Diane Stuckart - A Bolt from the Blue

The other apprentices were already settling in for the night, for we would rise before the sun to begin the final leg of our journey. I paused before climbing into the wagon to take a look at the gift my father had given me.

It was a hawk, wings tucked as if prepared to dive. Though tiny enough to nestle with ease in my palm, it was carved with painstaking detail down to the talons spread wide to snatch up its prey. I closed my hand over it again, wondering if his choice of figure had been deliberate, or if the past days’ events had caused his idle fingers to reflexively give life to the imagery of flight.

Climbing into the wagon with somewhat greater ease than the day before, I made myself comfortable on my pallet. I ignored the temptation to gaze over at the soldiers’ camp and see if the Master sat again with Marianna, or if he simply wandered about chatting with the captain of the guard and his men. My father was right, I told myself, and I should wait to speak my piece until Leonardo made known his interest in conversing with me.

After applying Luigi’s salve to my healing leg, I took a larger dose than necessary of the herbed wine, so that I fell into quick and dreamless sleep. The call to rise arrived long before I was ready for it, and we were well on our way by the time the sun crawled from its own warm bed to light the horizon.

Though dreading how my situation might end, I was as anxious as the rest of them to return home to Milan. I barely blinked as we passed the spot where Tito and Rebecca and I had been ambushed, for the odor of death had once more been replaced by the scent of warm earth and new leaves. The apprentices had shaken off the previous day’s reserve and again chatted idly among themselves. Only Vittorio held back from conversation, his look of misery more telling than any words to explain his concern over Novella.

But he joined in the small cheer when, by midday, we could see the towers of Milan’s cathedrals in the distance. Soon enough, we were through the castle gates and milling about the quadrangle.

While most of Il Moro’s men split off to return horses and arms to the stables and armory, the captain of the guard and a few of his men paused for a moment to regroup. Then, arranging themselves in formation around Marianna, they started toward the Duke of Milan’s private quarters.

The small contingent passed by our wagon, and Marianna glanced our way. While the other apprentices ducked their heads in a show of respect, my gaze abruptly met hers. She blinked, and I saw her pale lips form the startled word, Delfina? before the soldiers following after blocked her from my view.

Once we pulled up our wagons before the workshop, Davide began directing the unpacking. The work progressed swiftly, for all of us were anxious to return to our mundane tasks after the excitement of the past several days. Before long, the last of the painted canvases had been put away in a far corner of the workshop, and the canons and catapult returned to the nearby shed where they had been stored. Finally, with a collective sigh, we regrouped around our familiar hearth and waited for the Master’s return.

He and my father arrived back at the workshop a short while later. We all rose to greet him, though I took care to stay to the rear of the group, half-hidden by Tommaso, who was far bulkier than I. The Master received our welcome with obvious gratification before gesturing us to silence.

“First, let me say that I am proud of your bravery in the face of the danger that we found in Pontalba. While we were unable to preserve the flying machine”-a few looks and murmurs turned my way at that-“we recovered our good Master Angelo and rescued the Duchess of Pontalba from the cruel treatment she had endured at the duke’s hands. I shall make certain that Il Moro is told the vital part that all of you played in this drama.”

He allowed us a moment for a small cheer, and again raised a hand for quiet.

“And now we must face the truth that one of our own was the one who betrayed us and cruelly murdered Constantin,” he went on, his expression sober. “While I cannot excuse the evil that Tito did, I must remind you that one can never truly know what is in another man’s heart and mind. And so I tell you that while we mourn Constantin, we should also grieve for the Tito who was our friend, rather than curse the traitorous murderer that he became.”

I saw a few heads nod in understanding, though most of the other apprentices stood in stony silence. I understood their anger and mourned Constantin as a brother, but I knew that Leonardo was right. Any hate for Tito that we clung to would diminish our love for Constantin. Besides, there was no vengeance to be had in this world and-assuming that my strange vision had been true-all already had been sorted out in the world after. And so, as with the destroyed flying machine, we would do best to walk away from the wreckage of our trust and simply rebuild it from scratch again.

What further words of comfort the Master might have given us, I could not say. Before he could speak again, the workshop door flew open with a crash.

Framed by the sunlight pouring in from the doorway was the same robed and hooded figure that had shadowed me since my father’s arrival in Milan. Barely did I have time for a gasp, when the figure stepped forward and shoved back its concealing hood, revealing an all-too-familiar face.

Now my gasp became a moan of disbelief. I could but stare in return, praying with fervor that I was still befuddled by the herbed wine and that this was but a terrible dream.

My prayers, however, went unheard. I stood helplessly by as, with lifted hand pointing dramatically in my direction, the figure cried out, “This is an outrage! Signor Leonardo, I demand that you return my daughter, Delfina, to me at once!”

At her cry, the other apprentices stepped away from me, so that I was left standing in the center of the ring that they formed. Miserably, I glanced from face to face. Some stared back at me with wary expressions; others wore looks of outraged disbelief. Vittorio was gaping in openmouthed astonishment, while Davide merely gave his head a gentle shake, his expression one of private vindication.

Bernardo was the first to speak up.

“You mean that Dino is truly a girl?” he squeaked, curls bobbing and cheeks flushing as he pointed at me. “But it can’t be. A girl cannot paint!”

By way of response, my mother tossed aside her cloak and shoved through the ring of stunned young men. Her dark blue skirts swishing like an angry feline’s lashing tail, she advanced on me and seized me by the arm.

“Yes, Delfina is a girl,” she declared in outrage, “though one would hardly know it, to look at her. Of course, this is all her father’s fault, allowing her to run away from a perfectly fine marriage.”

Her fiery gaze promptly landed upon my father.

“You thought you could fool me, Angelo, pretending you had no idea where our daughter had gone,” she cried as he gazed miserably down at his feet. “I found the missives she sent you, and I guessed that you had a particular reason for accepting a commission in Milan. That is why I followed you here, to see if my suspicions were correct. But I never expected this!”

Taking in my disheveled appearance from head to foot, she went on in a heated tone. “I could not believe my eyes, at first, that one of those boys was in truth my own daughter. And before I could confront her, you and she disappeared. I had no choice but to pay for a squalid room in town and wait until the guard I bribed brought me word that you had returned.