Epilogue
The wisteria vine is so ancient and huge, the workshop door is barely visible behind it.
The boy ducks beneath the cascades of lavender flowers and sets the pigments on the workbench.
Master da Vinci is working, painting the same portrait of the woman with the odd smile he’s worked on for years.
It’s been so long, the boy knows Master Pitti had to buy it from the man who commissioned it.
Master Pitti is forever doing things like this for Master da Vinci: paying off forgotten balances with shopkeepers, closing drawers and cupboards, scrubbing paint footprints off the workshop floor.
Every time the boy offers to help, Master Pitti waves him away, as if part of him likes doing it himself.
Master da Vinci gasps, noticing him. “Didn’t we tell you to take today off?”
The apprentice ducks his head. They had, but the pigments were ready, and truth be told, he’d hoped for some time working with his masters all on his own.
The da Vinci workshop is one of the most prestigious in Florence, and he wants to be the very best. Sometimes, when Master Pitti gets all misty-eyed, he’ll even tell stories about his days being an apprentice during the age of the angels.
The old bargain marks on his arms are almost gone, but you can still count them, if you look closely.
Master Pitti doesn’t like it when anyone does that.
A hand clamps down on the boy’s shoulder now. Master Pitti’s smile isn’t friendly. “Off with you, ragazzo.”
Murmuring apologies, the boy slips out the door again and makes sure it slams loudly behind him. He waits until he hears the snick of the lock turning.
Then he races around the side of the workshop and through the open window back inside.
He tiptoes across the floor behind his masters to crouch among the straw-filled crates alongside the door.
Usually, he’d let himself be shooed off and think nothing of it, but today his masters are acting strange. He wants to know why.
Master da Vinci creaks back on his painter’s stool. “It’s ready. I have a good feeling about it.”
“You say that every year.”
“This time I mean it. Signora del Giocondo told me she’s ready to move on. Her pain is getting worse.”
Master Pitti reaches a shaking hand into his pocket and pulls out an old vial. “What if it doesn’t work?”
“What if it does?”
“We try every year, and she never comes.” A pause then. “We’re getting old, Leo.”
Master Pitti uncorks the vial. His hands shake so badly, Master da Vinci has to help him. He dabs a dot of whatever’s in it on Master Pitti’s fingertip. He drags it across the portrait’s strange smile. Lingers on her cheek.
“Lupa.” The word shakes with hope and yearning and a feeling the boy can’t name. “Would you like to come home?”
“Please do. Virgil frets we’re going to die soon,” Master da Vinci says. Master Pitti nudges his side, and then they laugh, their hands finding each other.
For a long, long moment, nothing happens.
Then, behind the boy, the locked door opens.