“This has to do with the letter,” she said. Her words gave me a start, until I realized she was referring to the letter the devilish young intruder had dropped, the one I had told her about. “I know you don’t mean to frighten me, Madonna, but I can’t help worrying. I would not like to think you are becoming involved in dangerous matters.”
“I would never be so foolish,” I said, but even I heard the uncertainty in my tone.
She shook her head. “Go alone, then,” she said darkly, pressing against the limits of what a slave might say to a mistress. “Just remember that you have a child.”
My answer held a trace of heat. “I would never forget.”
The driver took me to Santissima Annunziata. I directed him to wait in the open square in front of the church, across from the graceful colonnades of the Foundling Hospital. Just as the bells began to call the faithful, I stepped over the threshold of the narthex, passed the monks and worshipers moving into the sanctuary, and made my way to our little chapel.
The room was empty, which both disappointed and relieved me. No priest awaited; the candles were unlit, the air unclouded by incense. I had made no arrangements, had told no one save Zalumma and the driver of my coming. Uncertain, I went to the altar and knelt. For the next few minutes, I calmed myself by reciting the rosary. When I at last heard light, quick footsteps behind me, I turned.
The Devil stood smiling, in his guise as Servite monk. His cowl covered his head; his hands held folds of black fabric.
“Monna Lisa,” he said. “Will you come with me?” He was trying to play the role, to be polite and circumspect, but he could not entirely mask the slyness in his voice, his eyes.
In answer, I rose. As I approached him, he proffered the black fabric; the folds came loose, revealing a cloak.
“This is silly,” I said, more to myself than to him.
“Not at all,” he replied, and held the cloak open for me, his gaze darting all the while at the chapel door. “It will make sense shortly.”
I let him drape the cloak over me, let him raise the cowl and pull it forward so that my cap and veil were covered, my face obscured. The black cotton hung low, trailing on the floor so that it hid my skirts.
“Come,” he said.
He led me back out onto the street, a safe distance from where my carriage waited; the plaza was busy, filled with men and children and vendors, so that no one noticed two friars. He steered me to a rickety wagon tied to a post and harnessed to an aging, swaybacked horse.
“Let me help you up.” He gestured for me to climb into the seat.
“No.” I realized suddenly that this young man had been capable of breaking into my house like a thief. How could I be certain that he did not mean to abduct and question me about my husband’s secret activities?
He raised his hands in a show of disgusted innocence. “Then don’t come. Go back to your pretty palace. Close your eyes.”
He meant what he said; he had taken a step away from me. If I wanted, I could leave him and go back into the chapel. I could walk across the piazza to my driver. “Help me up,” I said.
He did so, then untied the reins and climbed up beside me. “A few precautions first.” He reached for a bit of cloth on the seat between us. Quickly, deftly, he shook out the folds and reached inside my raised hood. His fingers, so fast and nimble, teased the fabric around my eyes, around the back of my head, and tied it before I understood what he was doing.
I was blindfolded. Panicked, I raised my hands.
He clicked his tongue as if he were soothing an animal. “Hush. No harm will come. This is for your safety, not mine.” I shuddered at the feel of something soft brushing against my cheek and pulled back again at the sensation of it being stuffed into my ears. All sound was dulled—the noise of the crowd in the plaza became an unintelligible thrum—but I could hear the Devil speaking, no doubt loudly for my sake.
“It’s all right. We’ll be there soon. . . .”
The cart jerked and began to move; I swayed and held the edge of the seat to keep my balance. We rode for several minutes. I did my best to listen to where we were going, but I understood why I had been summoned precisely at midday. All the church bells had already sounded; there were none singing—each in its own peculiar voice—to indicate what part of the city we were in.
At last the wagon rolled to a stop. The young Devil’s voice instructed me to turn to the right. I heard movement, felt hands reaching for me; with their help, I climbed blindly from the wagon. He took my elbow, and urged me to move quickly, just short of a run; I lifted my skirts, fearful of tripping. Even with the unspun wool in my ears, even without sight, I sensed the change as we moved from the sunwarmed
air inside, where the air was closer and cool.
Fingers gripped my arm, forced me to stop; my guide gave a low whistle. A pause, then the sound of a different whisper, low and muffled, unintelligible through the wool. A warm body stood before me, then turned. The Devil and I followed. We walked a short pace, then climbed a flight of stairs. I was made again to stop, and listened to the groan of heavy wood sliding against stone, as if a wall were being pushed aside. A faint breeze stirred as a door opened.
I was led at a more leisurely pace for a moment, over a floor gritty from a dusting of sand. I had passed by enough artists’
botteghe
to recognize the pungent smells of boiling linseed oil and caustic lime. I was pressed to sit upon a low-backed chair. In a smug, cheery tone, the Devil addressed a third party, loud enough so that I could clearly distinguish each word.
“Ask and you shall receive.”
“Will you bring what I asked for?”
“If I must. After that, how long do I have to myself?”
“Give us no more than half an hour, to be safe.” The voice was masculine, soft. “Make sure we don’t run over the time.”
At the sound of the voice, I reached for the blindfold and pulled it up and off my head.
The Devil was already gone, his steps sounding in the corridor. The man standing over me, reaching for the piece of cloth at the same time I removed it, was clean-shaven, with softly waving shoulder-length hair streaked brown and iron, parted in the middle. He, too, wore the habit of a Servant of Mary.
