Jeanne Kalogridis - Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

His face was pinched with concern. I don’t know precisely how Zalumma worded my request, or what my father had expected. He certainly did not anticipate what I said.

The instant Zalumma closed the door behind her, I drew myself up straight and did not even bother with a greeting. “I know that you and Francesco are involved in manipulating Savonarola.” I sounded amazingly calm. “I know about Pico.”

His face went slack; his lips parted. He had been moving forward to embrace me; now he took a step back and sat down again on his chair. “Dear Jesus,” he whispered. He ran a hand over his face and peered up at me, stricken. “Who-who told you this? Zalumma?”

“Zalumma knows nothing.”

“Then one of Francesco’s servants?”

I shook my head. “I know you go to Savonarola. I know you’re supposed to tell him to preach against the Medici, but not against Pope Alexander. But you are not doing a very good job.”

“Who? Who tells you this?” And when I remained silent, his expression became one of bald panic. “You’re a spy. My daughter, a spy for the Medici…” It was not an accusation; he put his head in his hands, terrified by the thought.

“I’m no one’s spy,” I said. “I haven’t communicated with Piero since Giuliano died. I know only what I just told you. I came by the information accidentally.”

He groaned; I thought he would weep.

“I know… I know you have done this only to protect me,” I said. “I’m not here to accuse you. I’m here because I want to help.”

He reached for my hand and squeezed it. “I am so sorry,” he said. “So sorry you had to learn about this. I still… Fra Girolamo is a sincere man. A good man. He wants to do God’s work. I truly believed in him. I had such hope… but he is surrounded by evil men. And he is too easily swayed. I once had his confidence, his trust, but I am no longer so sure now.”

I held on to his hand tightly. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’ve displeased your masters. You’re in danger. We have to leave. You and Matteo and I-we have to leave Florence. There’s no reason to stay here any longer.”

“You’ve never been safe.” My father looked up, hollow-eyed.

“I know. But now you aren’t safe, either.” I sank to my knees beside him, still holding his hand.

“Don’t you think I thought of leaving? Years ago-after your mother died, I thought I would take you to my brother Giovanni in the country, that you and I would be safe there. They found out. They sent a thug to my brother’s house to threaten him with a knife; they did the same to me. They watch us. Even now, when I take you out to the carriage, Claudio will study your face. If you are upset, he’ll tell Francesco everything, everything.” He drew in a sharp, pained breath. “There are things I can’t tell you, do you understand? Things you can’t know, because Claudio, because Francesco, will see it in your eyes. Because you’ll behave rashly and endanger us all. Endanger Matteo.”

I hesitated. “I don’t think Francesco would truly permit anyone to harm Matteo.” My husband showed genuine fondness for the boy; I had to believe it in order to remain sane.

“Look at him,” my father said, and at first I did not know of whom he spoke. “He is still a baby, but even I can see his true father in his face!”

The words pierced me; I grew very still. “And when you look at me, whose face do you see?”

He looked on me with pain and love. “I see a face far more handsome than mine…” He drew my hand to his lips and kissed it; then he stood and drew me up with him. “I don’t care if they threaten me, but you and the baby-I will find a way. They have spies everywhere, all over Florence, in Milan, in Rome… but I will find us a safe place, somewhere. You can say nothing of this; you can speak to no one. We will talk again when it is safe.” He thought for a moment, then asked, “Did anyone see Zalumma come to speak to me?”

I shook my head. “Claudio was at home. We told everyone she was going to the apothecary’s for me.” It seemed a reasonable alibi; the apothecary’s shop was on the same street as my father’s.

He nodded, digesting this. “Good. Then tell them that Zalumma passed by and learned I was ill and had gone home-and you came to see me. Make sure Zalumma says exactly the same. And now you are happy because you have seen me and learned it wasn’t serious.”

He gave me a sudden, fierce hug. I held him tightly. I was not his blood, but he was my father more than any man.

Then he pulled away and forced his expression and tone to lighten. “Now smile. Smile and be happy for Matteo’s sake, for mine. Smile and be cheerful when Claudio looks at you and when you go home, because there is no one in that house you can trust.”

I nodded; I kissed his cheek, then called for Zalumma. When she came, shooing Matteo along, I told her we had only to remain with Francesco a little while longer-and in the meantime, we should appear happy.

And so we went out to the carriage, Zalumma and I, with Matteo tottering precariously beside us. I smiled up at Claudio, baring my teeth.

That day I had no choice but to leave a book on my night table where Isabella would see it. As much as I dreaded seeing Salai, the information I had learned was too important to ignore: Our enemies were losing their influence over the Pope and the friar-and, more important, they were considering taking action against the Bigi .

But I had no intention of relating the entire truth. That night I lay awake, silently reciting the letter to myself, omitting all reference to Antonio, to the daughter, to the grandchild. There would be no harm done; Leonardo and Piero would still learn everything of import.

And Salai, careless lad, would never know the difference.

In the morning, my thoughts clouded and dull, I informed Zalumma I would need Claudio to drive me to Santissima Annunziata. She asked me nothing, but her dark, serious manner indicated she suspected why I was going.

It was the first week in May. In the carriage, I scowled, squinting at the sunlight, and leaned heavily against the door frame until we arrived at the church.

Salai appeared in the door of the chapel; I followed him at a safe distance down the corridor, up a twisting staircase, and waited with him as he tapped on the wooden panel in the wall, which slid aside to permit us entry.

I had determined to make my recitation quickly, to spend no time at all in conversation, but to plead exhaustion and then hurry home.

But Salai broke with our custom, which was for him to sit immediately at Leonardo’s little table-cleared of painter’s supplies and outfitted with a vial of ink, a quill, and paper-and serve as scribe while I dictated what I had learned the previous night.

Instead, he gestured at my low-backed chair, smiling and a bit excited. “If you would, Monna Lisa… He will come to you right away.”

He . I drew in a startled breath and looked about me. My portrait was again on the easel; beside it stood the little table, covered now with new brushes, small dishes of tin, a crushed pellet of cinabrese for painting faces, a dish of terre verte , and a dish of a warm brown.

I lifted a hand to my collarbone. Nothing is different , I told myself. Nothing is changed. Leonardo is here, and you are glad to see him. And you will smile, and you will recite exactly what you planned. And then you will sit for him .

In less than a minute, Leonardo stood smiling in front of me. He looked refreshed; his face had seen a good deal of sun. His hair was longer, sweeping his shoulders, and he had regrown his beard; it was short, carefully trimmed, almost entirely silver.