Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

prior about an altarpiece for a chapel…”

“Was she praying? At Mass?”

“Leaving Mass. Her husband was not with her, but her maid-”

“Zalumma.”

“The one with the amazing hair? I so wanted to draw it… Yes, her maid was with her. She was pregnant with you.”

I was entranced. “How did she look?”

“Beautiful. And broken,” he said softly. “Broken, yet somehow hopeful. You gave her reason to continue, I think.”

I turned my face away, toward the papered window and the drab light.

“I am sorry,” Leonardo said, looking up at me again. “I did not mean to make you sad.”

I shrugged, still gazing at the window. “I can’t help wondering whether he let her go to Giuliano’s funeral.”

“He could not stop her,” he answered, with such sudden vehemence that I turned my head to stare at him.

“You saw her there?”

“Yes.” His cheeks flushed.

I thought of the two of them there-two people in love with the same man-and wondered whether my mother had known, whether they had ever spoken of the fact. I opened my mouth to ask another question, but Leonardo set his brush down carefully into a little dish of oil and stepped from behind the easel. “Nearly an hour has passed; you dare not stay longer,” he said firmly. “Madonna, I will be returning to Milan for a time. I am obliged to my patron, the Duke, and I have a commission to paint a Last Supper scene for a refectory…”

“You are leaving?” I could not keep the disappointment from my voice; I rose. Salai’s damp black cloak slipped from my shoulders onto the chair.

“I’ll be returning, of course, though I cannot say precisely when. In the meantime, Salai will remain here. You will continue just as you have before, except that you will now tell him the content of any letters you discover. And he will relay that content to me.”

“But… what if Piero comes? What should I do?”

He smiled gently at that. “If Piero comes, you’ll have no worries. Your safety, and your child’s, will be assured.

“In the meantime… you may well learn many things that disturb you, or even anger you. Please understand that there are many things I don’t tell you now because it would increase the danger to you… and those you love most dearly.”

“If you are to return to Milan,” I said, “and we may not meet again for a long time… I must ask you your response to the letter I sent you so long ago.”

He knew precisely what I meant, but was reluctant to reply.

“The assassin in Santa Maria del Fiore, the day Giuliano died,” I prompted. “The first man to attack him, the man who escaped. My Giuliano, my husband, told me about him. He said that you told Lorenzo about this man. That you had been in the cathedral when Giuliano the elder was murdered.”

“He was wearing a penitent’s robes,” Leonardo answered shortly. “With a hood. I couldn’t see his face clearly.”

“But you must have seen part of it. My Giuliano said that you saw him. That his uncle died in your arms.”

“I… saw a part of it. But it happened more than fifteen years ago; I saw him only for an instant. You can’t expect me to remember.”

“But I can,” I said. “You remembered my face when you saw me only once, at the Palazzo Medici. You sketched it perfectly, from memory. And you told me exactly how to remember a face: Surely you used the same technique to remember this one. You carry your little notebook everywhere. I can’t believe you never sketched his face-at least the part of it you saw.”

Footsteps sounded in the corridor; I turned to see Salai standing in the doorway. “She cannot stay long. The clouds have grown black; a hard rain is coming.”

“Understood,” Leonardo said, and dismissed the lad with a nod. He looked back at me and drew in a breath. “I must take my leave of you now.”

Unkindly, I said, “When you first met me here, you told me that Piero wanted to see me. And I wanted so badly to believe you that I didn’t notice you were lying. But now I see very clearly that you aren’t being truthful. You have sketched the penitent, haven’t you? You must have been looking for him for years. I have the right to see the face of the man who killed my father. Why won’t you show it to me?”

His expression grew stony; he waited for me to finish, then after a long moment asked, “Has it occurred to you, Madonna, that it might be better for you not to know certain things?”

I began to speak, then stopped myself.

“Giuliano was murdered a long time ago,” he said. “His brother Lorenzo is dead. The Medici have been banished from Florence. The assassin-if he still breathes-will certainly not live much longer. What good will it do to distract ourselves with finding one man? And what do you think we should do if we find him?”

Again, I had no answer.

“No noble cause would be served by revenge. We could only stir up old pain, old hatred. We are already trapped in circumstances born of distant mistakes. We must hope not to repeat them.”

“I still deserve to know,” I countered evenly. “And I don’t want to be lied to.”

He raised his chin sharply at that. “I will never lie to you. You can trust that. But I will, if I deem it best for you, hide the truth. I do not do so lightly. Do not forget, you are the mother of a Medici heir. That is an enormous burden. You and the boy must be protected. And I am sworn to do so, even if my heart did not already demand it.”

I stared at him. I was angry, frustrated; yet I trusted him as deeply as I trusted the man who had raised me as his daughter.

“You need to leave,” he said softly. “Your driver mustn’t become suspicious. And there is the rain.”

I nodded. I lifted the damp cloak from my chair and slipped it over my shoulders, then turned to him. “I don’t want to say good-bye on unpleasant terms.”

“There is no unpleasantness; there is only goodwill.” He nodded at the painting. “I will take it with me and work on it, if I am able. Perhaps you will have the chance to sit for me again.”

“I know I will.” I stepped forward and took his hand; his grip was warm, with the perfect degree of firmness. “Be safe. And well.”

“And you, Madonna Lisa. I know that these are difficult times for you. I can only promise that great happiness awaits you at their end.”

His tone carried conviction, but I took no comfort in it. My Giuliano was gone; happiness was, for me-as it had been for my mother-buried in the past.

Once again, Salai fastened a dark cloth over my eyes; once again, he stuffed bits of uncarded wool into my ears. With his guiding hand on my elbow, I walked slowly, unsteadily, down a short corridor, then paused as a large piece of wood-a door, I decided, or a large panel-was slid aside for me, rumbling, scraping against the stone floor.

We moved down a flight of stairs-I uncertainly, one hand worrying with my long skirts, my heavy overdress, the sweeping hem of the cloak. There came our usual pause as Salai waited for word from a lookout that the path was clear. The signal was given, and we trotted across smooth floors.

Then, for the first time, we hesitated-in a doorway, I am certain, for beyond, rain crashed down violently, only inches from my face. Errant darts, driven by the wind, grazed my cheeks. Thunder roiled so powerfully, the earth beneath my feet shuddered.

Beside me, Salai tensed, readying himself, and gripped my upper arm. “Run,” he commanded, and pulled me with him.

Blindly, I ran. And gasped as sheets of icy water pummeled me. The rain lashed down at a fierce diagonal under my hood, directly into my face; I angled it away and down, trying to shield it, but my blindfold quickly became soaked; the water stung my eyes. I put my free hand to them.