by Ann Hood
“My friend Leonardo here believes the best way to paint something is from a three-dimensional model,” Sandro said, tilting his chin toward the angel.
“That makes sense,” Felix said.
“Do you know how much time he spent making that clay figure instead of painting?” Sandro said, followed by more boisterous laughter. “And do you see those lines drawn on the canvas?”
Felix and Maisie peered at the canvas, following Sandro’s pointing finger.
“Yes,” Maisie said.
“Do you see how my friend Leonardo decided to not follow those lines and is doing his own design there?”
“The landscape needs sunlight!” Leonardo exclaimed. “And shadows! When you go outside, that is what you see.”
“But Andrea del Verrocchio did not draw in these shadows and this sunlight, and you are his apprentice, Leonardo. That means you learn from him, not the other way around.”
“That reminds me,” Leonardo said, wandering away from the canvas. “I was going to finish making some red chalk. But why did I need it?”
He stared down at the clay angel in his hand as if he didn’t know where it had come from.
“Ah, well, enough work for today, then,” he said finally. “I believe I’ll go into the hills before we meet at the palace.”
“I’m coming, too,” Felix said. “Remember?”
Leonardo looked as if he didn’t remember, but he smiled and agreed that Felix should indeed come along.
When Sandro and Maisie were alone in the studio, Sandro pointed to a figure on the canvas.
“I painted that,” he said proudly.
“Nice,” Maisie said.
“Yes, I apprenticed here, too. All the great ones do,” Sandro added, matter-of-factly.
“Hmmm,” Maisie said, because the figure Sandro painted didn’t look any better than anything else on the canvas. In fact, the rocks and ground that Leonardo had painted with shadows and light were the best part of the painting. Maisie decided to keep this opinion to herself, though.
“Would you like to see your mask?” Sandro asked her.
“You finished already?” Maisie said, delighted and surprised.
“What you will learn very quickly,” Sandro said, “is that the difference between Leonardo and me is that I actually finish what I start.”
An image of the Mona Lisa from one of her father’s art books floated into Maisie’s mind.
“Oh,” she said, “I suspect that Leonardo will get around to finishing a painting or two.”
Sandro placed a hand on her shoulder, patting sympathetically.
“One can only hope,” he said.
He turned her toward the door and led her out of Verrocchio’s studio, down the cobblestone alley to Fra Lippi’s, where Sandro apprenticed.
There, on a long table covered with dishes of paint and boxes of chalk and paintbrushes, sat a beautiful white-and-gold mask.
“Yours,” Sandro said, lifting it gently.
The gold formed intricate designs around the border, shining brightly against the pure white. He placed the mask over Maisie’s eyes and nose, adjusting it until it sat just right.
“A peacock feather, perhaps,” Sandro murmured as he studied it from a few steps away from Maisie.
Maisie wished there was a mirror so she could admire herself.
As if he knew exactly what she was thinking, Sandro said, “Wait!” and retrieved a mirror from another room. He held it up for her to see.
“It’s beautiful!” she gasped.
“Yes,” Sandro said, “it is. The gold picks up the gold highlights in your hair perfectly, just as I thought it would.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to finish Felix’s in time?” Maisie asked.
“It’s completed,” Sandro said. The corners of his mouth twisted up into a small satisfied smile.
He walked across the room to another table and lifted a terrifying mask up for Maisie to see. It looked almost like a bird, with a long beak, but sinister somehow.
“How do you like it?”
“It’s . . . interesting?” Maisie offered.
Felix was not going to wear that, she thought. At Halloween, he always opted for gentle costumes, like a friendly ghost or the Lone Ranger, instead of vampires, skeletons, or werewolves. This thing would not suit him. At all.
“Il Medico della Peste,” Sandro said. “The Plague Doctor.”
“What plague?”
Sandro looked at her in disbelief.
“The plague that wiped out a third of Europe!”
“Oh,” she said, not knowing what he was talking about. “That plague.”
“Yes, that plague,” Sandro said. “The doctors wore disguises so no one would know who had tended to the people stricken with the Black Death.”
That made the mask even worse, Maisie decided.
Still, she thought, staring at her own reflection in the mirror Sandro had left on the table, her mask did pick up the golden highlights in her hair, just like he’d said. She smoothed her unruly curls and smiled at her reflection, satisfied.
In the hills above Florence, Felix and Leonardo lay on their backs in the grass, watching birds fly above them.
“If a man had a tent made out of linen,” Leonardo said thoughtfully, “perhaps twenty feet across and twelve feet long—”
“A tent?” Felix interrupted, trying to picture such a thing.
“Yes! With all of the apertures stopped up, I believe he would be able to throw himself off any great height and float to the ground without sustaining any injuries.”
“Oh!” Felix said. “You mean like a parachute?”
Leonardo propped himself on one elbow and looked down at Felix.
“Parachute,” he repeated.
“Well, I think they’re made out of silk, not linen, but, yeah, that sounds like a parachute.”
“But they don’t exist,” Leonardo said, searching Felix’s face in a way that made Felix squirm.
“Right,” Felix said.
“How did you know what I was explaining?” Leonardo asked.
