Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

prophet and lifted their young, sweet voices in a hymn.

The straw went up quickly, black tendrils writhing in a bright blaze. The planks caught fire more slowly, emitting a pungent, resinous smell; the vanities smoldered, emitting narrow streams of black smoke.

For two hours, I stood beside Francesco and watched as the pyre burned, watched as Botticelli’s pearl goddess darkened and melted away. At first, I stamped my feet to ward off the cold, but as the upper tiers charred and collapsed, the fire surged upward with a gasp. I loosened my mantello; my cheeks grew so hot I pressed my ungloved hands against them for relief.

In the end, the heat forced us back. Francesco touched my elbow, but I remained frozen for a moment, staring up at the roiling flames, orange-red against the pinkening sky. The vanities lay dark and writhing at their heart.

I was sweating when we returned to our carriage. As we rode home, the wind stirred; red cinders sailed through the air and swarmed like glittering fireflies on the facades of buildings.

“There will likely be fires tonight,” Francesco said.

I did not answer. I sat with my face against the window and watched the ash float down, pale and silent as snow.

LXII

An attack from Piero is imminent. Word is that he plans to approach from the north; Siena again seems likely. Prepare for this-but do not be too overly alarmed. He has only the Orsini and mercenaries, perhaps thirteen hundred men all told. Not enough.

When he does fail, use the opportunity to make the new council public. The Arrabbiati have grown too noisy, as have Bernardo del Nero and his Bigi. The council must bring them down.

Inside the hidden studio at Santissima Annunziata, I recited the letter to Salai. He wrote it down as I dictated- clumsily, with maddening slowness, asking me several times to repeat what I had said. When I moved to take the pen myself, he pulled away.

“No, Monna! Your hand might be recognized.”

When he had at last finished and rose to escort me out, I stood my ground. “Do you think-do you think there is a chance Piero will succeed? That he will be able to retake Florence?”

Salai’s expression turned wry; with mock exasperation, he ran a hand through his short black curls. “I care nothing for politics and know even less about military affairs. But I do know that if anyone wants to dethrone this lunatic preacher and his fire-wielding brats, I’ll take up arms and join them.”

“Do you know how to use a knife?” I asked, and he grinned.

“I was born with one in my hand.”

Awkwardly-taking care I did not cut myself-I drew Zalumma’s double-bladed knife from the sheath tucked into my bodice.

Salai made a face. “So like a girl. If you don’t cut yourself to ribbons first, your opponent will be doubled over laughing by the time you get your weapon out.”

“Don’t make fun of me. Show me how to use it.”

“Leonardo would never approve, you know.” He was teasing; his eyes still smiled. “I’ve never been able to convince him even to pick one up. He’s worse than a woman about such things.”

“Leonardo isn’t here.”

“An excellent point.” He laughed. “First, don’t keep it in your bodice. That’s sloppy and slows you down. See, you have to reach up to get hold of it. You want to keep it in your belt, near your waist.”

“But I don’t always wear a belt.”

“You will if you want to carry a knife. A nice wide one-isn’t that the fashion? Just tuck it underneath. But please, don’t hold it like you’re going to eat with it.”

I blinked down at the weapon in my hand.

“With your permission,” he said. He came to stand behind me, at my right shoulder, and put his hand over mine. My grip on the knife was tight, stiff; he jiggled my wrist until my grip loosened a bit. “Now,” he ordered, “you’re holding it overhanded, with the tip pointing down. Do the exact opposite: underhanded, with the tip pointing up. But just slightly up. Here.”

He turned my hand over and guided the tip up; his breath was warm on my ear. He smelled of wine and linseed oil. I glanced back at him and realized, for the first time, that despite his immaturity, he really was a young man, my age, and good-looking; his body was hard and strong. When my gaze caught his, he grinned flirtatiously. I flushed, embarrassed by the flash of heat between us, and looked away. But I now understood how Isabella had been taken in.

“That’s right,” he said softly. “It’s good that it’s double-edged; less for you to worry about. Now, show me how you attack. Go ahead, kill someone.”

I took a step forward and stuck the knife out in front of me. Salai snickered.

“That’s all well and good, if they’re holding completely still and you want to give them a nick and let them run away. Here.”

He moved up beside me and, in a flash, produced from the depths of his robe a long, slender knife. Before I could flinch in surprise, he took a step forward and thrust the knife out low in front of him; then, with a savage gesture, he hoisted it straight up in the air.

“You see?” He turned toward me, the knife still raised. “Get them low, in the gut; that’s their most vulnerable spot. And it’s easy for a weak girl to penetrate. The heart, the lungs-too much bone there, too much effort. Just aim for the gut, almost down to the groin, and then-to make sure they don’t have a chance to give you any more trouble-bring it up hard. All the way up until the ribs stop you. Tears up the vitals. That’s all you have to do to kill a man. They’ll bleed to death, almost as fast as if you slit their throat.” He smiled and tucked his own knife away. “Now, you do it.”

The words were not entirely out of his mouth when I surged forward, so fast that he started. I kept the tip slightly up. I remembered to thrust low, to pull up, straight and hard and brutal.

Salai clicked his tongue in astonished approval. “And you, supposedly a noblewoman, from a good family? You’re a quick study, Monna Lisa. You handle it as if you’d been born on the streets.”

I went out alone on the balcony that evening after supper. I held the weapon in my hand, tip slightly up, and I practiced. I lunged on one foot, I jabbed forward with the knife; I jerked it up and listened to the blade whistle through the air.

Again and again I lunged. I wielded the knife. I wounded and killed. I thrust repeatedly at the bowels of the Pazzi, at the bowels of the third man.

Piero never came. A fortnight after I delivered the message to Salai, Zalumma came to my chambers wearing an expression of abject defeat. The news was spreading all over the city. Piero and his men had come from Siena and headed as far south as San Gaggio. But the sky had opened up en route, and a violent rain had forced the army to seek shelter and wait out the storm, with the result that they lost the cover of night. The delay allowed word of them to reach the Florentine troops stationed in Pisa, to the north. Piero was forced to retreat in order to avoid being overpowered.

Savonarola’s followers said, of course, that God had spoken. The rest of us were downcast and afraid to speak.

And I was bitter. Bitter because I knew we would never know the full truth of it, thanks to my husband and the Pazzi. By day, I held my child in my arms; at night, I cradled the knife.

Given the failure of the Medici invasion, I had expected Francesco to be in good spirits-indeed, I expected him to gloat. But the following evening at supper, he was in a noticeably preoccupied mood and said nothing whatsoever