Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

at the moment, about the positioning of my hands. In fact, he gave me my wine goblet and insisted I have some before he started.

I sat in silence as he finished erasing his crime; then he took up the charcoal fastened to its wooden stick and, with a deft, flourished move, corrected the chin. And then he stared at me. Stared and checked my nose against the drawing, my right eye, my left, each eyebrow, and my nose. I grew restless and let my gaze wander: It lit upon the wall near the easel-on a small panel of wood that had been coated with plaster and was drying. Next to it was a sharp wooden slice which had obviously been used to scrape the panel’s surface smooth.

“Is that what you will use-for the painting?” I asked.

He frowned, faintly annoyed at the interruption. “Yes. It needs to dry for a few days.”

“Is the surface made of just plaster?”

“Plaster,” he said, “of a sort. Very fine gesso sottile, plaster of Paris with some of my own adulterations. First comes the white poplar. Then good linen is glued to it, to make a base for the gesso. Then it is made very smooth, like ivory. When it dries, I’ll transfer this sketch to it.”

“You’ll copy it?”

“I’m far too lazy for that. I prick the cartone, attach it to the gessoed panel, and sprinkle powdered charcoal over it. It goes on very quickly that way. Then we start the painting. Which we will do the next time we meet, if fate permits.” He gave a small sigh. “Please take some more wine, Madonna.”

“You are trying to get me drunk,” I said. I meant it as a joke, but when I caught his eye, he did not smile.

“We have enough difficult things to talk about, don’t you agree?”

In answer, I took an earnest sip of my wine. It was cheap and slightly sour. “Why don’t we talk about them, then? I’m tired of appearing content and angelic.” I stared up at him. “You didn’t bring me here just to paint my portrait or speak of happier times.”

His tone darkened. “Very well. Tell me the truth, Madonna. I… saw you with Francesco del Giocondo-”

He was going to say more, but I interrupted. “When?”

“At your child’s baptism.”

So. He had been watching when Salai arranged for me to get the note.

He continued. “Do you love him?”

His tone was bitter. My cheeks burned; I stared down at the stone floor.

He let go a barely audible sigh, then softened. “Am I mistaken, or are relations between you strained-at least, on your part?”

I raised my face. “How do you know that?”

My answer seemed to please him. “Through casual observation. It is very difficult to completely conceal one’s emotions. And I did not detect much affection in your gestures. This is not the first time I have successfully divined such… unhappiness between husband and wife.”

“I…” Guilt surged through me. I remembered those horrible days when I had sacrificed myself to Francesco for Matteo’s sake, when I had permitted myself to be called a whore. “My father had been arrested. Francesco offered to save him, if…”

I could not finish. He nodded to indicate I did not need to. “Then I must ask you whether you are still loyal to Giuliano. To the Medici.”

I suddenly understood. He had had no way to know that I had been forced into marriage with Francesco; he had no way of knowing whether I was privy to Francesco’s political schemes, whether I approved.

“I would never betray Giuliano! I loved him…” I cupped a hand against my cheek.

He stood unmoving in front of the easel, the stick of charcoal frozen above the drawing. “Do you not love him still?”

“Yes,” I said. Tears welled in my eyes and overflowed; I did nothing to stop them. “Of course, yes. When he died, I wanted to die. I would have, by my own hand, had I not carried his child…” I panicked at my unintended admission. “You must tell no one-not even Salai! If Francesco ever knew, he would take him from me-”

“Giuliano… dead.” Very slowly, he set the charcoal down on the little table, without looking at it. “Few people have heard this. Most believe he is still alive.”

“No. Francesco told me. His body was found in the Arno… The Lord Priors took it and secretly buried it outside the city walls. They were afraid because of what happened to Messer Iacopo.”

He digested this. “I see. This explains a great deal.” For a long, uncomfortable moment-a moment in which I struggled to regain my composure, to suppress all the grief I had never been allowed to express fully-he was silent. Then he said, very carefully, “So you are still loyal to the Medici. And you would not shrink from helping Piero to recapture Florence? And you can guard your tongue?”

“Yes, to both questions. I would do anything-so long as it brings my son Matteo no harm.” I wiped away my tears and looked up at him. His gaze was troubled, but the barrier between us was beginning to crumble.

He had not known, I realized. He had not known that I knew Giuliano was dead. Perhaps he had thought me capable of betraying him, of marrying Francesco when I thought my first husband might still be alive. Yet he had still been cordial; he had even asked me to sit.

“Believe me when I say that I understand your concerns about your child. I would never ask you to do anything that directly endangered him.” He paused. “I was rather surprised when I received your letter,” he said, his tone soft in deference to my weeping. “I… had reason to think you had perished the night the Medici brothers fled Florence. I did not, you see, know your handwriting. So I did not respond. Later, I learned you had married Francesco del Giocondo-”

“I read the letter Salai dropped,” I interrupted. “The one written to my husband. I… had no idea he was somehow involved with Savonarola until that night. I don’t even know who sent him the letter.” I studied him. He still watched me with peculiar intensity; he wanted to believe me, but something held him back.

“It is true,” he said, more to himself than me. “When you saw Salai at the christening, you could have told your husband that Salai took the letter from his desk. But it seems you have not.”

“Of course not. What do you want me to do? You brought me here for a reason.”

“Piero de’ Medici wishes to speak to you,” he said.

I gaped at him, thunderstruck. “Piero? Piero is here?”

“He intends to retake the city. And he needs your help. Will he have it?”

“Of course.”

He stepped away from the easel and moved over to me. “Good. Go to the Duomo in three days’ time, at midday precisely. He will meet you in the north sacristy.”

I considered this. “A woman alone, in the sacristy… The priests’ suspicion will be aroused. If I was seen waiting there-”

“The priests know what to do. Tell them Gian Giacomo sends you. They will take you to a secret passage accessible only from the sacristy.”

“Why did Piero not simply tell you to relay his message to me? Why would he risk meeting with me?”

“I am merely an agent, Madonna. I do not presume to understand him.”

He rose and called for Salai, then dismissed me with a bow. Salai tied the cloth around my eyes once more, and I was taken back to Santissima Annunziata in the same manner I had left.

Zalumma was waiting for me in my chambers. I knew better than to try to disguise my unease; she could smell the encounter with Leonardo on me as surely as if it had been attar of roses. But I had already decided to share no details, for her sake. Before I could speak, she said, very quietly so that no one standing in the hall could hear: “I know that you have gone to meet someone, and that this has something to do with the letter the intruder found. It is not my place to ask questions. But I am here. In whatever way I can help, I will. Instruct me as you wish.”

I took her hands and kissed her as if she were my sister and not my slave. But I said nothing of Leonardo or Piero; such names could cost her her head.

And they could cost me mine. I went to the nursery and sat a long time with Matteo in my arms, ran my hand over the tender, vulnerable skin of his crown, over the wisps of impossibly fine hair. I kissed his soft cheek and smelled milk and soap.

Three days passed quickly.

Claudio lifted a brow at my unusual request to be driven to the Duomo. I did so casually, as if it were a whim,