Chapter 20
Heavily Guarded
Bee hurried through the villa after Fred, doing her best not to slip. The marble floors were so smooth, and her hose-shoes didn’t have the best grip. Painted cupids romped on the ceiling above them, fluttering between white fluffy clouds. The smell of orange blossoms drifted through the open windows. A hedge of glossy-leafed orange trees held fruits that glowed like tiny suns.
Fred passed two women scrubbing the floor, Bee scampering behind with the tray. “My lord,” they cried, jumping up to curtsey. They wore layers of skirts but no shoes. Fred walked right by, not even acknowledging them. Should Bee say hello? She wasn’t sure.
They passed a man carrying a stack of books. “My lord.” The man bowed. Again Fred didn’t seem to notice. His face was weird. Like he was wearing a mask, Bee realized. Like he was so heavily guarded, just within himself, that he couldn’t even respond. “My lord,” the man repeated. “A moment, please?”
Fred kept walking. Bee scurried after him, head down.
“My lord! My lord—”
Chin up, Fred marched around the corner, Bee at his heels.
“My lord . . .” The man’s voice faded.
“Wow.” Bee’s heart was beating like she’d just finished a sprint.
“Shh,” Fred murmured, face smooth. He heaved open a door. The corridor! Bee recognized it from last night.
Fred shut the door behind them, and immediately his shoulders relaxed; his mask melted away. “You should see yourself,” he chuckled, imitating her face scrunched in fear.
“What? I’ve never done this before.”
“Don’t worry, you’re fine. Anyway, no one will see us here.” He walked beside her, pointing out a window. “His Holiness’s garden. You may see it clearly now in the daylight.”
“Wow. Moo would love this.” White statues stood between skinny trees, dark green against the rich blue sky. Workmen dug out a hillside. In the distance rose a jumble of windows and arches and towers. The palace.
“Let us continue walking. Who is this Moo, if you please? Your cow?”
Bee laughed. “One of my moms.”
“You have two mothers?”
“We’re like any family. We have breakfast together and Moo makes my lunch and Mom walks me to school. . . .”
Fred just stood there. She could almost see his brain whirling, he was thinking so hard. “Which one has the dowry?”
A long moment of silence. “What?” Bee asked, finally.
“The dowry, the dowry!” He gestured helplessly. “Why do you pretend it does not matter? Which of your mothers brought wealth to their marriage?”
For a second—just one second—Bee wanted to bop him on the head with the tray. “How many times do I have to tell you? We. Don’t. Have. Dowries.”
“Keep your voice down—”
“I. Am.”
They continued onward. Fred looked like he might never speak again.
They passed the little door set in the niche. “Does that really go to Michelangelo’s studio?” Bee asked, to break the silence.
Fred brightened. “But of course. His Holiness likes to visit. He tells Michelangelo what to do and Michelangelo ignores him. One time Michelangelo got so angry that he threw a plank at his head.”
“Wow. Now I really want to call Moo.” Bee sighed. “What’s it like not having your mom around? Because I talk to mine all the time. Like, all the time.”
Fred’s face went smooth. “We communicate. You heard her letter this morning.”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t an ‘I love you I miss you’ kind of letter. . . . Although my moms can be bossy, too,” she hurried to add. “There was this one time we were in the Sistine Chapel—”
Fred’s head snapped around. “You know the Sistine Chapel?”
“Sure. And there was this group of Japanese tourists—”
“What is Japanese?”
“People from Japan? Maybe you don’t know Japan yet. It’s near China. It was so embarrassing. Moo started telling them about Adam—you know, the scene of Adam and Eve in the garden?”
Fred smiled proudly. “I watched Master Michelangelo put the final touches on that scene.”
“Wow.” Bee paused for a moment. “That’s amazing. Anyway, Moo made me pose.” She spread her arms to demonstrate. “She gave a whole lecture on how excited he was to eat the apple.”
Fred sighed. “Two mothers must mean twice as many lectures.”
“It wasn’t that kind of lecture, but I know what you’re talking about. Last week I climbed a tree and she got so mad.”
“But of course. Girls don’t climb trees.”
