Chapter Eleven
So anyway, if humans can swim in water, then it makes sense there’s a way for them to fly in air—oh, whoops!
” Leonardo careens into me, and the charcoal bag tumbles from my hands.
When he bends to pick it up, he drops a stack of paper.
It hits the cobblestones and scatters, skittering toward a puddle of what we can only hope is water and not piss. I race to stop it, but too late.
I shake my head at the soggy mess. “It’s all ruined.”
It’s early—far too early—for a full-energy Leonardo. The time just after dawn is for silence and contemplation, not whatever he’s prattling on about.
“Well, I wouldn’t have dropped it if you hadn’t walked into me,” he says.
Yes, ’tis far too early for this. “You were the one who walked into me.”
Leonardo sighs. “Does it really matter if we both have to tell Verrocchio it’s ruined?”
“Yes!” I say hotly, knowing very well that our master docks our paychecks for supplies ruined from carelessness. “Yes, it obviously does!”
Verrocchio was already annoyed we were both working on the Medici commission.
I’d expected him to say no when Leonardo grabbed my sleeve and marched to his office, me protesting and dragging my feet the entire time, positive our plea would never work, but apparently, Verrocchio is as capable of being charmed by Leonardo as anyone else.
“As long as both of you get the rest of your work done.” He made sure to make eye contact with me as he said it, which wasn’t stressful at all. As if I were the person who was able to get Leonardo to do anything he didn’t want to do.
“You’re getting older, and it’s time for both of you to think of the future,” Verrocchio added.
Leonardo went still. “What do you mean?”
“Why, you don’t want to be an apprentice here forever, do you?”
Forever. The word sank down into my soul, making me quiet for the rest of the day.
Four sour-faced guards let us into the Palazzo della Signoria.
Even though we left early, the courtyard is already crowded with other artists furiously sketching a yawning, half-asleep Lorenzo de’ Medici.
Leonardo manages to smash the bag of charcoal and knock over his stool as he gets settled, earning reproachful looks from everyone else.
When he finally sits down, he hesitates, eyes roaming over the other artists nervously.
Instead of picking up his charcoal, he’s twisting that curl of his lover’s hair around his finger again.
What does he do with it when he bathes? Put it on the floor beside him like a hair ball? Disgusting.
“I’m not sure I can get much done like this,” he says a quarter hour later, having not drawn a single thing. “I don’t think there’s enough time.”
A burst of annoyance goes through me. I’ve put in my own valiant effort to sketch the Medici heir, but my Lorenzo looks like he’s in the final, excruciating stages of a wasting illness.
Leonardo needs to draw something if we’re to have any hope of winning.
“This is why we practice every morning! If you ever came, then maybe you could do this. Or if you made a bargain with Lupa.”
He shudders. “I’m afraid of blood. I’ve told you that.”
He has, and I couldn’t believe it. Angels and art went together like money and Medici.
Like bread and butter. I’m beginning to regret not talking through the details of our so-called bargain before we shook on it.
“You didn’t seem afraid of blood when you plunged the knife into your arm to save Giorgio. ”
He lifts his index finger, mouth open. Then he shuts it, brushing the white scar on his arm. “That was different.”
“How?” I demand.
Leonardo shoots me a rare frown. “You know, I think you’re the problem today.”
“Fine! I’ll leave, then.” I throw up my hands and walk away. He’s impossible. Talented, but impossible. At least being his moral-support person is only half the reason I’m here. If he wants to be alone, then it’s time to find my brother’s portrait again.
I’ve worn my nicest clothes, and, after making sure the guards are all looking elsewhere, I slip through a side door leading deeper into the government building.
There are hushed voices behind closed doors, men deep in conversation in shadowy corners.
When I pass them, I nod confidently, shoulders high, like I belong there as much as they do.
A painting of a grisly battle hangs in the space between two offices.
The men silently war on the canvas, wielding blades and shedding blood in an endless battle.
I sidle closer to the magicked painting and whisper, “Pardon me, I’m looking for a big room with wooden benches. Do you know where it is?”
