My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century (11 page)

I decide to pass on that.

“How about you, Signor di Rialto?” I ask to get the heat off me for a while and hopefully to learn more about this mysterious person doing business with my uncle. “How do you spend your time?”

He takes a sip of wine and looks at Uncle Marco. “Before I answer, if I may, please call me Niccolo. I believe I am among friends here.” Uncle Marco nods, and they exchange a weighted glance. He then turns back to me. “As for entertainment, I, too, enjoy dancing.”

“Niccolo is also a great patron of the arts,” Uncle Marco tells me.

I swing my eyes back to Niccolo to catch him sitting up straighter in his chair. “It is true, though I do not wish to boast. However, if Signorina Patience wishes, perhaps I could take her to see the
David
sculpture by the artist Michelangelo?”

And my mouth hangs agape.

I mean, sure, I saw it a few days ago, back in my own time and at the Accademia where it was eventually moved, but not at its original location right after its completion!

I nod like a bobblehead.

Niccolo smiles triumphantly and raises his eyebrows at my uncle. Then he turns to me and says, “It would be an honor to escort you to the Palazzo della Signoria after our business has concluded this afternoon. If you are, indeed, interested?”

I slap a hand over my mouth in awe. “Are you serious? That would be amazing!” I realize I’m shouting, and I wince, putting my palms up. “Sorry, I got a little excited there. But seriously, I would love to.” I catch Alessandra’s eye, and she gives me an odd look. “Um, but can Alessandra come, too?”

With another nod from my uncle, Niccolo turns back to me. “Of course.”

The rest of the meal, consisting of fish, omelets, a cheese platter, pasta, and
flan
for dessert, flies by as my body thrums with anticipation. I wish I could go with Lorenzo instead, but the idea of seeing
David
mere months after Michelangelo finished it with
anyone
makes me antsy. So antsy that I almost don’t hear what my aunt tells Niccolo over the din of servants collecting plates.

“We must introduce her to society, and it has been entirely too long since we have held a ball in our home.”

I swallow and turn to Aunt Francesca. “A ball? You’re having a
ball
? When?”

She beams at me as though she’s divulging fabulous news. “
We
are having a ball. Tomorrow. And it is for you, Patience. Once word of your impending arrival spread, I was hounded like a fox about the details. It was meant as a surprise.” She turns back to Niccolo, unaware of my lack of enthusiasm. “It shall be the talk of the town!”

“Mama hosts the most splendid balls,” Alessandra says, every bit as excited as my aunt. She leans in to whisper in my ear, “And I am sure Lorenzo will look dashing as always.”

Happy chatter springs up about dresses, guest lists, food, and music. Alessandra carries on an animated conversation with my aunt about the last ball’s gossip. Cipriano and Niccolo discuss the dignitaries, nobles, and merchants they expect to attend. My uncle remains stoic as always. And no one notices my silence.

I clear my throat. “But I do not
want
a ball,” I tell the table, my shaky voice growing stronger. “Or to be
introduced
to
society
.”

Alessandra places her hand on my arm and frowns in confusion. “But it is expected. And why would you not want a ball? You said you enjoy dancing.”

“Dancing I like. Being gawked at and having everyone stare at me? Not so much.”

Palpable tension radiates off Uncle Marco, reminding me we have a guest at the table. My teeth
click
shut, and I hold back my next rebuttal.

Is it my destiny to have to put up with unwanted galas and to be thrust under microscopes? Is this why Reyna sent me here, the lesson I’m supposed to learn? That I just need to accept it and go with the flow? I don’t think so.

Aunt Francesca clears her throat and looks at me with concern. “I can assure you, no one will be
gawking
at you.” The way the word rolls off her tongue in Italian, I can tell she has no clue what it means. “But I shall be by your side when you are introduced. You will do beautifully.”

Beautifully. Right. Because my previous experiences in the spotlight have led to such an obvious conclusion.

But we have company, so I nod curtly and shovel the last bite of flan into my mouth, swallowing my argument. As I devour the sweet custard, I contemplate my options. I don’t have many. The only thing I can think to do is go along with the idea for now, then claim to be sick the night of the ball. By then it will be too late to reschedule or postpone, and it’ll have to go on without me.