“That’s not what I mean—”
Fred frowned, staring up the corridor. There, not too far ahead, was the wardrobe. But someone was crawling behind it!
Fred dashed forward, hand on his knife. “I beg your pardon!”
Hastily a man stood up—an older man with white hair and a thick belly.
At once Fred took his hand off his knife, his face cool. “Good afternoon, Master Bramante.”
Bramante . . . Bee knew that name, didn’t she? Maybe Moo studied him. Moo studied so many people. Bee couldn’t keep track of them all.
“Forgive me, my lord.” Smugly the white-haired man waved a paper. “I have just received a letter from my dear friend, Leonardo da Vinci—”
Bee gasped. Did everyone here know da Vinci?
Bramante scowled at her interruption. “How rude your servant is.”
Bee ducked, blushing, but Fred only shrugged. “He came from the Duchess of Urbino.”
“Ah. I see.” Bramante returned his gaze to the wardrobe. “Master Leonardo has asked me to examine it.” He lowered his voice. “He is looking for . . . a cat.”
Wait—what? Bee shot Fred a look.
Fred smiled evenly. “Master Leonardo asked you to find a cat in a closet? How peculiar.”
Bramante frowned at the letter, absently jangling his heavy ring of keys. “A kitten, really. He thinks a kitten is stuck in there somehow.”
“Very peculiar indeed.” Fred kept looking at the keys, Bee noticed. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?” he asked her. Quickly Bee shook her head.
Suddenly a door slammed behind them—so loudly that she jumped, and Fred, and Bramante. “What is this toad of an architect doing?” a man snarled.
Fred regained his composure first. “Ah, Master Michelangelo. How fare you today?”
Bee stared at the man stomping up the corridor with a fistful of hammers. This was Michelangelo? “I forgot these,” he barked. His nose lay flat against his face, and paint spattered his clothes. He’d spent so much time looking up at the Sistine Chapel ceiling that he couldn’t even straighten his neck. There was something weird about him, she remembered, like he never washed his hands. . . .
The smell hit her. “Ugh,” she wheezed, grabbing her nose.
His head tipped back, Michelangelo sneered over his chin at Bramante. “I said, what are you doing here?”
Bramante stiffened. “I have every right to be here. I designed this corridor.”
“Of course you did,” Michelangelo spat. “Which is why it’s so . . . so bad.”
Oh, yeah: that was another thing about Michelangelo. He was kind of a grouch.
Bramante flicked his cloak. “That’s your best insult, Master Michelangelo? That it’s ‘bad’? You don’t have the wit to work in Rome.”
Michelangelo tightened his grip on the hammers. Ropes of muscles ran up his arms. His shoulders, Bee noticed, strained against his shirt.
“Although you are a great talent,” Bramante stumbled to add. “We all say it.”
“I’m a genius,” Michelangelo corrected. But he lowered the hammers. “At least I finish my work, unlike Leonardo da Vinci.” He nodded at Fred. “Good day, Federico. Beware this toad and his peacock.” Away he stomped, his cloud of stink almost visible.
Bramante stuck out his tongue at Michelangelo’s back. He march
ed off in the other direction, jangling his keys.
“Wow,” Bee whispered. “Those guys really hate each other.”
Fred couldn’t help grinning. “How observant you are. . . . Shall we continue?”
“What was that about a kitten?” Bee held up the tray, trying to look servant-like. They were almost at the end of the corridor. “Bramante wasn’t talking about Juno, was he?”
Fred nodded. “She is—she was—Master Leonardo’s cat. Before she was mine.”
“Da Vinci’s cat? Wow. She really is special.”
“She is.” Fred beamed with pride. They had reached the door. “Let us find this peacock and convince him to draw you.”
“Absolutely,” Bee agreed. “But, um, who’s the peacock again?”
Fred heaved the door open. “Raphael, of course. It’s Michelangelo’s nickname for him.”
“Wait—what?” Bee lowered the tray in surprise.
Fred winced. “We are entering His Holiness’s palace. Please try not to look . . . incompetent.”
