Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

Savonarola, as if forgetfulness could magically protect Matteo from them. I had tried-but as I sat in the chapel and beamed at my child, the knowledge that Francesco sat beside me sickened me.

Uncle Lauro and Giovanna Maria served as godparents. Matteo was an impossibly content child; he slept through most of the ceremony, and when he woke, he smiled. I sat, still weary after the long labor, and watched with joy as my father held the baby and Lauro answered for him.

Afterward, as my father proudly bore his grandchild down the aisle and the others followed, I paused to take Matteo’s certificate from the priest. He was young and nervous; his voice had cracked several times during the ceremony. When I took hold of the certificate, he did not let go, but glanced surreptitiously at the others; when he reassured himself they were preoccupied with the baby, he hissed at me:

“At night. Read this only at night-tonight, when you are alone.”

I recoiled… then looked down at my hands. He had given me more than the single piece of parchment; beneath it he had tucked a piece of paper, neatly folded.

Thinking he was mad, I walked swiftly away from him and hurried after the others.

Outside, in the piazza, I had almost joined up with them when a young monk stepped into my path. He wore the black robes of the Servants of Mary, the monastic order whose convent was housed there, at Santissima Annunziata. His cowl had been raised, leaving his brow and eyes in shadow; over his arm was a large basket filled with eggs. As I swept by him, he said, in a low voice, “A beautiful child, Monna.”

I turned back to smile. And found myself looking at the familiar smirk of the Devil himself.

“You,” I whispered.

The recognition pleased him. He leaned into the light, which revealed amusement in his eyes-tempered by anxiety that my husband might notice. “Tonight,” he said softly. “Alone.” Then he turned and walked briskly on.

As I joined the others, who were talking and fawning over Matteo before Francesco returned to work at his bottega, my husband looked up from his presumed son, his gaze gentle, absent. “Who was that?” he asked.

“No one,” I said, moving to join him. I held the certificate tightly in my hand, making sure it entirely covered the smuggled note. “No one at all.”

I told no one about the note-not even Zalumma. But after she went downstairs at noon to eat with the other servants and left me alone with Matteo on my balcony, I unfolded the piece of paper. The sun was overhead in a cloudless sky, but I could not wait-nor did I see any reason to. Matteo lay, warm and soft, against me. Dared I become embroiled in more deceit?

When I stared at the paper, I let go a sound of disgust. It was blank, utterly blank. The Devil had played a joke-and a poor one, at that. Had the hearth been lit, I would have thrown it into the fire. But I curbed my temper, smoothed out the creases, and put it in a drawer. I intended to use it for correspondence, since it was of fine quality, neatly cut and bleached white.

Late that night, the sound of Matteo’s wailing in the distant nursery woke me; it stopped quickly once the wet nurse rose to feed him, but I could not return to sleep. The air was unseasonably warm; I lay sweating on my bed and fidgeted restlessly while Zalumma slept on her cot.

The words of the priest returned to me: Read this only at night-tonight, when you are alone.

I rose. In the darkness, I moved with deliberation and care, despite the fact that Zalumma was difficult to wake. I lit a candle, opened the drawer beside my bed very slowly, and retrieved the paper given me by the priest.

Feeling both foolish and frightened, I held it up to the flame.

I stared into the white blankness and frowned-until inspiration struck. I brought the paper closer to the heat, so close that the flame flared toward it and began to darkly smoke.

Before my eyes, letters began to appear, transparent and watery brown. I drew in a silent, startled breath.

Greetings.

I regret I could not respond to your earlier letter.

Tomorrow at sext, go unaccompanied to ask God for the answer.

For centuries, the faithful had divided the day into hours of prayer: The most familiar were matins, at dawn, and vespers, in the evening. After dawn, there came the third hour of the morning, terce, and the sixth hour, sext, at midday.

I stared at the writing, at the perfectly vertical letters, with the long, flourished f’s and l’s, the squat n’s, the careless spelling. I had seen it only twice before in my life, but I recognized it at once.

Greetings, Madonna Lisa, from Milan…

LVII

For the remainder of the night I did not sleep, but lay in my bed pondering the letter. Go pray, it had said. Unaccompanied. Surely this meant I should leave the palazzo; but there were easily a hundred churches in Florence. Where had he meant for me to go?

In the end, I decided only one place was logical: Santissima Annunziata, our family chapel, where I could easily go to pray at matins or sext without arousing suspicion, where I had last encountered the Devil.

In the morning, I rose without saying anything to Zalumma, but she sensed my agitation and asked me what was troubling me. When I told her of my intention to pray-alone-she scowled. I rarely went anywhere without her.

“This has to do with the letter,” she said. Her words gave me a start, until I realized she was referring to the letter the devilish young intruder had dropped, the one I had told her about. “I know you don’t mean to frighten me, Madonna, but I can’t help worrying. I would not like to think you are becoming involved in dangerous matters.”

“I would never be so foolish,” I said, but even I heard the uncertainty in my tone.

She shook her head. “Go alone, then,” she said darkly, pressing against the limits of what a slave might say to a mistress. “Just remember that you have a child.”

My answer held a trace of heat. “I would never forget.”

The driver took me to Santissima Annunziata. I directed him to wait in the open square in front of the church, across from the graceful colonnades of the Foundling Hospital. Just as the bells began to call the faithful, I stepped over the threshold of the narthex, passed the monks and worshipers moving into the sanctuary, and made my way to our little chapel.

The room was empty, which both disappointed and relieved me. No priest awaited; the candles were unlit, the air unclouded by incense. I had made no arrangements, had told no one save Zalumma and the driver of my coming. Uncertain, I went to the altar and knelt. For the next few minutes, I calmed myself by reciting the rosary. When I at last heard light, quick footsteps behind me, I turned.

The Devil stood smiling, in his guise as Servite monk. His cowl covered his head; his hands held folds of black fabric.

“Monna Lisa,” he said. “Will you come with me?” He was trying to play the role, to be polite and circumspect, but he could not entirely mask the slyness in his voice, his eyes.

In answer, I rose. As I approached him, he proffered the black fabric; the folds came loose, revealing a cloak.

“This is silly,” I said, more to myself than to him.

“Not at all,” he replied, and held the cloak open for me, his gaze darting all the while at the chapel door. “It will make sense shortly.”

I let him drape the cloak over me, let him raise the cowl and pull it forward so that my cap and veil were