A wounded soldier raises his severed leg and points it toward a door behind me. I murmur my thanks and move on.
Down a hall, up a staircase, through another corridor, and—yes!—at the end are double doors etched in filigreed gold. My hand tingles when I grab the boar’s-head-shaped knob. Anticipation surges through me as the door swings open—
I blink at the blank walls.
There are paler rectangles on the stone, the sign of frames recently taken down. There had been rows and rows of them. I could understand moving one or two, but all of them?
I walk to where I think Niccolo’s portrait hung. I caress the empty space, as if the cold stone could give me answers, a chill prickling the nape of my neck.
It seems unlikely that the portraits were moved because I’d stumbled across my brother’s, but… I can’t shake the feeling that that’s exactly what happened.
With one final glance at the barren wall, I slip back into the corridor.
I return to a room with broken chairs and tuck a busted wicker seat under my arm. Then I take a tapestry and wrap it around the chair seat.
I roam through the palazzo until I find the person I need.
“Excuse me!” I hold up the wrapped seat. “I found this portrait. It must’ve been left behind when the art was moved.”
“What are you talking about?” The servant squints, as if he’s trying to place me and can’t. I swallow and keep my face bland. Agonizing seconds tick by before he finally sighs. “Oh right, that. Come with me, then.”
He leads me upstairs—farther up than I’ve gone before—to another set of double doors paneled with exquisite wood carvings of the Last Judgment.
Seems an odd choice for a government office.
But perhaps God condemning people to hell is a perfect metaphor for our republic.
I wouldn’t know. I’m paid to paint, not do politics.
“… so you’re ready to go,” the servant says.
Madonna santa, I’ve missed everything he said. He’s already turning around, and asking him to say it all again would make me memorable, so I thank him and lift one of the heavy doors to slip inside.
High ceilings greet me, along with an excellent view of the piazza below.
Rows of cabinets line the wall across from the windows, the shelves stuffed with fat ledgers.
There’s a throne-like chair at one end of the room and a circle of chairs and tables around it.
Opposite the throne is a huge painting of a gray-bearded man emerging from pink-and-gold clouds.
Something about his face looks almost familiar, but judging from how strapping he is, he must be God.
Florentines love a muscular holy father, but even by their standards, this one’s a bit tasteless.
The tables are chaos, every surface covered with loose papers, baubles, and—yes—a pile of linen-wrapped squares the size of my torso. I set my parcel down and unwrap the one closest to me.
It’s a portrait from the other room.
Heart pounding, I carefully unwrap the corner of each one until I find Niccolo’s. I only let myself touch his face once before I flip the canvas over and look for the artist’s signature.
There’s nothing.
Frowning, I return to the front to see if the artist hid their name in the portrait itself, but no. It’s not unheard of for an artist not to leave their mark, but it is odd, especially for art that’s important enough to hang it in the Palazzo della Signoria.
Someone left their work unsigned on purpose, but why?
My gaze slices to a ledger open on the table, the book half hidden under one of the other wrapped portraits. I set Niccolo’s portrait down for a closer look.
It’s a series of numbers paired with a date, some of them stretching back years, some more recent.
A catalogue of some kind, the page only half full, as if someone was in the middle of doing their work and was called away.
It reminds me of the inventory records from Father’s trading voyages. The ones I could barely read.
I re-examine Niccolo’s portrait even more carefully until I see them—three numbers so small, you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for them: 512.
A door opens in the distance, followed by rapidly approaching voices.
Merda! I hurry to rewrap Niccolo’s portrait and accidentally knock a heavy iron key onto the floor. I wince at the loud thunk and shove it into my pocket. There’s no time to put it away, no time to do anything except leave.
I push open one door as someone else pulls on the other.
Lorenzo de’ Medici, heir to the ruling family’s fortune and power, possible future owner of my childhood home, the man supposedly sitting for his own wedding portrait downstairs, smiles pleasantly even as his eyes remain two chips of stone.
“Why, hello,” he says. “What brings you to my father’s office?”