Da Vinci's Cat

by Catherine Gilbert Murdock

  How come Moo’s phone didn’t work?

  Raphael was looking at a young woman holding a scroll, the lantern shifting as he breathed. Bee knew that figure, too. Moo had it on a poster over her desk. The woman was a prophet from Ancient Greece. Bee loved how strong she looked, and how beautiful. But the woman was worried. She really did see the future—you could tell. How would she warn everyone? What would she say?

  What had happened to Moo?

  Slowly Raphael lowered the lantern.

  Above Bee’s head, the scene continued as an angel banished Adam and Eve from Eden. Adam was turning his face away—he couldn’t even look at the garden. I’m sorry, he seemed to be saying. I screwed up. I know I was wrong.

  The light swayed as Raphael fell to his knees.

  If Michelangelo died, all these pictures would be covered.

  We’re sorry but this number is not in service.

  If Michelangelo died, then he’d never be old. So Moo would never be in Rome researching him. So she would never meet Mom.

  A raw gasp broke the silence: Raphael, crying.

  If Moo didn’t meet Mom, they wouldn’t get married.

  If Mom and Moo didn’t get married, they’d never have Bee.

  You’ll make everything better, Miss Bother had said, back when Miss Bother at least had a drawing, and a house.

  Bee, though . . . Bee had made everything worse.

  Chapter 29

  Every Gesture Matters

  Federico sat in the inn, head in hands. He had failed. Michelangelo was again on his way to the city of Florence. Even now Federico could hear him bellowing for a mount.

  Federico’s life was as good as over. What would become of the Gonzaga? Ending the family line—that’s what Herbert’s book said. His Holiness would claim Mantua and the Gonzaga castle, his mother’s art collection, his father’s title if not his head. . . . Federico could not bear to think of their faces, and their disappointment. Already the shame burned like fire.

  His arm hurt. Back when he was a child, before this night began, Federico would have thrilled at such a wound. He’d have boasted to Señor Pedro and let Celeste pamper him. Now, however, he didn’t care enough even to pull back his sleeve.

  Dully he thought of Juno, wherever she was. All he’d wanted was a friend. Now look.

  Behind him, a door opened. Not Michelangelo returning to torment him—that’d be too fortunate. “’Scuse me, sir, can I get you anything?”

  “No.” Federico pushed his hair from his eyes. “But thank you.”

  The voice belonged to a girl in a blouse dusted with flour. The baker’s girl, trailing the warm scent of bread. “’Tis no problem, sir.”

  Federico looked at his shirt splattered with blood, his grimy hands. His jerkin was so dirty that the embroidery could no longer be seen. He lacked a cap. A right beggar, the soldier called him. I don’t listen to beggars, Michelangelo had sneered. “You called me sir,” he murmured, almost to himself. Never in his life had he looked less like a gentleman.

  “I calls everyone sir, sir. Makes them feel special.” She bobbed a curtsy as terrible as one of Bee’s bows. It was the sort of mistake Bee would make, calling a messenger sir.

  Federico dropped his head. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how this girl addressed commoners or noblemen. He was going to end up as a sentence in a book that no one would read. In the future men paid no attention to rank or to birthright. Herbert had adopted a beggar! Bee did not even know the family name Gonzaga. She cared only about artists.

  His head came up.

  She cared only about artists . . . and their art.

  “Excuse me,” he called. “What if someone were actually special?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.” Nervously the baker’s girl glanced toward her kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

  Federico stood. Hope fluttered in his chest like a songbird. “What if someone truly special came here? What if you had to serve the King of France?”

  The girl looked at the low beams, the rough floor. “I’m not—I don’t know—he’d never—”

  “But say he did.” Federico pulled a ring from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. “I need a feast. Can you do that? I need your best food, I need candles, I need tablecloths—” He swept his arm wide. “I need magnificence.”

  “The King of France?” She looked dazed. “We’ve got nothing prepared.”

  “You must.” A kitchen always had something, especially at an inn. “Cheese, salami—whatever’s in your larder. Fruit. Nuts. Bread.” He flapped at her. “Go!”

