Bee burrowed under the covers. “Do you miss her?”
“I always miss her.” It took him a moment to speak. “Three years ago she passed to God.”
Bee swallowed. “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”
Herbert passed as well, he thought. But it hurt too much to say this out loud. “Your Italian is quite good,” he said instead. “Although different.”
“I spend every summer in Italy. My grandparents have a farm my great-grandfather bought.”
He snuggled deeper between the sheets. “My great-grandfather was the King of Naples.”
Bee snorted. “That’s funny.”
“But it’s on my mother’s side.” Federico yawned. “So I don’t have a claim.”
Bee sat up. “Wait—you’re serious?”
“Stop it.” He tugged at the bedspread. “You are mussing the cover.”
“That’s amazing.” She settled back down. “Hey, you know what? This is fun.”
Federico smiled into the darkness.
Bee wriggled into her pillow. “Goodnight, Fred.”
Federico yawned to split his face. “Goodnight, Bee.” He wished he had Juno curled up beside him. But till his cat came back, this strange girl would do.
Chapter 18
Bedside View
Bee lay in the broad soft bed, absolutely twitching. How could Fred just go to sleep? This was the most exciting thing in the whole wide world. She, Beatrice Rosetti Bliss, was a time traveler—using a machine made by da Vinci himself! Wow. Wow. Wow.
No wonder Miss Bother had freaked when she saw Bee. No wonder she freaked about the cat. All her life, Miss Bother had been waiting for Juno and Bee. And then out of the blue, they showed up! You’ll make everything better, Miss Bother had said. Well, Bee absolutely would. One hundred percent. Raphael, drawing, done. Then she’d go back to her own time in New Jersey because NO TIME PASSES and Miss Bother would have the drawing and Fred would have Juno and Bee wouldn’t even have to explain to Mom and Moo!
She’d tell Nonna, though, when Nonna and Pepe got back from their cruise. Grandma Nonna loved stories. And she could keep a secret. She never even told Moo about that time Bee drove the car.
Fred made a snuffling sound. For a bossy kid, he was okay. It was really sad about his sister. Bee peered through the darkness, trying to see the guy in black armor. What a creepy painting. How could anyone sleep with that in their bedroom? Or with all that snoring in the next room? Or with the whole city of Rome right outside? She wasn’t going to sleep a wink—
She woke up to a kick in her ribs. “Get out!” a voice demanded.
“Wha . . . ?” Bee mumbled. Bright daylight shone in her eyes.
“Under the bed!” Another kick, and Bee tumbled to the floor. Luckily she fell onto carpet. “Quick,” the voice commanded, and without thinking Bee rolled under the bed. Not a moment too soon, for in scurried a woman who talked without taking a breath.
“Still asleep, my lord? Look at you abed with the day half done, and such a tangle of sheets. I’d like a word with His Holiness about the hours he keeps, for they do not suit a growing boy. Shall you wear your watered silk? Though I am not sure about dove gray for the hose. Perhaps saffron would be more suitable. . . .” On and on she went, her slippers shuffling back and forth.
“Yes, Celeste. No, Celeste,” a boy answered. Fred! Sir Federico Gonzaga. Bee shivered in glee. And she was lying under Fred’s bed, five hundred years ago in the middle of Rome!
The woman paused. “Did you hear a noise, my lord?” She stooped to peer under the bed.
Bee scrambled backward. Where to hide? There was nothing but dust.
“No, Celeste!” Fred yammered. “It’s the cat—the wind—my father’s portrait! Look: behold him. Is he not fearsome?”
A woman’s scarfed head came into view, blocked by Fred’s legs. “I cannot see—”
“Nothing is there, I vow it. Is not Papa’s portrait fine?”
The woman straightened with a grunt. “The portrait has always been fine,” she grumbled.
Dummy, Bee scolded herself. Don’t make noise. She just needed to relax and be quiet and wait until they could meet Raphael. And pay attention to everything, duh, because she was a time traveler! Even if she was stuck under a bed. Fred’s bedroom looked really nice, actually, at least what she could see of it. The portrait hung over a desk next to a guitar-thing—a lute. A white marble statue looked like something in a museum. She should take a picture for Moo—
But wait—there weren’t any cameras in the 1500s. Or phones.