For reasons Felix could not understand, he said, “Because I’m from the future.”
This news did not appear to surprise Leonardo.
“I wondered,” he said softly. “Your clothing. Some of the things you’ve said . . .”
Felix met Leonardo’s steady gaze.
“And my idea, this . . . parachute . . . it exists? And it works?”
Felix nodded.
“Then you must know . . . Is the moon covered with water?” Leonardo asked him eagerly.
“No, there’s no water on the moon. It’s just rocks,” Felix said.
“But then, how does the moon reflect the light of the sun if not from the water on the moon?”
Leonardo looked so disappointed that Felix said, “But maybe there was water there a million years ago.”
“What about whirlybirds?” Leonardo asked.
“I—”
“And flying machines?”
“Yes—”
“And is there a lens that helps you to see these things? The sun and the moon—”
“A telescope,” Felix said.
Leonardo stared at Felix.
“Take me with you,” he said.
“With me where?”
“To the future,” Leonardo said simply.
CHAPTER 9
INSIDE THE PALAZZO MEDICI
Maisie and Sandro arrived at the Palazzo Medici right at the appointed hour.
“Let’s hope Leonardo remembers to come,” Sandro had said mockingly to Maisie when they showed up at Verrocchio’s studio to find Leonardo and Felix gone.
Even though Maisie had thought they should wait, Sandro convinced her that Leonardo lived
on his own terms. “He’s always late, or forgets altogether, or simply decides to follow one of his harebrained theories instead of doing whatever he’s supposed to be doing. Trust me, we could miss the entire party if we decide to wait.”
Reluctantly, Maisie agreed.
And now that they were walking across the street that led to the palace, all thoughts of Felix vanished from her mind. Although the Palazzo Medici didn’t look like a typical one—she couldn’t help but imagine it would resemble Cinderella’s castle in Disney World—it was a grand, imposing, enormous thing in the shape of a cube. The sight of it as it came into view made her gasp and pause to take it in. Much larger than Elm Medona, with men on horseback and uniformed guards standing sentry, the Palazzo Medici was maybe the grandest thing Maisie had ever seen.
“What do these Medicis do, anyway?” Maisie asked Sandro when she finally got her voice back.
“That is a complicated question,” Sandro answered. “Lorenzo’s grandfather, Cosimo, was a banker originally. A banker who eventually led the Republic of Florence. Now, the Medicis are one of the wealthiest and most powerful families in Europe.”
A young man dressed all in crimson came out of the large palace entry doors. He had, Maisie thought, a ridiculous haircut. His black hair was styled into a pageboy, complete with straight bangs hanging right above his jet-black eyes.
Just as Maisie was about to ask if this was the court jester, Sandro opened his arms and said in a boisterous voice, “Lorenzo the Magnificent!”
Phew! Maisie thought, relieved that for once she hadn’t embarrassed herself.
Sandro and Lorenzo set about hugging and kissing each other’s cheeks, the way all the men here greeted each other.
“Am I the first to arrive?” Sandro asked when they finally separated.
“Not quite,” Lorenzo said.
“Well,” Sandro said conspiratorially, “I know I’m not the last to arrive.”
Lorenzo laughed heartily. “That distinction always goes to Leonardo,” he said.
“So, who has beaten me here?” Sandro asked.
Maisie saw how competitive he was, his eyes peering over Lorenzo’s shoulder, searching for the more punctual artist.
“Piero della Francesca is, of course, here—”
“What?!” Maisie blurted.
The two men looked at her, surprised.
“Piero della Francesca is my art teacher’s favorite artist,” she said. “He’s here?”
Lorenzo narrowed his eyes at her. “Who did you say this was, Sandro?”
“Maisie Robbins,” Sandro said. “Her father studied here. Who did you say he apprenticed with?”
Thankfully, before Maisie came up with an answer, Lorenzo said, “Ah! So he knew Piero?”
“No,” Maisie said, immediately regretting her honesty. “But, I mean, isn’t Piero della Francesca kind of famous?”
“Someday, I hope,” Lorenzo said ruefully. “As his benefactor, I believe that someday the world will know who he is.”
He glanced at Sandro, who was sulking beside him.
“And Sandro Botticelli, too, of course,” Lorenzo added.
“Of course,” Sandro said.
They walked through the doors and into a large courtyard. The smell of the oil burning in the lamps mixed with the smells of food cooking, which made for a heavy, unpleasant aroma filling the air. Lorenzo left them to meet more guests, squeezing Sandro’s shoulder as he walked past.
Although Maisie’s stomach rolled at the smells, she hardly noticed. She was standing in perhaps the most beautiful courtyard ever built, which was decorated with gold and fine marble, carvings and sculptures, and even the benches and the floor itself were made of inlaid jewels and stones. A long table was set for a feast, reminding Maisie of the Dining Room at Elm Medona, with its heavy silver and candelabras and gold plates.
Four thick marble columns supported three soaring arches that were lined with twelve oval medallions alternating a coat of arms—the Medicis’, Maisie assumed—with mythological figures that she recognized from paintings and murals at Elm Medona.
