Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

curved in a crescent smile. There was lechery in it, and good humor. Like me, he was fearless. And, like me, he was aware that he simply needed to move a few paces back in order to reach the poker set beside the cold hearth. He glanced swiftly at it, then dismissed the notion.

“Monna Lisa.” His tone was that of someone mildly startled to find a friend he knew well, but not in the place he had expected. He looked like a poor apprentice, and his speech was that of a tradesman.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“The Devil himself.” His smile never wavered; his gaze grew bemused and challenging, as if I were the one who had trespassed, not he. He was a brazen, cheerful criminal.

“How do you know my name?”

“You husband will be coming home soon. I should leave, don’t you think? Or else we both will be in a good deal of trouble. It’s awfully soon for you to be caught in your nightgown with a young man.” He eyed the poker, decided I wouldn’t use it, and reached for the folded paper in my hand. “Your timing is unfortunate. If I could only have another moment with that letter, please-nothing more-then I shall happily return it to you and be on my way. And you can pretend you never saw me…”

His fingers grazed the paper. He was an instant away from taking it; I made a decision.

“Help!” I cried. “Thief! Thief!”

His smile broadened to show white teeth, with a slight gap between the two front ones. He did not-as I expected him to-make another attempt to seize the letter; instead, his eyes were bright and approving of my tactic.

I shouted again.

“I will say good-bye, then,” he said, and dashed down the stairs, his step surprisingly light. I followed him as swiftly as my bulk allowed and watched him fling open the doors to the front entrance. He left them open behind him, and I stared after his dark form as he raced across the curving flagstone drive into the night.

I was utterly perplexed and curious. And when Claudio and Agrippina called out to me, I refolded the paper and slipped it underneath my arm so that it was entirely hidden in the folds of my nightgown.

When they arrived, breathless, frightened, I said, “I must have been dreaming. I thought someone was here… but it was no one.”

They shook their heads as I sent them back to their rooms; Claudio muttered something about pregnant women.

Once they were gone, I went back upstairs to Francesco’s study and held the paper to the lamplight. It was indeed a letter, folded into thirds, the black wax seal broken. The writing was slanted strongly to the right, and thick, as if someone had exerted a great deal of pressure on the quill. The paper itself was worn, as though it had traveled a long way.

Your worries about retribution from Alexander are unfounded; the excommunication is mere rumor. When it becomes more than that, we shall use it to our advantage.

In the meantime, continue to encourage him to preach against Rome and the Arrabbiati. And send me the names of all Bigi-

The Bigi. The gray ones, generally older and established, who supported the Medici. I had heard the term before, on my husband’s lips, and my father’s.

– but do nothing more; a strike now would be premature. I am investigating Piero’s plans for invasion. He has settled for now in Rome, and I have found agents there willing to deal with him as you did with Pico. If we accomplish that, the Bigi will pose little threat.

As always, your help will be remembered and rewarded.

I refolded the letter and set it back in the desk, in the place Francesco kept his correspondence, then locked the desk. I paused a moment to study the key. Isabella had given it to the intruder; was it the one belonging to my husband or a copy?

I kept it in my hand. If Francesco missed its presence, Isabella would have to do the explaining, not I.

Then I returned to my bedchamber. Half asleep, Zalumma murmured vague words about hearing a noise downstairs.

“It was nothing. Go to sleep,” I said, and she gratefully complied.

I avoided my own bed, and went out onto the balcony to think. The air was oppressively warm, weighty as water; I breathed it in and felt it settling heavy inside me, against my lungs, my heart.

… continue to encourage him to preach against Rome and the Arrabbiati.

I thought of Francesco faithfully attending Savonarola’s every sermon. Listening carefully to every word. Coming home to his lavish palace and spoiling me with jewels. Riding out each night to visit his harlots.

… willing to deal with him as you did with Pico.

I thought of Pico with the goblet in his hands, smiling at Lorenzo; of Pico, hollow-eyed and gaunt. Of Francesco saying softly, Pico…? He was an associate of Lorenzo’s, was he not? Alas… he is not expected to survive much longer.

I had thought the greatest danger to myself, my father, was for Francesco simply to open his mouth, to reveal my connection to the Medici. To speak.

It would be a terrible thing for your father to undergo any more suffering. A terrible thing, if he were to die.

I thought I had understood my husband. I understood nothing.

The world was hot and heavy and stifling. I put my head upon my knees, but couldn’t catch my breath to cry.

My body opened up; I heard the splash of liquid and realized that I was the source. My chair, my legs, my gown were all soaked, and when I stood, startled, a cramp seized me so violently I thought I was turning inside out.

I cried out and seized the balcony’s edge, and when Zalumma, wide-eyed and gasping, appeared, I told her to bring the midwife.

LVI

Francesco named the boy Matteo Massimo: Massimo, after Francesco’s father, and Matteo, after his grandfather. I accepted the patriarchial naming dutifully; I had always known I could not name him Giuliano. And I was pleased to learn that Matteo meant “gift of God.” God could have given me none better.

Matteo was amazing and beautiful, and gave me back my heart. Without him, I could not have borne what I had learned in my husband’s study; without him, I had no reason to be courageous. But for his sake, I kept my counsel, and told only Zalumma of the letter-a necessity, since she would notice the key I had kept, and which Francesco never mentioned.

When I recited the line about Pico, she understood at once and crossed herself in fear.

Matteo was baptized the day after his birth, at San Giovanni, where I had been married for the second time. The formal christening was held two weeks after, at Santissima Annunziata, some distance to the north in the neighboring district of San Giovanni. For many generations, Francesco’s family had maintained a private chapel there. The church stood on one side of the piazza with the orphanage, the Ospedale della Santa Maria degli Innocenti, opposite. The gracefully arching colonnades of the buildings-each bearing Michelozzo’s stamp-faced the street.

I found the chapel comforting. Save for the bronze crucifix of an anguished Christ, whitewashed walls rose bare above an altar carved from dark wood, braced on either side by two iron candelabra as tall and twice as broad as I. The blond glow from twenty-four candles fought to ease the windowless gloom. The room smelled of dust, of wood and stone, of sweet incense and candlewax, and echoed silently with centuries of murmured prayers.

Since my son’s birth, I had kept my distance from Francesco; my hatred, my disgust, my fear, were so great I could scarcely bring myself to look at him. His manner remained unchanged-solicitous and mild-but now, when I studied him, I saw a man capable of Pico’s murder and perhaps Lorenzo’s. I saw a man who had helped to oust Piero, and thus brought about my Giuliano’s death.

I had tried to let my maternal devotion obliterate any consideration of my husband’s dark dealings with