Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

to accuse him, my father screamed, his voice wrenching and raw.

“You have murdered her!” He flung himself at Domenico; his hands were claws, reaching for the big man’s throat. “You have murdered her, and I will see you hang for it!”

The monk’s face darkened; he lifted an arm to protect himself. Pico and the red-haired priest both threw themselves on my father and barely managed to hold him back.

I screamed along with Zalumma, as we gave vent to our outrage.

“Murderer!”

“Assassin!”

Savonarola stayed well clear of the fray. Once Pico and the priest had subdued my father, Fra Girolamo stepped in front of Domenico, who cringed. “God forgive me,” he whimpered. “I am incapable of intentional harm; this was an accident, a dreadful accident… Oh, please believe me, Babbo!”

There came my father’s voice behind me, soft and deadly. “This was no accident. You meant to kill her…”

“Here now,” Pico stated firmly. “This was an accident, and no more. Fra Girolamo and Fra Domenico both came here with the godly intent of healing her.”

Savonarola stepped forward, once again the confident man who had ascended the pulpit. “These are the words the Lord has given me: Madonna Lucrezia is free of her affliction. In the hour of her death, she repented of her sin, and dwells now in Purgatory. Be joyful in the knowledge that her soul will soon be with God.”

His words tore my father’s heart in two. “That is true,” he whispered. “But it is no less true that Domenico murdered her.”

Fra Girolamo was unrelenting. “What happened here was an act of God. Fra Domenico was merely an instrument. Women!” He turned to exhort the two of us. “Dry your tears! Rejoice that your mistress shall soon be in Heaven.”

With a baleful glance, Zalumma spat in his direction, then turned back to her grieving.

“God sees the guilty,” I said to him. “God knows the crime that was committed here, and none of your pretty words can ever hide it from His view. He will see justice done to you and to Fra Domenico in His own time.” Then, with an abrupt practicality that amazed me, I added, “If you wish to make any effort toward recompense, you can see her brought to our carriage.”

“That can be done,” Savonarola said. “Afterward, I will pray that God might forgive your hateful words. In time, you will come to accept what has happened. But first, we shall pray for Madonna Lucrezia, that her time in Purgatory might be short. And then I will fetch a priest”-this I took as a deliberate snub to the one in our midst-“to give her Holy Unction.” He spoke to all of us, but his gaze was directed at my father, who still stood, defiant, resisting all of Pico’s attempts to comfort him. “Let us kneel,” Savonarola said. Pico, the priest, and the two monks all obeyed. Zalumma and I remained with my mother.

My father stood, heavy, solid, raw. “He killed her.”

“He was the Hand of God,” Savonarola countered fiercely. “God responded to our prayers by taking your Lucrezia; soon she will be with Him, free of all suffering. This is a blessing compared to the life she led… an outcome to be desired even more than that of a healing here on Earth. You should be thankful.” He paused, then again demanded, “Kneel. Kneel, and pray with us for your wife’s soul to enter Paradise.”

My father let go a sob that was also a roar. He stayed on his feet and stared at Domenico with hell in his eyes.

Domenico knelt behind his master, then opened his eyes and met my father’s gaze. His features radiated unmistakable victory. It was a gloating expression, with nothing of God or righteousness in it; in his eyes came a flash of calculating intelligence-so infinitely wicked and cold I could not find my breath.

Then Fra Domenico, looking fast at my father, inclined his head ever so slightly at the table, where my mother lay; and then he slowly, deliberately, inclined his head at me.

My father saw it and recoiled.

“Kneel,” Domenico echoed softly.

My father’s chest rose and fell so hard, I thought it might burst. And then, covering his face with his hands, he sank to his knees beside Pico.

Domenico smiled and closed his eyes.

But I would not bow. Zalumma would not bow. I did not understand what had transpired between the big monk and my father; I only knew that my father had let himself be broken.

Clinging to my mother’s body, I had never despised him so much as I did that moment. Indeed, I could not say whom I most hated at that instant: God, Savonarola, Fra Domenico, or my father, and so I decided to hate them all.

XIX

After she received Last Rites from San Marco’s priest, my mother was taken to our carriage. Most of the crowd had dispersed by then-but even in my grief, I noticed that the sharp-featured stranger who had helped me to my feet stood on the church steps, watching.

We rode back over the Ponte Santa Trinita. Swaddled in bloodied ermine and emerald velvet, my mother lay limp in my father’s arms during the ride. He would let no one else touch her. Pico insisted on accompanying us. The Count’s presence offended me, but Ser Giovanni’s distress was unfeigned. The turn of events had sincerely devastated him.

But my father would not look at Pico, and sat rigidly beside him so that their legs, their elbows, did not accidentally touch. He prayed softly, rapidly, for my mother’s soul, alternating between the Ave Maria and the Lord’s Prayer. When Pico joined in, he hesitated-as if reluctant to accept his friend’s prayers-but then he relented and continued.

Unable to bear the sights inside the carriage, I looked out the window. It was an insult that the exterior of San Marco, that the Via Larga, looked the same. People walked gingerly down the icy streets, their faces wrapped against the cold, but there was no sign of mourning, no respect for the omnipotence of Death.

I felt both pity and anger toward my father. At the same time, I was overcome by a sense of responsibility, and it was that which directed my actions when we at last arrived home. When the carriage rolled to a stop behind our house, I was the first to rise.

“Ser Giovanni.” I addressed Count Pico as if we were both adults and I his peer. “Arrangements must be made for a gravedigger today, and a priest for the morrow; she would want to be buried at Santo Spirito. Could you be so kind-”

Before I could finish, Pico answered solemnly. “It would be my honor, Madonna Lisa. In the meantime…” He turned to my father, who still cradled my mother’s body. “Let us carry her inside.”

“Up to her chambers,” I said. “Zalumma, go before them and cover her bed so that it is not soiled, and have servants fetch towels and water.”

My father pressed his dead wife tightly against his breast. “I will carry her myself.”

“Come now,” Pico soothed. “You will need help, at least, getting out of the carriage.”

My father remained distant toward Pico, refusing to meet his eyes, but he at last nodded. The men lifted my mother from the carriage; but the instant she was free, my father seized her from Pico. “I have her now.” He would not be cajoled, so Pico left for Santo Spirito. Zalumma hurried ahead of us into the house.

I walked a few steps ahead of my father, who muttered frantically:

“Ave Maria, gratia plena Dominus tecum, benedicta tu… Almighty God, let her soul rise swiftly to you. Such hell, and all my doing, from the start…”

Madness gave him strength. He entered the house without breaking stride and negotiated the high, narrow stairs.

At my mother’s chambers, Zalumma, red-eyed but tentatively composed, waited at the open door. “The water to bathe her is coming,” she said, “but I have readied the bed.”

With infinite care, my father laid my mother down on the bed, covered with many old linens.

“Here,” I said. “Let us take this away.” I reached for the beautiful emerald velvet cape, its ermine trim stiff with darkening blood. Zalumma helped me pull it from beneath my mother. When we were done, my father dropped to