Jeanne Kalogridis - Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

He let go a barely audible sigh, then softened. “Am I mistaken, or are relations between you strained-at least, on your part?”

I raised my face. “How do you know that?”

My answer seemed to please him. “Through casual observation. It is very difficult to completely conceal one’s emotions. And I did not detect much affection in your gestures. This is not the first time I have successfully divined such… unhappiness between husband and wife.”

“I…” Guilt surged through me. I remembered those horrible days when I had sacrificed myself to Francesco for Matteo’s sake, when I had permitted myself to be called a whore. “My father had been arrested. Francesco offered to save him, if…”

I could not finish. He nodded to indicate I did not need to. “Then I must ask you whether you are still loyal to Giuliano. To the Medici.”

I suddenly understood. He had had no way to know that I had been forced into marriage with Francesco; he had no way of knowing whether I was privy to Francesco’s political schemes, whether I approved.

“I would never betray Giuliano! I loved him…” I cupped a hand against my cheek.

He stood unmoving in front of the easel, the stick of charcoal frozen above the drawing. “Do you not love him still?”

“Yes,” I said. Tears welled in my eyes and overflowed; I did nothing to stop them. “Of course, yes. When he died, I wanted to die. I would have, by my own hand, had I not carried his child…” I panicked at my unintended admission. “You must tell no one-not even Salai! If Francesco ever knew, he would take him from me-”

“Giuliano… dead.” Very slowly, he set the charcoal down on the little table, without looking at it. “Few people have heard this. Most believe he is still alive.”

“No. Francesco told me. His body was found in the Arno… The Lord Priors took it and secretly buried it outside the city walls. They were afraid because of what happened to Messer Iacopo.”

He digested this. “I see. This explains a great deal.” For a long, uncomfortable moment-a moment in which I struggled to regain my composure, to suppress all the grief I had never been allowed to express fully-he was silent. Then he said, very carefully, “So you are still loyal to the Medici. And you would not shrink from helping Piero to recapture Florence? And you can guard your tongue?”

“Yes, to both questions. I would do anything-so long as it brings my son Matteo no harm.” I wiped away my tears and looked up at him. His gaze was troubled, but the barrier between us was beginning to crumble.

He had not known, I realized. He had not known that I knew Giuliano was dead. Perhaps he had thought me capable of betraying him, of marrying Francesco when I thought my first husband might still be alive. Yet he had still been cordial; he had even asked me to sit.

“Believe me when I say that I understand your concerns about your child. I would never ask you to do anything that directly endangered him.” He paused. “I was rather surprised when I received your letter,” he said, his tone soft in deference to my weeping. “I… had reason to think you had perished the night the Medici brothers fled Florence. I did not, you see, know your handwriting. So I did not respond. Later, I learned you had married Francesco del Giocondo-”

“I read the letter Salai dropped,” I interrupted. “The one written to my husband. I… had no idea he was somehow involved with Savonarola until that night. I don’t even know who sent him the letter.” I studied him. He still watched me with peculiar intensity; he wanted to believe me, but something held him back.

“It is true,” he said, more to himself than me. “When you saw Salai at the christening, you could have told your husband that Salai took the letter from his desk. But it seems you have not.”

“Of course not. What do you want me to do? You brought me here for a reason.”

“Piero de’ Medici wishes to speak to you,” he said.

I gaped at him, thunderstruck. “Piero? Piero is here?”

“He intends to retake the city. And he needs your help. Will he have it?”

“Of course.”

He stepped away from the easel and moved over to me. “Good. Go to the Duomo in three days’ time, at midday precisely. He will meet you in the north sacristy.”

I considered this. “A woman alone, in the sacristy… The priests’ suspicion will be aroused. If I was seen waiting there-”

“The priests know what to do. Tell them Gian Giacomo sends you. They will take you to a secret passage accessible only from the sacristy.”

“Why did Piero not simply tell you to relay his message to me? Why would he risk meeting with me?”

“I am merely an agent, Madonna. I do not presume to understand him.”

He rose and called for Salai, then dismissed me with a bow. Salai tied the cloth around my eyes once more, and I was taken back to Santissima Annunziata in the same manner I had left.

Zalumma was waiting for me in my chambers. I knew better than to try to disguise my unease; she could smell the encounter with Leonardo on me as surely as if it had been attar of roses. But I had already decided to share no details, for her sake. Before I could speak, she said, very quietly so that no one standing in the hall could hear: “I know that you have gone to meet someone, and that this has something to do with the letter the intruder found. It is not my place to ask questions. But I am here. In whatever way I can help, I will. Instruct me as you wish.”

I took her hands and kissed her as if she were my sister and not my slave. But I said nothing of Leonardo or Piero; such names could cost her her head.

And they could cost me mine. I went to the nursery and sat a long time with Matteo in my arms, ran my hand over the tender, vulnerable skin of his crown, over the wisps of impossibly fine hair. I kissed his soft cheek and smelled milk and soap.

Three days passed quickly.

Claudio lifted a brow at my unusual request to be driven to the Duomo. I did so casually, as if it were a whim, as if it had not been years since my first and last visit there.

Just before noon, as the bells chimed deafeningly, I crossed beneath the massive, impossible cupola and knelt a short distance away from the high altar, carved from dark wood and limned with gold.

I mouthed prayers along with the others, fumbling for words I had known since childhood; I knelt and stood and crossed myself at the appointed times. Attendance was sparse, as most worshipers now favored San Marco and her famous prior, or San Lorenzo, where he often preached.

The instant the ritual ended, I rose and went quickly to the cathedral’s north end, where the main sacristy lay-the room where the young Lorenzo had sought safety the morning of his brother’s murder. The doors were engraved bronze, very tall, and so heavy that when I went to open them, they scarcely moved.

Just as I made my second attempt, I heard steps behind me and turned. Two priests-one young, one gray-headed and worn-approached the sacristy bearing the gold chalice and the crystal decanter of water for the wine.

“Here now,” the older one said. “Do you seek the counsel of a priest, Madonna?” His tone held a note of reserve; it was odd for a woman to loiter near the sacristy, but as I was clearly wellborn, he was polite.

I had to clear my throat before the words would leave me. “Gian Giacomo directed me to come here.”

“Who?” He frowned, mildly suspicious.

“Gian Giacomo,” I repeated. “He said you would understand.” He shook his head, and shared a swift, uneasy glance with his companion. “I’m sorry, Madonna. I don’t. Why would someone send you here?”

“Gian Giacomo,” I said, louder. “Perhaps there is another priest who can help me…”