I smile at Aunt Francesca and see her relax.

I settle back in my seat and lick my spoon. I’ll placate my aunt for now, but I’m still in control here. I’ve come five hundred years to escape a Sweet Sixteen. I’m not about to get stuck with a Renaissance ball.

Chapter Ten

Outside, the Via della Condotta is bustling. It’s smack dab in the middle of the fashion district of Florence, with most of the seven clothing guilds surrounding it. Sixteenth-century fashionistas flock here when they have money to blow on satin and velvet gowns sewn with pearls or precious jewels, or when they’re in the market for the finest wool or leather tunics.

All of this I learn from Niccolo, who continues a running commentary on every single building or street we see, as if he’s my newly assigned tour guide. As he pontificates about the importance of whatever building is in front of us, I completely tune him out. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the information he’s giving—parts of it have actually been interesting—but his know-it-all aura is suddenly getting completely under my skin. I can’t wait until we reach
David
so I can teach
him
a thing or two.

The cool autumn breeze blows my skirt around my ankles and tickles my skin, and I shiver. I rub my arm and accidently bump into Alessandra. The girl’s been walking next to me the entire time, but you’d never know it. She’s been uncharacteristically quiet.

I grab her elbow and let Niccolo walk a few more steps in front of us. “What’s up, Less? Are you okay?”

She glances at our escort still yammering on several feet in front of us, then back to me. “I am fine, cousin.” She forces a smile. “Merely thinking.”

Though her acting skills are commendable, I don’t buy it. Whatever is bothering her obviously has something to do with Niccolo, and I make a mental note to ask her about it the moment we’re alone. But until then, I’m still determined to shake her out of this eerie silence.

“Any more theater dreams since your fabulous performance yesterday?”

The familiar blush creeps up her neck, and she checks to see if Niccolo is listening. “Shh!” she scolds. “I doubt Signor di Rialto would approve of our behavior in the meadow.”

She gnaws on her lip, genuinely looking scared to death.

I can’t help but smile at her nervous tizzy and tease her a bit more. Laying on the unruly twenty-first-century accent that always rattles her, I say, “Nah, old Nicky boy? I’m sure he’d be down with it. Maybe we should tell him and see if he’d join us next time.”

I learn forward as if to ask, and she grabs my face between her palms. We stop walking, and Niccolo turns around, finally realizing we’re not right behind him. In a tight voice Alessandra whispers, “Pray tell me you are mocking me for your own enjoyment and do not intend to carry through with that ridiculous proposal!”

I roll my eyes. “Yes,” I tell her through squished lips. “I was teasing you. Now unless you plan to kiss me, can you kindly let go of my face?”

“Oh!” she says, patting my cheeks softly. Her turned-down eyes remind me of a sad puppy. “I am so sorry. I do not know what came over me, acting in such a manner.”

Looping an arm around her waist, I lean my head against her shoulder and start walking again. “Relax, it was funny. I teased you; you reacted. It’s what friends do.”

Honestly, I don’t have much life experience to back up that claim, but it’s what I’ve gotten from mass media.

A beautiful smile breaks across her face as she loops her arm around me. “Friends, cousins, and
sisters
,” she clarifies in that happy, animated voice I’ve grown accustomed to.

As we turn into the Piazza della Signoria, she glances at Niccolo again and opens her mouth to say something but closes it when I abruptly freeze.

Michelangelo’s
David
is a mere hundred feet in front of me.

Niccolo walks up and smiles at my slack jaw. “Are you ready to see the sculpture, Signorina?” he asks, offering me his arm. I latch on, excitement electrifying my veins. Next to kissing Lorenzo, this is definitely the coolest thing that’s happened since I entered this time warp.

Alessandra slips her hand through Niccolo’s other crooked elbow, and the three of us walk to the statue.

The piazza is the city’s art center. The scent of oil-based paint permeates the air, and if I listen carefully, I can hear the faint sounds of sculptors hammering bronze or chipping marble. Just being here, breathing the same air as the artists I idolize, is an inspiration overload. The square itself boasts beautiful sculptures from world-famous artists, none more striking than Donatello’s gilded bronze
Judith and Holofernes
in front of me.