“This reminds me of home,” she whispered.
Sandro looked surprised.
“Does home have something like this?” he asked, pointing to a marble bust.
Maisie shrugged.
“That is an antique bust of the emperor Hadrian, restored by none other than Filippo Lippi.”
“At Elm Medona,” Maisie said, “we have so many sculptures and tapestries and—”
“Follow me,” Sandro said, already walking ahead of her toward a small door.
Almost casually he pointed at a sculpture. “That bronze David is by Donatello,” he said, sounding like a stern teacher.
As she hurried to follow, Maisie looked up at the medallions that lined the walls. One of them was very familiar.
“I’ve seen that before,” she said, pointing.
Sandro did not even slow down. “Not unless you’ve been at the Palazzo Medici before,” he said dismissively.
Sandro opened the small door and beckoned her inside.
She took a step in and had to stop. Maisie was standing in what appeared to be a gorgeous, lush painting. There were more busts like the one of the emperor that Sandro had pointed out. But it was the plants, all so different from each other and so exotic-looking, that took her breath away.
“It doesn’t seem real, does it?” Sandro asked, his voice hushed with wonder.
“I feel like—”
“—like you’ve walked into a painting, yes?”
He didn’t wait for her to reply.
“That’s the effect Lorenzo wanted,” he said.
The sounds of voices and laughter floated in the air around them.
“Everyone must be here,” Sandro said. “It’s time for the berlingaccio.”
“What exactly is the berlingaccio?” Maisie asked.
“The eating and drinking that begins Carnival,” Sandro said. He smiled. “It will be a very long night.”
Reluctantly, Maisie left the garden, walking back through the small door into the courtyard behind Sandro.
There, Lorenzo stood as if holding court, surrounded by many men. Maisie searched the crowd, but Felix and Leonardo were not among them.
“Piero della Francesca,” Sandro whispered in her ear, “in whom you took so much interest.”
She followed his gaze to a man who looked as ordinary as any of them in the circle.
“The Pollaiuolo brothers,” Sandro said, moving around the circle. “Andrea del Verrocchio—”
“Yes!” Maisie said, recognizing the man who had come into the room during the thunderstorm last night.
“Domenico Ghirlandaio . . . Marsilio Ficino . . .”
“But who are these men?” Maisie asked.
“Artists, thinkers,” Sandro said, moving to join the circle. “They make up the court of Lorenzo the Magnificent.”
Maisie hung back a moment, taking in the sight of the court of Lorenzo the Magnificent, lit in an amber glow. There were times, like this one, when she had the strong urge to stay in the past. The complications of home seemed far away, and this life here in the Renaissance, filled with artists and dukes and all sorts of wonder, seemed more interesting and exciting.
She fingered the seal in her pocket. This wasn’t the first time she’d considered keeping it to herself. Maisie knew that at some point soon, like always, Felix would get homesick and want to return. But if she didn’t have the seal . . .
Glancing around the courtyard, Maisie saw a large terra-cotta urn, its handles shaped like twisting figures along each side. She walked over to it and casually dropped the seal inside, listening with satisfaction as it landed with a pleasing plink! Then she moved into the circle of men.
As soon as Maisie arrived, one of the men frowne
d, a look of worry crossing his face. He stepped away from everyone, staring hard at Maisie.
“You—” he said, pointing at her, even though Lorenzo was talking.
Everyone became silent, and turned to also stare at Maisie.
“You are . . . ,” The man paused, his eyebrows now shooting upward. “Dangerous . . .”
“It’s the night before Carnival,” Piero said. “You’ve already put a damper on the evening by telling us right off that it was an inauspicious date for a gathering. Now you’re picking on our poor young visitor.”
“I only say what is in the stars,” Signor Ficino said. “And the stars tell me that there is trouble tonight.”
“I’m not bringing any trouble,” Maisie said.
Signor Ficino glared at her.
“You are . . . ,” he said again. “You are . . . other!”
A woman’s voice cut through the ominous pronouncement.
“Yes, Signor Ficino,” the woman said, gliding through the courtyard in a heavily embroidered red dress. “She is other. We’re called women, in case you didn’t know.”
The men laughed in embarrassment.
Except Signor Ficino.
He continued to stare at Maisie with a combination of horror and curiosity.
“Clarice!” Lorenzo said, taking the woman’s hand in his and kissing it as he bent into a dramatic bow.
Up close, Clarice had the strangest shade of yellow hair—not blond, but yellow—and a high forehead that showed tiny dots where hair had been plucked from its natural beginning to way back on her head. Overall, the look, combined with a pasty-white face covered in powder, was creepy. But when Clarice smiled at Maisie, she softened a bit, and Maisie realized that Clarice was only a little older than her. And already married!
“My husband has the oddest friends,” Clarice whispered to Maisie with a giggle, as she kept her hand drooping in the air and one by one each man bent to kiss it.
Except Signor Ficino.
He did not take his eyes from Maisie.
“Leonardo?” Clarice said, glancing at the people gathered.
“Late,” Sandro answered.
“I so wanted him to play his lute for me,” Clarice said with a small pout. “And to sing me a song.”
