Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

joy in my company and brightened at any mention of the coming child. But he lost weight, so much so that I worried for his health; and when he sat at the table listening to Francesco, I detected a silent misery gnawing at him. I doubted he would ever be happy again.

Nor would I, though my life had not become as hellish as I had feared. Francesco heard Savonarola preach in the mornings and visited his whores at night; if he worried over the discrepancy between his public and private life, he did not show it. After a day of work at the bottega and the Palazzo della Signoria, where he served as a Buonomo, he relished his supper and his attentive audience. My father and I listened but said little as Francesco related the news of the day.

Many changes had come about because of Fra Girolamo, who had decided that God should be deeply involved in the workings of the Signoria. Laws were passed: Sodomy brought a fiery death at the stake, a low decolletage brought public disgrace and a fine. Poetry and gambling were outlawed. Adulterers quaked in fear of death by stoning. (Francesco related this with all seriousness; never mind that he was chief among them.) Men and women who dared sport jewels risked losing them, for the streets were now patrolled by young boys loyal to the friar and determined to seize any “unnecessary” wealth as a “donation” to the Church. Citizens ventured out furtively, worried that a thoughtless act might call attention to themselves, that a chance remark might be taken as proof of indifference toward God.

We all grew afraid.

Meanwhile, the Lord dictated that Florence should no longer be governed by the rich. He preferred a Great Council in the style of Venice, and if one was not created, He would smite the city. The Mother of God was also interested in politics. She appeared to the friar and spoke eloquently in Tuscan of the need for reform.

Savonarola began to preach vehemently against Rome and the scandalous behavior of Pope Alexander, who had brought his teenaged mistress to live with him in the Vatican.

Francesco taught me a new term: Arrabbiati, the mad dogs. These were the men who snarled at Savonarola, who said that a friar had no business meddling in politics. Francesco had nothing but disdain for them.

My father, who had once been an outspoken proponent of the friar, now smiled palely or frowned at the appropriate times, but said little. The fire had altogether left him, though he went with Francesco to hear Savonarola preach.

Talk of the prophet annoyed me. His sermons now excluded women-given that he spoke mostly of political matters-except on Saturdays, when he preached directly to members of the gentler sex. I was obliged to attend; my husband was a Buonomo, after all. Zalumma and I sat and listened in rigid silence.

But at times I spoke to God. I had forgiven Him, to some extent, after my father’s recovery. But I only prayed at our family chapel at Santissima Annunziata, where I was comfortable. I liked the fact that it was old, and small, and plain.

During this time, King Charles of France made his way to Naples, only to be ultimately defeated there. His army retraced its steps northward, passing unimpeded again through Rome, until at last it arrived barely two days’ ride from Florence.

Savonarola warned us all to repent, else God, in the form of Charles, would strike us down. At the same time, the friar went to Siena, heard Charles’s confession, fed him the Host, and threatened him in person with God’s wrath if he did not deliver Pisa into our hands.

Charles remained mute on the subject; Savonarola returned home without an answer, and we Florentines grew anxious as the French lingered in Siena.

I couldn’t trouble myself, however. I sat on my balcony and watched the white lilies bloom.

In May, a flood drowned all the tender young corn growing on the banks of the Arno. A sign of God’s displeasure, the prophet said; if we did not repent, He would send Charles next. I watched the laurel trees grow full and flutter, silvery, in the wind; I watched them bow to the gray rains.

In June, I stared out at the roses, vividly red against deep green; I inhaled their scent, carried on the breeze. Water flowed from the lion’s mouth with a soothing, repetitive gurgle.

August was sultry and I was miserable. I could not sleep because of the heat, because of the restless child, because of the ache in my back. I was uncomfortable lying down, sitting, standing; I could no longer see my feet, could not remove my own slippers, could hardly get up from the bed or a chair. My wedding ring grew so tight my finger ached. Zalumma generously applied soap, and when she finally succeeded in wrenching the ring off, I shrieked.

Zalumma and I counted. We expected the baby to arrive the first or second week of the month. By the last week, Zalumma was pleased-the child’s tardiness would only serve to convince Francesco it was his-but I was too desperate to appreciate my good fortune.

By the first of September, I was unpleasant to everyone, including Zalumma. I had given up coming down to supper; Francesco sent up small gifts, but I was too irritable to acknowledge them.

That week, on one particularly hot night, I woke abruptly, filled with a strange alertness. I was sweating. I had balled up my nightgown and pushed it beneath my pillow; the damp linen sheet clung so tightly to my belly that I could see the child stirring.

I rose awkwardly and pulled on my gown. Zalumma was snoring lightly on her cot. I moved as lightly as my bulk allowed and slipped quietly out the door. I was thirsty and thought to go downstairs where it was cooler, to get some fresh water to drink. My eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, and so I took no candle.

As I began to descend the stairs, I saw light advancing from the opposite direction-Francesco, I assumed. Like a good wife, I turned, intending to go back up discreetly; but a feminine giggle made me stop, press my back firm against the wall to keep my body clear of the arc of looming light, and look down.

On the landing below stood Isabella-young, pretty Isabella-in a white linen camicia, with a key in one upraised hand and a candle in the other. She leaned backward into the grasp of a man who had wound his arms beneath her breasts and pulled her against his chest, then pressed his face against her neck. As he kissed her, she fought to repress her laughter-and when she failed, he shushed her, and she pulled away from him to open the door to my husband’s chambers. A lamp burned there in anticipation of his return.

Francesco, I thought, and Isabella. He had returned an hour or two early; perhaps one of his strumpets had fallen ill, because his schedule was otherwise predictable. I was not at all surprised or offended by the thought of his dalliance, though I was somewhat disappointed in Isabella.

But the man who raised his face was not my husband.

I caught only a glimpse of him, of his flashing smile, before he took the key from Isabella’s hand. He was dark- haired, perhaps my age, around sixteen. I had never seen him before. Had Isabella admitted a thief?

I stood, motionless save for the kicking of the child. For reasons I still do not understand, I was not afraid of him.

Isabella turned and gave him a passionate kiss; as she left him to go back down the stairs, taking the candle with her, he slapped her bottom soundlessly. Then he went alone into Francesco’s rooms, guided by the lamp shining there.

I listened to his unfamiliar footfall. With all the awkward grace I could summon, I moved stealthily down the stairs, past the intruder, who had paused in my husband’s study.

I went to the kitchen hearth and took the large iron poker, then moved quietly back up the stairs, to Francesco’s study.

Draped in shadow, I watched as the stranger stood in front of Francesco’s desk, where he had placed a burning lamp taken from my husband’s bedroom. The drawer was open, and the key placed beside it; the stranger had unfolded a piece of paper and was frowning at it, his mouth silently forming words as he read. He was a pretty young man, with a large, strong nose and sharp eyes limned by coal-colored lashes; brown-black curls framed his oval face. He wore an artisan’s clothes: a gray tunic that fell almost to his knees, covering patched black leggings. If he had borne my husband’s jewels, or our gold or silver, or anything of value, I would have called out for the servants. But he was interested only in what he was reading.

He didn’t see me until I stepped forward out of the darkness and demanded, “What are you doing?”

He stopped, his chin lifting in surprise, and when he turned to look at me, the paper fell from his fingers. Miraculously, I reached out and caught it, fluttering, in the air before it reached the ground.

He moved as if to take it from me, but I raised the poker threateningly. He saw my weapon, and his full lips