Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

blew out the lamp and lay down that night upon my bed, but my eyes stayed open. I stared into the darkness for an hour, for two, for three.

And then I sat up abruptly, my heartbeat quickening. I thought of the ink rendering of Bernardo Baroncelli; suddenly, I understood why Leonardo had given it to me. And I remembered some of the last words I had heard my husband speak.

Leonardo. Leonardo saw him; my uncle died in his arms.

Leonardo saw him: the man who killed my real father, Giuliano. The man the dying Lorenzo had called “the third man.”

For my mother’s sake, for my own, I wanted revenge.

To Leonardo da Vinci, at the Court of Ludovico Sforza, the Duke of Milan:

Ser Leonardo,

I am writing you because I have recently learned a certain fact-about myself, specifically in terms of my mother’s relationship with Lorenzo de’ Medici’s murdered brother, Giuliano the elder. I feel, because of your actions the evening we were in the Medici courtyard, that you have long been aware of said fact.

Forgive my boldness, but I feel I can trust you as a friend. Giuliano had told me that you were present in the Duomo the day of the assassination, and that you are privy to information-specifically, regarding the identity of a particular man who was also in the cathedral that day. It is my understanding that this man has never been found.

He is now of especial interest to me. Please, Ser Leonardo, could you tell me all that you know about him? If you are able to describe him-or even to sketch him from your recollection-I would be very grateful.

If he still breathes, I am determined to find him. I have little else to live for.

May God keep you well,

Lisa di Antonio Gherardini

Via Maggio

Santo Spirito, Florence

LII

I wrote the letter at dawn. And from the instant I handed it to Zalumma, I impatiently awaited a reply and hoped desperately that my letter would not be confiscated because it made reference to the Medici.

That same morning, I forced myself to consider a very unpleasant fact: Francesco and my father had set the wedding for June. My husband-to-be insisted that I should have a proper wedding dress of his design, and that Zalumma and I have some time to restock my new cassone, my wedding chest, with new clothes and linens we embroidered ourselves. My old cassone had been destroyed in the fire, along with its contents.

Besides, Francesco wanted to give me a full, traditional wedding, as if I were a virgin bride-as if Giuliano had never existed, as if I had never ridden away from my father’s house to be with him. Summer was the favored season for weddings, since the weather was best for the slow bridal procession through the city, particularly as the girls were accompanied by their families on foot.

But there was no denying that by the time I sat upon a bride’s white horse in June, I would be seven months pregnant. Francesco would know I had lied to him about remaining a virgin. Worse, he would know the baby was Giuliano’s; when a widow remarried, her children were often unwelcome in her new husband’s home. And I could not bear the thought of being separated from Giuliano’s child.

I knew of only one solution: to convince Francesco the child belonged to him. And there was only one terrible way to accomplish that.

A day passed before my opportunity came.

A traditional family gathering was held at my father’s house to discuss the details of my wedding gown. Francesco’s aged father, Ser Massimo-a grim, quiet man-and his widowed sister, a colorless ghost named Caterina, attended. My groom’s three brothers all lived in the countryside, too far to travel on such short notice, though they assured Francesco they would come to the city in June. There were even fewer members in my family, for my father’s siblings all lived in Chianti and could not attend, and my mother had lost two sisters at birth and two older sisters to plague. That left only my uncle Lauro and his wife, Giovanna Maria. They brought with them two older boys, a nursemaid, and three howling little children. Giovanna Maria was again pregnant. She was moonfaced and bloated; Lauro looked haggard and exasperated, with the beginnings of a receding hairline.

I had requested the event take place later in the day-at supper, since most of my retching occurred at morning and midday. By evening, I rallied somewhat, and though I could eat little and found the smell of certain foods unsettling, I was less likely to empty my stomach in the presence of guests.

But I was no less likely to cry. The thought of preparing for another wedding barely a month after losing Giuliano ravaged me. I spent the entire morning and day weeping. When my new relatives arrived at dusk, I graced them with an empty smile and red, swollen eyes.

My father understood. He had entirely recovered by that time and, thanks to Francesco’s intervention and recommendation, had revived his business by, ironically, selling woolen goods to members of the returned Pazzi family.

Stalwart and serious, he wound his arm around mine and stood beside me as we greeted our guests. At the supper table, he sat next to me, as my mother would have, and answered questions directed at me when I was too overwhelmed to think of replies. When I rose once and hurried into the kitchen-after Francesco’s father asked what flowers should comprise the garland he would place upon the street-my father followed. And when he saw me dabbing at tears, he put his arms about me and kissed my hair, which made me cry in earnest. He thought I wept only for my dead husband; he did not realize that I also wept for myself, for the terrible thing I was about to do.

I had insisted that no sage be used in the dishes, and managed to eat a bit, and drink a little wine when the toasts came. By the time the meal ended and the plates were cleared, I was hoarse from shouting replies at Francesco’s deaf father.

At that point, the discussion about the gown began. Francesco presented a sketch of his idea: a high-waisted gown with a square bodice. The sleeves lacked the customary bell shape; they were narrow, closely fitted, with the emphasis on the camicia being pulled through several slits and ostentatiously puffed. The neckline was quite low, so that a great deal of the camicia showed there as well.

This surprised me. My husband-to-be was supposedly a staunch piagnone, yet he had just presented me with a design of the latest Spanish fashion, fresh from the decadent Borgia papal court.

Sitting on my other side, Francesco laid a bundle of fabric swatches on the table. On the top of the pile lay a gleaming silvery damask and a gossamer red and yellow cangiante, “with, if you like, garnets and pearls for the headdress.”

None of the colors or gems suited me. “Ah!” he said. “She is reticent! This will never do, then.” And he folded the cloth and immediately set it aside.

This irritated his father. “It is not hers to choose.”

“Father,” Caterina said sharply. “Francesco is here to listen to everyone’s opinion.”

Giovanna spoke up. “Something fresh, like spring blossom, or the delicate flowers of early summer?” she said. “Pinks and whites. Velvets and satin, with seed pearls.”

“She has olive skin,” Caterina countered. “Pale pinks will make her look sallow.”

My father took my hand beneath the table and squeezed it. He behaved now toward Francesco with the same odd reserve he had shown Pico after my mother had died. “The design is lovely,” he said. “I know that Lisa likes it, too. Over the years, I have noticed that the colors that flatter her most are blues and greens and purples, the more