Diane Stuckart - A Bolt from the Blue

Tempering with a hint of a smile that irate reference to the popular name for the Master’s rumored invention, he added, “Before he left, I asked Signor Leonardo that you be allowed to put aside your work on the fresco and return to assist Tito and me. He saw the wisdom of another set of hands and agreed you should rejoin us.”

Rather than being pleased, however, I frowned at his words. “Father, this makes little sense. A day ago, both you and the Master insisted that I was too weak for such labors, and that the work was far too dangerous. How can you have changed your mind in so short a time?”

“Ah, you have been around these boys for far too long that you speak with such disrespect,” he replied, though his rebuke held more amusement than outrage. “Each day you remind me more and more of your mother.”

His tone grew serious again as he went on. “And you are right. Perhaps it is safer for you to remain among your fellows, with a crowd offering more protection than two or three. But with your master gone for the time being, I feel better knowing you are nearby. Besides which”-the twinkle reappeared in his eyes-“working as my assistant will give you the opportunity to learn if your brothers’ laments all these years were justified or but an excuse for their laziness.”

I could not help but smile a little at that last. “I promise I shall tell you truthfully. But what shall we say to Tito when he sees me instead of Leonardo with you?”

“Young Tito is but the apprentice and I the master,” my father reminded me in a firm tone. “He shall be satisfied with whatever I tell him. Now, give your father a kiss good night, and be off with you.”

I did as instructed, my embrace rather longer than usual as I gave silent thanks that it was Leonardo and not he riding the dark roads in search of Il Moro.

“Return here first thing when you awaken, and we will walk together to the shed where the machine is stored,” he called after me as I started out the door. “We shall begin work with the lark and end with the owl.”

Nodding, I made my pensive way the few steps’ journey back to the main workshop and rejoined the other apprentices. Tommaso’s lute continued to lend a cheery accompaniment to the dice game, which still progressed with great enthusiasm. Tito was among the players, appearing engrossed in the game. I wondered if he had noted my absence and guessed where I had gone. If so, he gave no indication as I leaned closer to see whose fortune was proving better this night.

Too soon, as always, the evening’s ration of candles began to gutter. With that, Davide decreed, “To bed, everyone.”

Tommaso played a few final notes and then put away his lute. Paolo, meanwhile, had pocketed his dice as his fellow gamblers tucked away their night’s winnings of jewel-toned shards. While Davide snuffed the remaining wax stubs, I spared a moment to advise him of the Master’s change of plans for me. The senior apprentice added his agreement; then, our way lit by the faint red glow from the hearth, he herded us toward the sleeping alcove.

As I passed by Tito, he gave me a friendly nod but made no comment, for which I was grateful. I was in no mood for idle conversation; neither would I sleep easy this night. . not while the Master likely lay wrapped in a cold blanket somewhere in the dark hills of the duchy while we apprentices rested comfortably in our beds.

But despite my vow of restless slumber, I fell asleep quickly and awakened as daylight began to seep over the horizon. The other apprentices would not stir for several minutes more; thus, I moved with silence as I donned my confining corset and pulled on a clean tunic. After making my swift ablutions, I laced up my jerkin against the morning’s chill and hurried the short distance to the Master’s quarters to meet my father.

I was reaching out to knock upon that door when I realized it hung uncharacteristically ajar.

“Father?” I called, disquiet sweeping me.

I gave the door a cautious push inward and looked inside. The chamber was unchanged from the night before, the same empty bowl and stack of notes spread upon the table. Pio continued his peaceful slumber upon the bed, stretched at full length with his thin legs stuck out well past the pillow’s edges. But the covers beneath the small hound were still neatly laid, so that it appeared Pio alone had claimed the cot for the entire night.

Of my father, there was no sign.

My heart began a frantic rhythm in my chest as I tried to assure myself that his absence meant nothing. Perhaps he had fallen asleep over his notes and never made it to bed. And perhaps he had risen earlier than I and stepped out into the cool morning air to clear his head, and he would be returning any moment. Or maybe he had forgotten his request that I walk with him and was waiting for me at the shed, wondering at my delay.

Or maybe, a frightened inner voice suggested, he was lying somewhere with a bolt through his chest, his lifeblood long since seeped into the ground beneath him.

I gave my head an angry shake to dismiss that last gruesome thought. “Don’t be foolish. . He’s here somewhere,” I muttered, my clipped words drawing an answering snore from the sleeping hound.

At least I need have no worries on Pio’s account. Vittorio would stop by to make certain that he had food and water, after which he’d allow the hound out to lift his leg upon the nearby wall before following the apprentices to their work site. And, soon enough, I told myself, I would be listening to my father laughing softly as I confessed my moment of folly in thinking him vanished like a mist.

Assuming an air of confidence I did not truly feel, I closed the door behind me and set off across the quadrangle in search of my father.

After a thorough search of seemingly every place but Il Moro’s own bedchamber, I came to the alarming conclusion that Angelo della Fazia was missing from the castle grounds.

My first stop had been the shed where the half-built flying machine was stored like a prize bull. The hasp and lock that held the oversized doors shut still were secure, so I could not guess if anything was amiss. And as those twin doors were the sole entry, the only way my father could have been within was if someone had locked him inside the shed.

Feeling foolish, I called his name through a gap in the sturdy planks. I heard no reply, nor, when I put my eye to that same crack, could I see anything other than shadows, for the lanterns that had brightened the place the day before were unlit.

Afterward, I’d tried the kitchen, and the privies, and even climbed the wall of the ill-fated garden to see if perhaps he’d had some excuse to return there. He’d been in none of those places nor any other in which I had looked. And when I’d questioned a few passing servants regarding his whereabouts-my father was a recognizable figure, thanks to his association with Leonardo-none recalled seeing him this particular morning.

Wild explanations for his absence began to tumble through my mind, and it was all I could do to make it back to the workshop without giving way to panic. I imagined my father lying in a far corner of the castle ground-ill, or perhaps injured-and unable to call for help. I pictured him encountering a crossbow-wielding assailant and chasing him past the castle gates, to lose him in the maze of streets and canals that was the city of Milan. Or, worse, I saw him catching up to the assassin in some shady back lane, with no witnesses to what happened next!

I gave my head a rough shake to clear it of such frightening visions. The simplest reason for my father’s disappearance was that he had purposely departed the castle grounds, perhaps intent on purchasing some new tool for his project. Maybe he had left behind a note of explanation for me, which I had overlooked in my haste. Certainly, that made more sense than any other scenario my frantic mind had conjured.