  “The bread needs cooling, sir—”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Federico ran outside. “Master!” What if Michelangelo had already left? His plan would be for nothing.

  But Michelangelo had not left; he was far too bad-tempered for that. Instead he stood in the stable yard brandishing a coin. “This is good money. Now take it!”

  “’Tis not the coin of Florence,” the stable man bellowed back.

  “Master!” Federico ran between them. “Master, please come back in.”

  “Why?” Michelangelo snapped. “Why should I listen to a troublemaker?”

  Federico handed the stable man a ring—a gold band set with amber from the Baltic Sea. “That little mare? Please treat her like the queen that she is.” He turned to Michelangelo. “Come, Master. There’s warm bread.”

  “I don’t care about bread.”

  Federico nudged him forward. “I have a story to tell you. You’ll like it.”

  “I won’t,” declared Michelangelo, scowling.

  “It’s a true story. About you.”

  Michelangelo feigned disinterest. “Is it gossip?”

  “Quite the opposite. It’s a prophecy.” He took Michelangelo’s arm. It was like gripping an oak tree. “Please?”

  “Prophecy. Hmph.” But Michelangelo allowed Federico to coax him inside.

  Candles now lit the room. A tray of cheeses and sausages sat on the table, and a pitcher of wine, and grapes. The baker’s girl was putting out two bowls as they entered. “It’s yesterday’s stew,” she stammered, “for the stable men—”

  “It smells of heaven,” Federico assured her, guiding Michelangelo to the chair. He himself would take a stool. Every gesture mattered.

  Michelangelo sniffed at the stew. “Is there a fork?” Of course he’d ask for a fork, the braggart. Federico was so hungry that he’d lap at the bowl like a dog.

  “Here, sir,” the girl answered. “I’ll get the bread. And some melon—”

  “And ham, please?” For Federico’s stomach, just in case. He sliced the cheese—a sheep’s cheese, with a rind—and offered Michelangelo the first piece. Every gesture mattered.

  “What’s the story you wanted to tell?” Michelangelo asked through a forkful of stew.

  Federico savored a mouthful of stew. Never in his life had food tasted this good. “I know this girl. She’s . . .”

  Michelangelo poured himself wine. “She’s crazy. She’s a girl.”

  “Not crazy.” Federico paused. “She knows things. She knows the future.”

  “Hmph.” Michelangelo sipped at his wine. “Claims she’s a prophet, eh?”

  Federico picked his words. “Think about five hundred years ago. Do we know anything about that time? I don’t. I know Virgil and Latin, but the name of pope in the year 1011? The fashions? The King of France?”

  Michelangelo frowned. He shook his head.

  “Exactly. Five hundred years from now, we’ll be forgotten. The great dukes of Mantua will be a line in a book. Only dust.”

  Michelangelo sliced into the sausage. “This is a lovely conversation. Where’s the bread?”

  Federico handed him a loaf. “But that’s where this girl comes in. She has seen Rome—the city of Rome—five hundred years hence. She has seen the Sistine Chapel. She has seen your ceiling in its finished glory.”

  Michelangelo paused. “The ceiling?” He set down the bread. “Finished?�
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  Federico nodded. “She has seen it in the company of scholars, with travelers from all over the world. Pilgrims from lands farther than China. Countries we don’t yet know. All these people desperate to see. All of them, looking up. Gazing at the ceiling. And on the lips of every visitor is one word.”

  The silence stretched between them. The candles guttered on the table; in the fireplace, an ember popped. The night pressed against the windows as if the darkness listened, too.

  “The word, Master—” Federico pushed away his empty bowl. “The word is Michelangelo.” He wiped off his knife and sheathed it. “Or it would have been.” He stood up. “Now they’ll never get the chance.”

  Michelangelo sat like a muscled slab of marble.

  Federico strode across the inn. Behind him, Michelangelo was silent. Did he care? Had he even heard? Federico couldn’t ask. Every gesture mattered.

  He paused at the door. “Goodbye, Master. May you find good fortune in Florence.” He shut the door behind him. “Stable man,” he cried loudly, in case Michelangelo was listening. In case the sculptor—the vainest man Federico knew, in a city drowning in vanity—had pride enough to seek immortality. “Stable man! A horse, if you would? I’m returning to Rome.”

