Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

permission to marry me, and he still did not have his brother Giovanni’s approval. But the deed had been done, and I could think of only one way to cheer my new husband: to focus on our joy at being together.

I looked at Laura’s worried face. “Where is the bridal chamber?”

She seemed slightly taken aback. It was still daylight, after all. “Here, Madonna.” She gestured at the door that led to the inner chamber.

“Lorenzo’s bedroom?” I was somewhat aghast.

“Ser Piero was too uneasy to sleep there. Your husband was his father’s favorite, you know, and I think it gave him comfort to take over his father’s rooms. He has slept here ever since Ser Lorenzo died.”

I let Laura lead me into the chamber. The room was spacious, with a floor of pale, exquisite marble and walls covered with brilliant paintings. Yet compared to the rest of the palazzo, it possessed a slightly Spartan air. I got the impression that, like the antechamber, many valuable items had been removed and stored elsewhere.

Lorenzo’s ghost was absent this day. Dried rose petals had been strewn over the bed, filling the room with a lovely fragrance. On a desk nearby was a flagon of garnet-colored wine, and two goblets fashioned of gold, intricately engraved, as well as a plate of almonds and candied fruit.

“Help me undress,” I told Laura. If she was surprised by this request, she hid it well. She removed my cap and sleeves, then unfastened my gown; I stepped out of the heavy garment, and watched as she folded and put it away with my other things in the polished dark wardrobe that held Giuliano’s clothes.

I wore nothing now except my camicia, delicate and sheer as spider’s silk. Zalumma had done her best to prepare me for my wedding night, but I still struggled not to let my nerves get the better of me. “I would like to be alone now,” I said. “Will you tell my husband that I am waiting for him here?”

She closed the door quietly behind her as she left.

I moved to the desk and poured some of the wine into a goblet, then took a small sip. I savored it carefully, attempting to relish its deliciousness in an effort to summon the sense of pleasure and joy with which I might greet Giuliano. Beside the flagon was a small velvet pouch; I lifted it and could feel within something hard-jewelry, I guessed, a present from a groom to his bride-and I smiled.

Yet as I stood in front of the desk, I could not help noticing that one item upon it was out of place, as if the reader had been called suddenly away. The green wax seal had been broken so that the letter lay half unfolded. I might have ignored it, but the merest glimpse of a familiar script caught my eye, and I could not resist setting down my goblet and picking the letter up.

It bore neither a signature nor any indication of its intended recipient.

I appreciate your willingness to release me from any formal obligation to locate the penitent-the one your father referred to as the third man. But I am morally bound to continue the search, despite the dwindling possibility that this man still lives.

All my efforts to sway Milan to your side have failed. Here is the truth about Duke Gian Galeazzo’s death: The assassins acted at the behest of his uncle Ludovico Sforza who, without pausing to mourn his brother’s passing, has already proclaimed himself Duke, despite the existence of Gian Galeazzo’s young son, the rightful heir. With Ludovico in power, Milan is no longer your friend; this I learned from the new duke himself, who has come to trust me fully. He has turned the minds of Charles and his ambassadors against you, and now prepares to betray you with hopes of stealing even more power.

His distrust of Florence is the result of years of patient work by his advisors and certain associates. This, along with my investigation, has led me to the irrefutable conclusion that our Ludovico is influenced by those in league with the piagnoni.

I was startled and confused by the last sentence. The piagnoni were sincere, if overly zealous, Christians. It was true that Savonarola believed King Charles had been chosen by God to punish Italy for her wickedness-but why would they want to influence the Duke of Milan? And how could an advisor influencing Ludovico against Florence possibly bring the author to the conclusion that the piagnoni were responsible?

But I was even more intrigued by the handwriting-distinctive, strikingly vertical and slantless, the f’s and l’s long and flourished, the n’s squat and fat. The spelling was uncertain. A moment passed before I at last recalled where I had seen it.

Greetings, Madonna Lisa, from Milan.

Our good Lorenzo has commissioned me to paint your portrait…

XLIII

I glanced up at the sound of the door opening, and did not quite manage to set the letter back down before Giuliano entered.

In one guilty glimpse, I noticed three things about him: first, that he came in with a forced smile, though he had clearly suffered an unnerving exchange with my father; second, that the forced smile faded as his lips parted in awe and his eyes widened at the sight of me in my sheer gown; and third, that he noticed the letter in my hand, and his sharp concern and irritation with himself took precedence over the other two emotions.

He took the letter from me at once. His voice filled not with accusation, but with worry. “Did you read it?”

“Why would the piagnoni want to influence Ludovico Sforza? I thought they were more interested in God than politics.”

A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth as he folded the letter and put it in the desk. “I was a fool not to have concealed this. A fool. But I was called away quickly, and I thought I would have time before you came in here…”

“I know Leonardo’s hand.” I did not believe in hiding anything from him. “I am your wife now, and you mustn’t worry about what I know or don’t know. I can hold my tongue.”

“It’s not that,” he began. “The Duke of Milan was always a help to our family, always our greatest ally. We could rely on him for troops. When my uncle Giuliano was killed, my father wrote to the Duke for help, and received it immediately. And now…” He looked away, frowning, his tone dark. “Now that support has been taken from us, at a time when we need it most.” He sighed. “And I have brought you into the midst of all this.”

“You didn’t bring me. I would have come whether you had said yes or not.” With my chin, I nodded at the desk which held the letter. “If I’m in danger, it’s because of who I am now, not what facts are stored in my head. This will make no difference.”

“I know,” he admitted, with faint misery. “I came to realize that if I truly wanted you safe, I might as well put you under my protection.” He managed a smile. “You’re even more headstrong than I am. At least I know where you are. Do you realize… Certainly you realize… things might get much worse. We might have to leave Florence for a time. I don’t just mean going to one of our villas in the countryside. I’ve sent a number of priceless objects out of the city to protect them… and I’ve even packed away my things, just in case…” He drew back to gaze at me with Lorenzo’s brilliant eyes, yet his held a certain openness his father’s had lacked. “We would go to Rome, where Giovanni has good friends, and we would have the protection of the Pope. It is terribly different from Florence- hotter, and more crowded…”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, my voice soft. I took a step closer to him. He stood half a head taller than I, and his chest was broader than I was from shoulder to shoulder. He was still dressed in the fitted red velvet farsetto and wore it with the casual poise of a prince. He was not classically handsome like his agent Leonardo. His upper lip was thin and bore a small diagonal scar from some childhood injury, and his chin jutted ever so slightly forward, a whisper of Lorenzo’s deformity. The bridge of his nose was broad and the end of it upturned; his eyebrows were very thick and dark. When he smiled, a dimple formed in his left cheek. I touched it with my fingertip, and he let go a long sigh.

“You are incredibly beautiful,” he said. “Even more so because you apparently don’t know it.”

I put my hands on his shoulders. “We have everything in the world to worry about: your family, my father, King Charles, the Signoria, the Duke of Milan, Florence herself. There’s nothing we can do about it right now, this moment. We can only rejoice that you and I are standing here to face it together.”

He had no choice but to lean down and kiss me. This time, we did not writhe, panting, in each other’s arms, as