The sun hits the sword Judith raises high in victory, while the head of her enemy rests in her other hand. The image is powerful; the way it shines in the sunlight, breathtaking. But it still doesn’t hold a candle to my man David.

I pad up to the statue, marveling at the pristine beauty. The marble is new and clean, with zero signs of damage or deterioration. It’s absolutely perfect. I go into an art trance and lose all track of time until I hear heavy footsteps walk up behind me. Assuming it must be Niccolo—Alessandra is too dainty to clomp—and without taking my eyes off the sculpture, I ask him, “Did you know that while Michelangelo obviously intended for David to be staring at Goliath, by placing it facing this direction, he’s also threatening Rome?”

He doesn’t say anything, and after a few more moments, I continue spouting my wisdom.

“Look at how his right leg is tense and supporting him while the left one is bent like a warrior’s. His furrowed forehead perfectly shows how he’s facing incredible odds, yet his nostrils are flared and his eyes are fierce, showing no fear. Look at the veins in his hands and feet, the cords of his neck, the folds of skin on his upper thighs. Did you know Michelangelo wasn’t even the first artist to use this hunk of marble? Dude, he was a genius.”

“Am I not still a genius, Signorina?” a deep, unfamiliar voice asks behind me in lilting Italian.

No. Freaking. Way.

I turn slowly, take in the hand Alessandra’s slapped over her mouth and Niccolo’s cat-that-ate-the-canary grin, and stare at the bearded man standing behind me.

“You are quite perceptive. Has someone taught you about my sculpture?”

My sculpture.

The man standing in front of me is Michelangelo. He’s looking at me. Talking to me. Waiting for an intelligent response from me.

The world goes fuzzy, and I sit down in the middle of the square. Niccolo rushes to my side, then looks to see if anyone is watching. “Patience, are you ill?” He rests a cool hand on my forehead. “You are quite pale.”

I wet my parched lips and manage a dazed head bob.

“Then let me assist you to your feet,” he says, putting his hands under my arms and gently lifting me up.

I smile weakly at Alessandra, who stares back like I suddenly have two heads. I squint in confusion and explain, “I’m fine, really. Just got a little dizzy. Must be the heat.”

Yeah, the one that’s hiding behind that chill in the air.

Michelangelo tilts his head and studies me, probably wondering how a
girl
could know so much about a relatively new artwork. The truth is that
many
someones taught me about
David
. Mr. Scott at school, and the contributors and authors of the stacks of art books resting on my shelf at home. But I can’t tell
him
that.

“No, Signore,” I finally manage to choke out, biting my lip. “No one taught me. Your work is just so flawless, anyone could pick up these things.” I look back at
David
, still not believing this conversation is happening. “And I have a feeling this sculpture’s gonna be celebrated for centuries.”

“From your mouth to Signore’s ears,” he says. Then he bows, nods at Niccolo, and walks away. I watch him disappear into a nearby building before turning to Niccolo.

“You did that, didn’t you?” I watch him puff up his chest, and I say, “I knew it! Are you friends with him?”

“As your uncle said, I am a patron of the arts. I enjoy surrounding myself with beautiful things, and I know many artists. Michelangelo is one of the artists of my acquaintance, and I thought to surprise you with a meeting. A well-met surprise, I pray?”

The look he gives me says he knows exactly how “well-met” it was. Still, I can’t help but grin. What he just did was beyond amazing, an experience I’m easily going to remember for the rest of my life.

I stand on tiptoe and throw my arms around his neck. “Are you kidding? That rocked!”

He stiffens in surprise, then wraps his arms around my waist. “I am glad you are pleased, Signorina.”

I step back, too happy to worry about hugging a man in public and making yet another mistake, and say, “Seriously, that may be one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you.”

Smiling, I glance at Alessandra and notice the two-headed look she gave me before has now morphed into a three-headed one. Her eyes are as big as saucers, and her jaw is almost to the ground.

As I stare back, cold dread washes over me.

Something about the look in her eye tells me this isn’t simply a reaction to my latest cultural screwup or about meeting a local celebrity. This look goes deeper than that. There’s actual fear in her eyes—and it’s directed at
me
.