Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

equally divided, there will be no legal way to resolve the question of Savonarola. It will be decided in the streets, with bloodshed, and all the citizens suffering.

“But if-”

My husband interrupted. “If just one piagnone prior were to change his loyalties and side with the Arrabbiati…”

“Precisely. Justice could be administered swiftly, and many lives spared.”

“Ser Benedetto,” my husband said, with the same warm graciousness he extended to any honored guest. “I shall think on what you have said. And I shall give you my answer in the morning, when the Signoria convenes.”

“Let it be no later,” Ser Benedetto said, and I heard the warning in it.

I heard the warning, and was happy. I wanted Fra Girolamo to burn. Even more, I wanted Domenico to burn with him.

On Monday morning, my husband told me to have the servants prepare the house for a prestigious guest, who would be coming to stay with us for a few weeks; then he left for the Signoria. Even though the streets were calmer, thanks to the small battalions of neighborhood troops maintaining the peace, he did not travel alone: He requested that Claudio drive him, and he had two armed men accompany him in the carriage.

I was stranded at home, without a driver. Zalumma and I could always ride on horseback together, if we desperately needed to leave the house-but it was always safer to have a male companion, and that was under normal circumstances, not uncertain times like these. And every servant that might act as chaperone was far too busy obeying Francesco’s orders to ready the palazzo for our guest.

I chafed to see my father. I decided that as soon as Francesco returned, I would insist on going to visit my father, to be sure that he was well. I envisioned the conversation with Francesco in my mind: his refusal, saying it was not safe, and my insistence, saying that I would have Claudio and the two armed men to protect me.

Zalumma and I fetched Matteo from the nursery and took him down to the garden, since the day was pleasant. We chased him and giggled, and I clasped his hands and wrists and whirled him round in a circle until his feet lifted off the ground.

I intended to exhaust us both. I knew of no other way to brighten my thoughts. But for the first time, Matteo tired first. Head lolling, he slept in my arms-almost too heavy now to hold-and I walked beside Zalumma past the rosebushes.

Zalumma kept her voice low. “What do you think will happen to Savonarola?”

“I think that Francesco will join the Arrabbiati,” I said, “and that Savonarola will die. Be burned at the stake, just like Mother said. She was right about the five headless men, don’t you remember?”

“I remember.” Zalumma gazed at a distant olive grove on a hill, at some secret memory. “She was right about many things.” Her tone hardened. “I’ll be glad when he dies.”

“It won’t change anything,” I said.

She snapped her head about to look at me in disbelief. “What do you mean? It will change everything!”

I sighed. “The same people will be running Florence. It won’t change anything at all.”

Afterward, when Matteo was asleep in the nursery and the servants were all downstairs eating in the kitchen, I went to Francesco’s study.

It was foolish, going in the middle of the day, but I was consumed by restlessness and a mounting sense of worry. And I had not even considered how I would get to Leonardo if I found a new letter.

It is time to join the Arrabbiati and sacrifice the prophet. We have already translated into action your suggestion of luring Piero to Florence and making public example of him. The people are still angry; we will give them a second scapegoat. Otherwise, with Savonarola gone, they might soften too much toward the Medici. We are taking Messer Iacopo’s plan as our model: I shall expose the traitor in the midst of his crime, take him to the piazza for public spectacle, and rely on mercenary troops as reinforcement. Those mercenaries failed Messer Iacopo years ago-but ours, I assure you, will not fail us. Popolo e liberta!

Seek out Lord Priors who will support us in this move. Recompense them generously. Guarantee them important roles in the new government to come; but only you will be my second.

Let us not confine our public spectacle to Piero. We must dispense with all Medici brothers-for if even one survives, we are not free of the threat. Cardinal Giovanni presents the least danger, and my agents will try to deal with him in Rome, where he will surely stay.

But the youngest-he is the most dangerous, having all the intelligence and political acumen his eldest brother lacks. And in your house sleeps the perfect lure to bring him to Florence.

I dropped silently to the floor as if downed by an assassin’s blade and sat, gasping, my skirts furling about me, the impossible letter in my lap. I was too stunned to embrace its contents. I dared not. My father had been right: If I knew the full truth, Francesco and Claudio would read it in my face, my every gesture.

For the sake of my father and my child, I chose to become numb. I could not let myself think or feel. I could not let myself hope or rage.

I rose on trembling legs, then carefully refolded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. I went up the stairs to my room. Slowly, deliberately, I took a book from the trunk and set it on my night table, where Isabella would be sure to see it.

Rapid footsteps sounded on the stairs, in the corridor; as I went to open the door, Zalumma pulled it open first.

She did not notice that I was stunned, wild-eyed, pale. Her black brows, her lips, were stark, broad strokes of grief.

“Loretta,” she said. “From your father’s house. She is here. Come quickly.”

He was dying, Loretta said. Three days earlier, his bowels had turned to blood, and he had not been able to eat or drink. Fever left him often delirious. Not plague, she insisted. Plague would not have brought the bloody flux. For two days, he had been asking for me.

And each time Loretta had come, Claudio or Francesco or one of the armed men had sent her away.

Loretta had driven herself in the wagon. I did not stop or think or question; I said nothing to anyone. I went immediately to the wagon and climbed in. Zalumma came with me. Loretta took the driver’s seat, and together we left.

It was a terrible ride over the Arno, over the Ponte Santa Trinita, over the murky waters where Giuliano supposedly had drowned. I tried to stop the words repeating in my mind, to no success.

But the youngest-he is the most dangerous…

And in your house sleeps the perfect lure.

“I can’t,” I said aloud. Zalumma looked worriedly over at me, but said nothing. The letter had to be a trap; Francesco must have discovered me rifling through his desk, or else Isabella had lost her nerve and told all. It was impossible, of course. The world could not have known he was alive and not told me.

I drew a deep breath and remembered that my father was dying.

The ground beneath my feet had tilted sideways, and I was clawing for purchase.

For the first time in my life, I entered my father Antonio’s bedchamber. It was midday; a cool breeze blew outside. In my father’s room, it was dark and hot from the fire, and the air stank of unspeakable things.

Antonio lay naked beneath a worn blanket, on a bed damp from cleaning. His eyes were closed; in the light filtering through the half-closed shutters, he looked grayish white. I had not realized how thin he had become; below his bare chest, his ribs thrust out so prominently, I could count each one. His face looked as though the skin were melting off the bone.

I stepped up to the bed and he opened his eyes. They were lost and glittering, the whites yellowed. “Lisa,” he whispered. His breath smelled vilely sweet.