And so, with Marco’s cooperation—however grudging, however incomplete his knowledge—I continued to go to Botticelli’s workshop and pose. He did another day’s worth of sketches of me in the same pose as the last time, then tried a few variations of it.
“I think I shall keep to my original vision,” he said to me as I dressed at the end of one session. “I am sorry to have wasted your time by being so indecisive. But the good news is that the next time you are here, I can begin to paint.”
I smiled. “Not at all. I am happy to help in whatever way you need. It is not so difficult, after all, standing up there for a time.”
His expression turned serious as he regarded me. “Perhaps not,” he said, “but I still thank you all the same. I know it is no small thing that I have asked.”
The words I wanted to speak sprang to my tongue with such force that I was only just able to hold them back. You could ask of me anything in the world, and I would say yes.
As he had before—and almost as if he had read the words in my eyes—he made a small motion as though to take me in his arms, but did not.
I lowered my eyes quickly, shame flooding through me at all that I was feeling. “I should go,” I said. “When would you like me to return?”
He sighed, and I noticed he took a step back from me. “I shall send word, if that suits. It shall take me a bit of time to find and prepare the proper canvas.” He smiled. “It shall be a very large one.”
I smiled back distractedly, barely hearing him. “Very well,” I managed. “Until next time, then.”
“Indeed,” he said, seeing me to the door. “Buona notte, Simonetta.”
I did not reply, afraid of the words that would tumble from my lips if I did.
It seemed so foolish, that things should change so suddenly. In truth, I had long desired him, ever since I sat for him the first time. It was the reason I had always sought him out at gatherings, the reason why I always knew where he was in a room without having to look. It was why I had wanted to pose nude for him, to let him see all of me, even as the thought frightened me. It was the fear of wanting something I could not have.
It was the reason his eyes burned me as he studied me: because I imagined they were his hands on my body, instead.
It should not have mattered that I had finally formed the words in my own mind. The feelings had been there for years. But somehow, now, just having admitted it to myself, the world around me suddenly looked both brighter and darker at once.
I thought of a section of one of Dante’s poems: “I felt a spirit of love begin to stir/Within my heart, long time unfelt till then;/And saw Love coming towards me fair and fain/(That I scarce knew him for his joyful cheer),/Saying, ‘Be now indeed my worshipper!’”
I shivered as I walked home, even though the night was not cold.
Desire was what I felt, certainly. But what I also felt—even though I should not, even though I had no right to be feeling it—was love.