  Chapter 30

  The Peacock and the Hangman

  Bee lay sobbing on the scaffolding, her heart shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. On the ceiling above her, Adam shuffled out of Eden, his face crumpled in despair. But he didn’t hurt as much as Bee. “Moo!” she called. But Moo couldn’t hear her. Moo didn’t even know Bee was alive.

  On the scaffolding below her, Raphael wept, too.

  We’re sorry but this number is not in service. . . . This is what happened when people went back in time. They screwed up the future. How dumb Bee had been.

  “Such talent!” Raphael wept. “Such talent, compared to me.”

  If Bee hadn’t gone into the wardrobe, Fred would still be in Rome instead of panicking the Swiss Guards. He was probably chasing Michelangelo right now.

  Was Fred going to die?

  “Why should I bother?” Raphael wailed. Easy for him to say.

  At least Fred is doing something, Bee thought miserably. The realization made her feel even worse. He wasn’t just lying around bawling.

  She swiped her eyes on her sleeve. She wished she could blow her nose. She should do something, too. Chip in. Not by chasing Michelangelo, duh. But something.

  She could get the drawing.

  Bee blinked. If she got the drawing, then Miss Bother wouldn’t have a blank space over her fireplace. Maybe Miss Bother would be okay. Maybe Moo would study the drawing and meet Mom and they’d have Bee. . . . she didn’t know! But something was better than nothing. She had to try.

  She sat up. “Excuse me.” It sounded more like a croak because of her crying. “Excuse me, Master.” She crept down the scaffolding toward him. To the beautiful prophet painted on the wall.

  “What is it?” Raphael asked despondently.

  Bee crouched beside him. “I’m sorry, but you, um . . . you still need to draw me.”

  Raphael gave her a withering look. “I have no talent. Don’t you see?”

  “But you have to.” Bee bit her lip, forcing back tears. “You promised. If you don’t—” She paused, trying to find the right words. “If you don’t, it won’t be good.”

  “I won’t be good?” Raphael scoffed, gesturing at the ceiling. “Look at all this! I’m no good at all.”

  “No, I meant that it won’t be good. . . .” Although he was right. A good person would draw her right now. A good person would make sure to be drawn.

  “I can’t,” Raphael declared, turning his back.

  Bee sat there. She didn’t know what else to do.

  Raphael glared at her over his shoulder.

  “Please?”

  Raphael sighed. “Oh, fine.” He flopped open his satchel. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

  It probably didn’t, Bee agreed. But they had to try.

  She watched Raphael tug out his sketchbook and ink, his box of pens. When Bee was little, she’d sit with her box of crayons at Moo’s desk as Moo typed. I’m working, too, Bee would say as she colored. That was one of the reasons Bee loved Moo’s poster of the prophet: the colors. Orange. Green. Blue. Almost like crayons.

  A tear slid down her cheek. Poor Fred, she thought. He’d been living without his mother for a year! But at least Fred knew his mother existed. At least he’d be able to go home.

  Unless he died.

  Raphael bent over the page. His pen scratched.

  But what if Raphael’s drawing didn’t work? What if it wasn’t the right one? What if it only helped Miss Bother? Could Bee even live without parents? All these fears swirling in her brain, round and round and round . . .

  Her back hurt. She’d been sitting forever, it felt like, in the flickering lantern light.

  As she watched, the flame went out. A sunbeam caught the far wall of the chapel. The prophet’s orange robe came to life, and her blue headscarf. Her rosy cheeks, as fresh as new paint. Daylight caught her worried eyes. Hazel eyes, like Moo’s.

  “Are you done?” Bee asked. She wanted Moo so badly.

  “Almost . . . Lift your chin, please.” Raphael studied his work.

  The sunshine brightened. “Because I really want to go home.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Is the drawing . . . ” She could hardly bear to ask. “Is it good?”

  “No.” Triumphantly he held out the sketchbook. “It is brilliant.”

  Bee exhaled a long breath. There it was. The thick lashes, the downturned mouth, the scratch. The mole. “It’s me.” And so sad! “It’s fantastic.”