For an instant, I failed to recognize him. Without the beard, his chin appeared sharply, unexpectedly pointed, his cheekbones and jaw more angular; the stubble that glinted in the diffused light was now mostly silver. He was still handsome; had his features been any more perfect—the eyes less deep-set, the bridge of the nose less prominent, the upper lip less stingy—he would have been merely pretty. Leonardo smiled gently at my confusion, which made the creases in the corners of his light gray eyes more noticeable.
I pulled the wool from my ears and said his name. Instinctively, I
rose. The sight of him evoked memories of my Giuliano, of Lorenzo. I remembered his letter to Giuliano, advising him of the Duke of Milan’s intentions, and felt grateful. I wanted to embrace him as a dear friend, as a family member.
He felt the same. I saw it in his brilliant if uncertain smile, in his arms, which hung determinedly by his sides but tensed with the desire to rise, touch, enfold. Had he been able, he would have lifted his fingertips to my face and read the contours there. He loved me, and I did not understand why.
Behind him was a window covered by a piece of canvas, cut to the window’s precise dimensions, hung from a rod and attached to ropes which served as pulleys to raise or lower it. At the moment, the canvas was raised, revealing a thick layer of oiled paper—opaque enough to bar all scenery, translucent enough to permit yellow filtered light.
“Please sit,” he said, then gestured to a stool. “May I?” When I nodded, he pulled it across the stone and sat down in front of me.
Behind him stood an easel bearing a large wooden slate; I leaned forward and caught a glimpse of cream-colored paper folded over the top edge of the slate and pressed against the easel to hold it in place. To the left of the easel, a lamp burned on a small table bearing scattered pieces of charcoal and a small pile of downy chicken feathers. On the floor beside it was a basket of eggs, a stoppered bottle of oil, and a few crumpled, stained rags.
“Madonna Lisa,” he said warmly. The robe’s severe black emphasized the hollows of his cheeks. “It has been a long time.” Abruptly, an odd reserve overtook him. The smile faded; his tone grew more formal. “Please forgive the secrecy. It protects you as well as us. I hope Salai did not frighten you.”
Salai
: Little Devil. The perfect nickname. I let go the briefest of laughs. “No. Not much.”
He brightened at my amused expression. “Gian Giacomo is his given name, but it hardly suits him. Incorrigible, that boy. He came to me as a street urchin; over the past several years, I have done my best to educate him. He has learned his letters, albeit badly, and makes a passable artist’s apprentice. Still, I despair, sometimes, of ever teaching
him more civilized ways. But he is loyal to the death, and thus very useful.” His tone grew kindly. “You look well, Madonna. Motherhood suits you. Salai says you have a fine son.”
“Matteo, yes.” I bloomed.
“A good name. And is he healthy?”
“Very!” I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm. “He eats all the time and wants more. And he is always moving, except when he sleeps. . . .”
“Does he take after you?”
“I think so. His eyes are blue now, like agates, but they’ll darken soon enough, I’m sure. And he has so much hair, so soft, with little curls—I take my finger, like so, at his crown, and make it all twist together in a big ringlet . . .” I faltered as I caught myself. Francesco’s eyes were icy blue, his hair quite straight. I had almost admitted that my son looked like his father—with curling hair, and eyes that would certainly be dark. I had been on the verge of describing the sweet dimple in his cheek—Giuliano’s dimple.
My tone cooled. “It seems you know a great deal about me and my husband,” I said. “Are you back in Florence? I thought you were at Ludovico’s court in Milan.”
His expression was indecipherable. “I am. But I have come to Florence for a little while, on holiday.”
“And you have brought me here, with all this secrecy, because . . . ?”
He did not answer because Salai arrived with a tray bearing wine, and cheese, and nuts. Leonardo rose and took it, then banished his assistant; he took the tray over to a long, narrow table that covered almost the entire expanse of the wall behind us. He had a good deal of difficulty making enough space to set it down.
I turned, thinking to offer help, and was so fascinated by what I saw that I rose and went over to investigate. On the table were levels and wooden slices with long, sharp edges; heaps of gray-white minever pelts, with holes where the hairs had been painstakingly plucked, one by one, were arranged in heaps next to a pair of scissors. There were piles, too, of feathers—the largest, darkest ones from vultures,
the paler ones from geese, the smallest, most delicate from doves—and of translucent, wiry pig bristles. On the far end was a wooden bucket, streaked with lime and covered with a cloth; the floor beneath was speckled with plaster. Near it, in neat, careful rows, small, rolled pellets of color—white, black, yellow-tan, warm pink—lay drying on a cloth beside a large pestle and mortar, which held a few tiny nuggets of brilliant malachite. There was also a large slab of red stone which held a pile of dark yellow-brown powder, a palm-sized grinding stone, and a thin wooden spatula with a sharp edge. A number of paintbrushes were in various stages of construction: a vulture feather had been plucked, the tip cut away. A thick bunch of pig bristles had then been carefully inserted into the opening and tied firmly in place with waxed thread. There were a number of very slender spindle-shaped wooden sticks; one had been inserted into the barrel of the quill so that it could withstand the pressure of an artist’s hand.