Fred peered under the bed, his blond hair tousled. “How are you?” he whispered.
She gave him a thumbs-up. “Great!”
“My lord, what are you doing?”
Fred jumped to his feet. “I’m checking on Juno.”
“That yellowed-eyed demon? ’Tis a wonder we have not died in our sleep thanks to her; she gives me nightmares, I’m sure. Now come—”
“I hope the cat’s doing well.” Fred stamped his foot. “I am anxious to see her.”
Bee frowned at his foot. Of course she remembered their deal! Once the drawing was done, Fred could have Juno forever.
“Hold still so I may fasten your belt. Saints above but you are a-wiggle today. And behold, here is the master. You shall sit still for him, I trust.”
Bee watched from under the bed as Fred sat at the desk, reading aloud. A sniffling old man stood over him, bopping Fred with a stick whenever he made a mistake. Celeste sat next to them, sewing.
What kind of place was this?
Bee craned her head, trying to see.
“You are not paying attention.” Celeste rapped Fred on the head with her thimble. “You must attend.”
Fred nodded, not even flinching. Not upset that he kept getting hit. Poor kid.
“I have a letter from your mother, my lord,” the sniffly old man announced.
Fred’s head came up. “A letter? Why did you not tell me?”
“’Tis only a portion. The greater part was written to me.” He cleared his throat noisily.
Dearest son, We are delighted to read of your progress in Latin, and hope your tutors do not need to use their sticks. We know you represent well the house of Gonzaga. Your father, the duke, knows this also. We send three new undershirts and a belt that is a gift from our brother.
The old man tucked the letter into his vest. “That is all.”
“Isn’t that nice?” Celeste declared, not looking up.
“I should like to read it myself—” Fred began.
“Did you not hear?” The tutor rapped Fred’s head. “You must continue. Second paragraph, please. Erant omnino itinera duo. . . .”
Fred sighed, shoulders drooping. “There were two streets—”
“Routes, my lord.” Bop.
Bee clenched her fists. Why didn’t Fred get mad?
She tried to get comfortable on the floor. She could hear music in the distance, and birds, but mostly she heard construction. Hammering and clanging and men shouting, “One, two, three, pull.” She wished she could see what they were pulling. It had to be more interesting than Latin. Also she really needed to pee.
No one in books ever talked about pee.
Fred plodded through his lesson. Even the old man wasn’t listening, but whispering to Celeste about someone’s girlfriend—or boyfriend? Bee couldn’t make out the words. Fred tried to sneak a glance under the bed, and Celeste smacked him. “Stop looking for that beast, my lord. ’Tis shocking,” she murmured to the tutor. “I would never repeat such a tale.”
Fred snuck another glance. Bee made a face as she pointed to her, you know, bladder area. What was the gesture for I really need to pee?
Fred looked away, frowning. He tapped his pen against the table.
“Stop it, my lord.” The old man rapped him. “You will damage the nib.”
“Yes! That is it. I need fresh nibs. Get them, now, please. I demand it.”
“But my lord, ’tis quite a distance—”
“How can a gentleman have perfect penmanship without perfect pens? My mother says this often.” He almost pushed the man out of the room. “And Celeste? I should like the ginger syrup she sent me. I have quite a yearning.”
Celeste continued stitching. “The ginger is for when you are sick.”
Fred drew himself up. “Perhaps I am sick. Perhaps it is one of those illnesses that appears without warning and renders me dead. Heaven forbid.”
Quickly Celeste reached for his forehead. “Oh, my lord, do not speak so!”
He pulled away. “We cannot be too safe. The ginger, please. I insist.” He crossed his arms.
Bee watched, stunned. If she talked like that to Moo, she’d be in so much trouble. Or Mom? Yikes. But things were different here, obviously. The servants bossed Fred around and hit him. But he bossed them, too. It was so complicated.
Celeste frowned. “’Tis on a high shelf in the storage room. I shall need a stool to reach it.”
Fred raised an eyebrow. “We have always thought you capable of such feats. But perhaps we are mistaken.”