  “I know.” Raphael shot a look at the ceiling. “The best art in the world?” he snorted. “Ha.”

  Something was missing, though. “You need to sign it.”

  “Of course.” He dipped his pen. “There.” He handed it to Bee. “Keep the book if you’d like.”

  “Really?” Bee clutched the sketchbook to her chest.

  “I have many.” Smoothly he packed his supplies into the satchel. “Shall we?” He eased onto the ladder, lantern over his arm. “Such a peculiar sense of color,” he murmured as he descended, gazing at the ceiling.

  Bee followed, sketchbook in her teeth. She would never, ever let it go.

  Raphael chuckled as he climbed down. “Do you know what Leonardo da Vinci calls Michelangelo? The baker. Because he is always covered in dust. Marble dust, to be sure, not flour. But still, it’s amusing.”

  Bee reached the bottom. She needed to get to the wardrobe!

  Raphael sauntered across the floor, still gazing up. “Plus he has no sense of massing. . . .” He waved Bee through the door, and locked it, and handed her the key. “Sir Federico’s, I believe?”

  “Thank you,” Bee said, distracted. Which way to the corridor? Through that arch?

  “What a marvelous experience.” Raphael fell in beside her, his arm around her shoulders. “Though I’m sure I can paint better.” A group of men in work clothes passed, Raphael greeting them by name. He gave Bee an affectionate shake. “Do you know what we in the studio call Michelangelo? The hangman—because he dresses in black and is always alone. Ah, genius. How it torments us.”

  Numbly Bee nodded, clutching the sketchbook and key.

  They reached the construction, the rooms already crowded with painters. “Giulio!” Raphael cried, at last letting go of Bee. “I have the most splendid idea for a figure. What do you think of this pose?”

  There: the door to the corridor. Bee ran for it, before Raphael could grab her again, or that Swiss Guard, or anyone in the year 1511. She needed home! She tugged the door open, zooming for the wardrobe.

  What if the wardrobe didn’t work? Don’t think that—

  Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed. “Bee?” Racing footsteps.

  “Fred?” Even with her worries, Bee burst into a smile. Fred!


  “Bee!” He pounded up the corridor into view. Wow, was he dirty. Dust caked his face; brown stained his sleeve—

  “Is that blood?” Bee gasped. And: “You’re alive!”

  “I’m so glad you’re here!” Fred threw his arms wide, laughing with joy. “I’ve been riding for hours with Michelangelo. All he did was complain about money.”

  “He’s alive, too?” Bee spun Fred in a bear hug. “And look—” She thrust out the sketchbook, flipping it open. “Look at this.”

  “Oh!” Fred breathed. “He did it.”

  Bee pressed the book into his hands. “And he signed it! Raphael. I watched.” What a day. The sky hung above them like a rich blue bowl; the sun shone with the pure white of morning. Doves cooed in the trees. She tucked the Sistine key into Fred’s knife sheath. “That’s for you.”

  Fred couldn’t take his eyes from the drawing. “It’s so beautiful. Will it be enough, do you think, for Miss Bother?”

  “I think.” Bee’s smile faded. “Um . . .” She swallowed. “How do we get it to her?”

  “You hand it over, like this.” He demonstrated. “It requires a certain action of the forearms, but with practice it is not difficult.”

  “Ha ha. I mean how does it end up in Miss Bother’s house? I can’t just carry it through the wardrobe, can I?” The blank spot above the fireplace would still be there when she went back.

  “Hmm.” Fred frowned. “’Erbert found it in Mantua, he told me. In a trunk.”

  They walked together, brooding on this. They were almost at the wardrobe.

  “So Herbert went to Mantua,” Bee sighed. “And he found a trunk with a drawing in it. You know, like people do.”

  “And rebuilt the trunk into the closet.” Ignoring her sarcasm.

  “The wardrobe,” Bee corrected. It was right there in front of them. She so wanted to go through! But she couldn’t. Not until they figured this out.

  Fred sank onto the stack of planks. “This whole thing makes me dizzy.” He held up the sketchbook with its drawing of Bee. “What am I supposed to do? Take this to Mantua?”