“I know, I know.” Bee hurried back into her pose. “It’s just that Herbert hid Raphael’s drawing behind a painting of a peacock.” She shook her head, following Fred through the door. “It’s like an enormous jigsaw puzzle,” she said, more to herself. If only they’d be able to find all the pieces.
Chapter 21
The Deal
Federico led Bee into the great clanging ruckus of construction. Plasterers lugged tubs past a bellowing foreman; a pigment grinder sang a bawdy tune as he pounded rocks into colorful powder; pairs of men stomped through the workrooms bearing timbers on their broad padded shoulders.
As soon as they caught sight of Federico, the men hurried to doff their caps. Federico barely nodded, though inside he beamed at the recognition. “Take me to Master Raphael, if you please,” he asked the foreman, stepping between tubs of thick, stinky plaster.
“I’ve been here,” Bee whispered, gaping at the painting of Swiss Guards.
“Ah,” said Federico. So had Herbert. “Now please hush.”
Bee pressed her lips together, but she gawked as they entered the next room. “I know this, too,” she said without moving her mouth.
“It’s His Holiness’s study,” Federico muttered back. “That wall is The School of Athens.” He watched her eyes, but she did not seem to notice his likeness. He’d point it out later.
The room swarmed with painters laboring on every blank surface; one brave soul dabbed at the ceiling from the top of a ladder. Raphael stood holding a paintbrush, gesturing to a woman with her arms gracefully posed. “Do you see?” he asked the other painters. “Do you see the curl of her exquisite lips?”
The model laughed, her eyes sparkling.
“Do not laugh, my lovely. It makes you too beautiful.” Raphael dipped his brush in a pot of paint, and with three quick strokes he captured the shape of her mouth. “There.”
Federico inhaled with delight. He could not tell which was more perfect: the woman or the image painted on the wall. And Raphael captured her smile with only three strokes! Such talent.
“Sir Federico, what a joy.” Wiping his hands, Raphael strolled over. “I cannot recall you ever looking better.” He tucked a curl beneath Bee’s cap. “There. Now your servant is flawless.”
Bee blushed, ducking to hide her smile.
The artist made a show of peering about. “And where, pray tell, is your lioness?”
“My lioness? Ah, my cat. Juno. She is . . . waiting for me.” Federico gave Bee a pointed look. “I hope to see her very soon. In fact, Master, I have come to ask a favor.”
Raphael leaned back, arms crossed. “Say the word, my lord. Your wish is my command.”
“Yes. Ah.” Federico gestured to Bee. “Here, as you see, is my new page, from the Duchess of Urbino. The duchess is very fond of h-him.”
“I can see why. Such a handsome face.” Raphael smiled at Bee’s embarrassment.
“Yes. So.” Federico gulped. “We would like you to draw him.”
Raphael raised an eyebrow. “To draw him?”
“Yes, please.” Bee bobbed her ghastly bow. “In ink, please. With your signature.”
Federico nudged Bee: quiet! “We would need it quite soon.”
Raphael laughed. “I’d love to. But as you can see, I have ten painters to manage. I have a dozen patrons beyond His Holiness, including your mother. I have her.” He nodded to the woman who smiled back, twirling a strand of hair. “What can you offer?”
“How much money do you have?” Bee whispered.
“Not enough.” Raphael chuckled, overhearing. “Time, as you know, is never free.”
Ah. This was why Raphael could afford ten assistants and the prettiest model in Rome. The artist was talented and kind and graceful . . . but he was also an excellent businessman. “I . . . know people.” Federico stammered. He could not think of what else to offer.
“You do.” Raphael paused, considering him. “You know the dark one.”
Federico shared a confused look with Bee. “Satan?”
Raphael clapped his hands. “Ha, that is brilliant. I’m afraid I refer to the other devil. Michelangelo. He likes you, and he doesn’t like anyone. Me, he hates especially. Show me his precious ceiling and you’ll have your drawing.”
“But Master Michelangelo forbids it.” Federico shuddered, remembering Michelangelo’s wrath. “Besides, the chapel is locked. It’s imposs—”
He slapped a palm over his mouth. No, it wasn’t impossible. He had a key to the Sistine Chapel in a secret pocket at the bottom of his travel chest. “Done,” he said, holding out his hand.