“I am quite capable, my lord, thank you.” Celeste marched from the room, her mouth a line.
As soon as she was out of sight, Fred dropped to his knees. “Quick, Bee!” He pointed to a carved wooden screen in the corner. “There. Hurry.”
Bee didn’t need to be told twice. She wiggled out and Fred dragged her to her feet and pushed her behind the screen—
“Found it.” Celeste bustled back in. “The jar was lower than I feared.”
Bee froze. What should she do now? There was nothing behind the screen but a pot with a lid. She needed a bathroom, not a pot.
Oh.
“How clever you are. Thank you, Celeste. Set it on my desk, if you please.”
Bee glared at the pot. This was so gross. But not as gross as wetting her pants. Holding her nose, she lifted the lid. Empty, whew.
“I say, Celeste, shall we sing together? The Lord’s Prayer. It’s my mother’s favorite.” Loudly Fred began.
With a sigh, Bee pulled down her leggings. She didn’t have much time—Fred couldn’t sing forever. She sat on the chamber pot, wincing at the cold. No one ever talked about this in books.
“Why aren’t you singing, Celeste? My mother will be so pleased. And look, here is my Latin master, returned already. Heavens, that was fast.”
As quietly as she could, Bee began to pee.
Chapter 19
The New Servant
It was all Federico could do to keep his eyes from the screen. He’d been quite brilliant in solving Bee’s predicament. But she could not stay there forever. What if Celeste or Master Sniffly looked behind it? What if Bee made a noise?
“You are not paying attention,” Master Sniffly scolded, rapping Federico.
Federico pushed himself away from the desk. He could not thread two thoughts together with all this distraction! If you act like a lord, his mother said, then so you will be treated. “I should like my lunch now. A large lunch, if you please.”
To his absolute shock, they agreed. Celeste and Master Sniffy never listened! But perhaps, Federico mused, he had never before been so forceful.
“I shall visit Raphael this afternoon,” he added as footmen carried in trays. The wooden screen, he noticed, trembled ever so slightly at this news.
“But you have a lute lesson, and fencing.” Master Sniffly sniffed. “You mustn’t waste your time on unimportant matters.”
Federico drew himself up. “Shall I tell my mother, the most celebrated collector in Italy, that you consider art unimportant?” He felt rather like a swordsman turning a parry into a jab as he used Master Sniffly’s words against him, and sure enough the Latin master rushed to take back his statement. Feigning insult, Federico herded Master Sniffly and Celeste from the room. He slumped against the door, feeling as though he’d just completed a full day of jousting. How exhausting it was to be sly.
“Are they gone?” a voice whispered from behind the screen as the last footman departed.
“Yes!” Federico announced. “Please join me.” How fine the table looked with china and gleaming silver. Sometimes a day of jousting ended quite well. He inhaled, taking in the scents of saffron, pepper, nutmeg, sage. . . .
“Wow.” Bee’s eyes widened at the spread of platters. Her eyes stopped at a finely roasted bird. “Um, what’s that?”
Federico beamed. “Partridge stuffed with apricots. Have you never seen this delicacy? It’s one of my favorites.” He sliced the meat, arranging it just so. How gifted he was at carving.
“A partridge?” Bee gulped. “Like in a pear tree?”
“I suppose. They are ground-nesters but on occasion they sit in trees.”
“And that?” Her frown grew.
“Peacock in gold sauce. Though the sauce in this case is made from saffron and egg yolks. Gold is only for banquets. And starlings in jelly—”
“Peacocks? Starlings?” Bee stepped back.
“Why, yes. And here are doves in parsley sauce—“
“Doves?” Bee looked crushed. “I don’t eat doves.”
“Ah.” Bravely Federico continued. “I also have ravioli with pumpkin, and melons with ham, and pudding baked with sugar for they know I like sweetness. And look.” He held up a piece of silverware. “This is called a fork. I can show you how to operate it.”
“Um, I think I’m okay with forks.” Bee eased into a chair. “Can I please just have some melon?”
“But you must eat it with ham or it will rot in your stomach.”
