“Closer and farther,
Together and apart.”
Mattea stopped just inside the door. She had expected to be the first to arrive at the studio and to find it empty. It was not.
Isabetta jumped up at the sight of her friend in the doorway, though the man standing beside her showed no signs of perturbance.
Leonardo da Vinci stood at Isabetta’s table, where she had been perched upon her stool. Spread about on the wood plank before them were the many sketches Isabetta had made of Botticelli’s mural. In some there was but a single gibbeted man, in others there were the three already in place on the wall and in eternity.
But Mattea saw all Isabetta longed to hide in how closely she had positioned her stool to Leonardo’s body, the fineness of the woman’s dark green silk gown—one inappropriate to work, uncovered by her smock—the great care Isabetta had taken in configuring the braids of her flaxen locks. Telling most of all, she saw the look upon her friend’s face, forced wide-eyed innocence over a deepening flush, a child caught in the worst sort of mischief.
Mattea knew with one glance what Isabetta was about. How well she knew the pangs of unrequited desire. All she felt for Isabetta was sadness. Mattea would make no verdict on what Isabetta needed to feel better.
“Ah, I thought I was the only one coming,” Isabetta said, coming round the table as if to greet Mattea.
“It took me longer to get word to everyone,” Mattea rushed her reply. “I’m sure they’ll all be here soon enough.”
“You have learned something of your friend?” Leonardo asked.
“Indeed I have. We have—”
Before she could say more, the door opened once again. Even as Fiammetta, now barging in, prattled on with almost motherly strife at Natasia walking in beside her, it mattered not. As soon as she saw Mattea, gaze twitching to Isabetta, looking much the same, she knew.
“You know something, Mattea. And you, Isabetta,” Fiammetta accused, as if their knowledge was a crime.
Mattea nodded. “I do, but perhaps we should—”
For the third time the door opened; Viviana passed over the threshold.
“We are all present,” Isabetta stepped beside Mattea, “I believe it is time to tell.”
Talking with one another, talking over one another, blushing at the gasps, at the exclamations upon their bravery, at the denunciations at their foolish daring, Mattea and Isabetta eventually revealed their actions, all of them, and the motherly chiding grew to a fever pitch.
“It is pure logic. How silly of us not to think of it,” Viviana muttered.
“Lapaccia would not leave Florence. She would not leave her son,” Mattea was emphatic on this point. “Though we do not know assuredly, we are all fairly convinced Lapaccia did take the painting.”
“Yet we do not know why,” Viviana said, not with pure conviction. All shared the belief, all had hinted they held the same thought—Lapaccia protected someone, but who no one could say with certainty for the painting had not revealed her secret. How much easier it would have made this ordeal if it had.
“It does not matter, not to me. We must start searching the convents,” Mattea continued, “today, this very minute.”
“But we may not be the only ones looking there.”
All eyes turned to Isabetta.
“Think of the man’s words,” she explained. “He told us what he told Il Magnifico. It may be the government has already begun their search of the religious houses.”
“Then we haven’t a moment to lose.”
“But where to start?” Viviana mumbled.
“Let us begin with those in our own parishes,” Mattea said quickly, a notion already thought of. “It will be seen as the least out of the ordinary.”
“We cannot go traipsing about the city alone,” Fiammetta huffed. “It is no longer the same city.”
“Of course not,” Mattea assured her. “We will go in groups or in pairs.”
“And what do we say, ‘Buongiorno, are you hiding any criminals here?’”
More than one pair of eyes fell upon Fiammetta with growing impatience.
“Let us ask if they have any new novitiates. Tell them a group of ladies wishes to make fresh linens for all those newly arrived and initiated.” Viviana had done this very thing as a young wife married to a thriving merchant.
“Perfect!” Mattea exclaimed.
“Very well,” Fiammetta agreed, though none too enthusiastically. “As I am here, I will accompany Natasia to convents in this area. My carriage will await me at your home, Natasia. Come.”
Taking the young woman by the arm, a mother demanding her child’s attendance, Natasia could do no more than comply, turning to the group with a raised hand and a silent, apologetic shrug.
“There is freedom in being a widow,” Viviana said, still drenched in her widow’s weeds though they were an ill fit. “I may walk about on my own without a care for any stinging tongues.” She affected a smile, yet those remaining were little convinced by it. Her olive skin still looked more alabaster than usual, save for the dark smudges about her eyes. “Though I do not think I will look at any convents, not just yet.”
Isabetta pouted at Viviana. “But we must make haste. If the Eight or the Podestà, or both, search already, we are far behind.”
“But do they search wisely?”
Silence answered Viviana’s question.
“How many convents must there be, within the city walls alone, let alone in the hillside?” Viviana paced a circle. “Our Lapaccia would not go to just any convent. There would be purpose and reason to which one she would choose.”
Viviana dropped her hands by her sides, her veil upon her face. “I will take myself to the Palazzo della Signoria. There is a listing there, I am sure. There are lists for the lists. I am willing to wager there would be one with all the convents upon it. Perhaps it would give us some direction.”
“I will gladly accompany you.” Leonardo stepped up. “It will go well for you to gain entry upon my arm. Especially now.”
“Now? Why now?” Isabetta seemed almost to demand the explanation.
Leonardo’s chin dipped as his head shook. “I fear our Il Magnifico is quite angry. Not only has Bandini eluded capture once more, but the pope has sent a Bull of Excommunication.”
“On who?” Isabetta huffed.
“On everyone.” Leonardo shrugged. “Lorenzo, the Gonfaloniere, the Priors, and more. Even the priests if they dare serve Mass, at least until his nephew, the Cardinal, is returned to him.”
“Il Magnifico will never do it,” Isabetta spat.
“No, he will not, which is why he is so angry.” Leonardo turned once more to Viviana. “Have no fear, madonna, I will keep you out of the eye of his wrath.”
Mattea caught the look of disappointment upon Isabetta’s face; it was naked for all to see. “It is you and I then, my friend,” she said to Isabetta, “which makes perfect sense, as we live so very near one another.”
“Of course. Yes, of course.”
Locking the sacristy door behind them, the two groups broke off in two different directions, one north, one west.
“Buona fortuna,” Mattea said in parting to Viviana and Leonardo.
“Sì, good luck,” Viviana repeated, taking the artist’s arm. “Good luck to us all.”