Raphael’s eyebrows went up. “I had not realized my lord was such a man of action.”
Bee squirmed beside Federico. “We, um, need it now—”
Gently Federico stepped on her foot. “When might you manage this?” he asked Raphael. “It would be nice to have it soon.”
Raphael stroked his chin. “Hmm. Tonight, let us say. After sunset, when the dark one has left for the day.”
“Tonight?” Bee looked crushed. “That’s hours away.”
Federico glared at her, but Raphael only chuckled. “Such misery!” He took her chin, studying her. “What a face you have.”
“Tonight it is,” agreed Federico. “After vespers bells, at the chapel doors.”
“I shall think of nothing else.” Raphael bowed to Federico, and turned back to the model, brush in hand. “Let us try this again,” he said to his painters.
Scowling, Bee tugged her foot loose from Federico’s. He scowled back, nudging her into a spiraling stairwell. “Can you be quiet for once?” he whispered when at last they were alone.
“But tonight is so far away! What if instead—” She gasped. The tray slipped from her fingers with a clattering crash.
“What?” Federico sighed—and “Argh!” as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
Bee stared up slack-jawed, the crash still echoing round the stairs. “It’s a—a—”
“My lord,” came a voice as deep as the sea.
Federico forced himself to turn around. Above him, as tall as an alp, towered a Swiss Guard with eyes the color of ice.
Bee gulped. “It’s a Swiss Guard.”
“Of course,” said Federico automatically. It was in fact the very Swiss Guard who had dragged him back to the palace two nights ago. Federico had hoped never to see him again.
“How fare you, my young lord?”
Federico swallowed. “I am—fine. How fare—you?” He could feel Bee vibrating beside him and prayed she would not speak.
“I, too, am fine.” The huge man stared down at them, his eyes as keen as knives. “I have wondered these past days how the girl fares, and your friend. I have not seen them about.”
“My friend? He is no longer here.” A wave of sadness struck Federico, and he swallowed hard. “He took the girl far, far away.”
The huge man pondered this. “So there is no threat of sickness to the p
alace?”
“Oh, no! Heavens, no.”
“Miss Bother’s all better,” Bee chimed in, bobbing her dreadful bow. “Thank you for asking.”
“I am glad to hear it.” He bent down to pick up the tray. “Your words provide comfort,” he said, handing it to Bee. He continued down the stairs, every step a small earthquake.
Federico exhaled.
“Wow,” Bee breathed—
“My lord?” the guard rumbled from somewhere below them.
Federico jumped. “Yes?”
“His Holiness approaches. You may wish to know.” The soft thunder of footsteps . . . He was gone.
“That guy is the size of an oil tanker,” Bee whispered.
“His Holiness is coming?” Federico blanched. He could not meet the pope—not with Bee! He must store her somewhere till sunset. Store them both. But where?
“What is it?” Bee asked. “What’s wrong?”
“I have it!” Federico hooted. “The aviary!”
“What’s an avary?” Bee hurried after him.
“It’s aviary. You’ll see.”
Chapter 22
Tidbits
Fred must be a genius, Bee thought as she followed him through the palace. There were so many rooms to remember! And staircases. And people. Some people he bowed to, and some he nodded to, and some he pretended not to see.
They approached an open door and Fred froze. A man was talking inside. Even his voice made Bee shiver. Fred shook his head at her: Don’t move!
Bee nodded, just the teeniest bit, to show she understood.
Fred lifted his chin and put back his shoulders. Looking straight ahead, he walked past the door. Not too fast, not too slow. Like he was walking past a bomb or the meanest table at lunch. Once at the far side, he waved for her to come.
Bee tiptoed past the doorway, not even glancing into the room. She didn’t want to know.
At last they reached a steep little staircase, Fred’s face lighting up as they climbed. By the top, he was almost dancing in excitement. “Behold!” He threw open the door.
A racket of birdsong hit Bee, so loud that she stumbled back. “What is this place?” she shouted.
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