Bee paused. “It will rot in my stomach?”
“Everyone knows this. Surely I can tempt you with another dish—perhaps macaroni in the style of Naples?”
Bee twirled a forkful of the macaroni. She was pretty good with a fork, he had to admit. “We call it spaghetti where I come from. But usually it has tomato sauce—” She gagged. “Ugh, cinnamon sugar.”
“But sugar and cinnamon are both expensive and delicious.” Federico was so confused! “So what do you eat in your country that is special?”
“I’m sorry.” To her credit, Bee looked very contrite. “We love cinnamon where I come from. And sugar. And lots of people eat birds. Just not doves. Or”—she gulped—“peacocks.” She speared a ravioli. “But I love these.”
“I do as well.” In truth pumpkin made Federico retch, but he did not want to sound rude.
She tore off a piece of bread. “Wow, this bread rocks—I mean, it’s delicious. It’s great.” She smiled at him through a mouthful. “So how long till we go see Raphael?”
“We?” Federico frowned, slicing the ham. “But you cannot walk through His Holiness’s palace.”
“Why not? Because I’m a girl?” The prickliness had returned to her voice.
“Certainly not.” No one would think her a girl in that outfit—she looked more like a rag-picker with her bare head and cloth shoes. “Because the entire palace would gossip.”
“But how can Raphael draw me if he can’t even see me?”
“Ah.” Federico had been so focused on Juno. . . . “I know. I shall ask him to visit me here.”
“Wow. He’d do that for you?”
Federico squirmed. “I should like to think so.” Truly he should have given more thought to a plan.
“Today?” Bee asked. “Because he has to draw me now.”
“Shh. Do you want servants in the villa to hear? That’s it!” Federico leaped from his chair to dig through his travel chest. “You’ll be a servant.” He himself had mistaken her for a page last night. Others would, too.
“A servant? Awesome!” She knelt to help him.
“Stop it. You’re mussing the folds.” He handed her a bundle.
“They’re so cool!” She started to take off her black saggy top. “You can’t watch me change, though.”
“But—as you wish.” Federico turned around, waiting impatiently. He could not resist a peak. Bee looked quite smart in a linen shirt with a sle
eveless gray jerkin. “What is that?” He leaned over to see.
“It’s underwear.” She stepped back. “What are you doing?”
Federico bent closer. “Is it embroidered?”
“It doesn’t matter. They’re just little flowers, okay?”
“It doesn’t matter?” Federico stared at her, incredulous. “It always matters.”
“Stop it!” She turned away, tugging at the hose. “These don’t stay up.”
“Have you never dressed yourself? You forgot your strap.” He tied a strap round her waist. “You attach them thus.” He looped each hose to the strap and pulled down the jerkin. “Done.”
“Thank you. Hey, look at that.” She lifted a foot to marvel at the leather sole sewn to the end of her hose. “The socks have shoes built right in.”
The things this girl didn’t know. Naturally hose had built-in shoes; that was how well-born folk dressed. Federico fastened a midnight-blue belt and knife over her jerkin. “Grand. And when you bow . . .”
Bee bowed.
Federico winced. “Don’t bow. Or if you must, do it exactly like that. People will take pity. Say you were sent by the Duchess of Urbino.”
“Who’s she?”
He adjusted her collar. “A relative with no brains at all.”
“Thanks.” Her face softened. “I mean it. Thank you.”
“The pleasure is mine.” He set a gray cap on her head. “There. Now you are fit to meet Raphael. You’ll like him very much.”
She bent over, peering at her legs. “Can you see my underwear?”
“No one cares about a servant’s underwear—” He caught sight of her face. “I mean, no.” He picked up a small silver tray. “Carry this.” He held it up on two hands, to demonstrate.
“Wait—what? Why?”
“Because you are my servant, naturally.” He donned his blue cap edged with pearls. “Thus you walk behind me, carrying an item of value.” He checked himself in the mirror, tying on his sky-blue cloak with cream silk lining and ermine trim. Was he perfect? Yes.
Bee held up the tray as if it were made out of glass, or poison. Federico sighed to himself. Tossing back his cloak, he opened the door to let them both out.
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