“Do you not know an aviary? It’s a palace for birds.”
The room was full of songbirds in delicate birdcages. Even the windows were covered in mesh. A parrot sat squawking on a post.
Fred looked around, beaming. “Those are goldfinches,” he said over the noise, pointing to a dozen fluttering creatures. “And nightingales, and parakeets from Greece. But these are my favorite.” He opened a tiny curlicue door, and a little yellow bird landed on his finger. “From the Canary Islands. They are worth their weight in gold because of the beauty of their song.”
“Canaries are worth their weight in gold?” Bee tried not to sound skeptical.
“Oh, yes. The King of Portugal makes great wealth from their trade. This one was a gift to His Holiness.” He stroked the little creature. “I have not visited the aviary recently, I’m afraid. I’ve been too busy with ’Erbert—” He caught himself. “Too busy with Juno.”
Bee stared from cage to cage. “It’s like a garden made out of music.”
“What a nice way to phrase it.” Fred smiled. Gently he returned the canary to its home. “The parrot is a gift from the Turks and can speak in Turkish, apparently. Though I don’t think what it says is polite.”
“Parrots.” Bee nodded in sympathy. She peered between the cages, trying to see out the windows. “Is that really Rome? It’s so different.” The city still had red tile roofs—or already had them, she supposed. But there were so many towers! Tall and dark, looming over the streets. “What are all those towers for?”
“That’s where the nobles live, naturally.” Fred filled the canaries’ dish from a pitcher of water. He could speak in a normal voice now. The birds were getting used to them. “You must live in a tall tower to be safe.”
“I guess. It seems like an awful lot of stairs. And look how much green there is. Are those olive trees?”
“Olives, vineyards, orchards, wheat fields. How do people in your country eat? Which reminds me . . .”
Bee continued studying the city. A haze of smoke hung in the air. She could hear workmen and donkeys and chanting. But no mopeds. No sirens. No car horns. No smell of exhaust.
“Please.” Fred pulled out a chair, his eyes alight. “Allow me to serve us.”
Bee sat. “Thank you,” she said politely. “Hey, this is backgammon.” She stroked the table. “Look at that. The board is built right in.”
“His Holiness and I play here sometimes.” With a sweep of his arm, Fred opened a cabinet. “And behold: his secret larder! We can dine like kings—no, like popes!” He laughed, prying open a jar. “Cherries in syrup. Would you like one?” He offered her a cherry on the tip of his knife.
“Thank you.” Bee popped it in her mouth. “Wow, it’s like something from a fairy tale.”
“Is that good?” Fred asked, worried.
“It’s delicious.” Wait—she had a knife, too. With some care, she speared a cherry. “Hey, I got one!” The birds seemed to twitter their support, flitting around their cages.
Fred opened another jar. “Almonds with sugar.” The parrot squawked. He handed it an almond.
Bee made another stab into the jar of cherries. “Look, three in a row.”
Fred laughed, lifting down a cloth-covered plate. “It’s as if you’ve never eaten with a knife. . . . Here is parmesan cheese from the city of Parma, a favorite of His Holiness. Try it with cherry.”
“I know what parmesan is.” She hacked off a slice and set a cherry on top. “Wow, that’s awesome. It’s like salty and sweet at the same time.”
“Precisely.” Fred cut a perfect slice. “Tell me,” he asked carefully. “What is ’Erbert’s daughter like?”
“Miss Bother? She has all these drawings of Juno in her living room.”
Fred’s face blossomed into a smile. “Truly?”
“Herbert drew them when Juno was a kitten. They’re really good. You know what’s strange? Just before I came here, she said something wild.”
“Wild?”
“Interesting. She said I’d make everything better.” Behind Bee, even the canaries grew quiet. “She looked right at me when she said it. I know you’ll make everything better. Her exact words.”
Fred chewed. “That is interesting. We’re on a quest, most definitely.”
“I know, right?” She touched her neck. “How much longer till sunset?”
Fred glanced at the sun. “A few hours. What happened?” He nodded at her neck as he lifted down another jar. “Olives from Sicily. Also delicious.”
“I got this scratch from climbing a tree. Which girls can do, you know.” She shot him a look. “That’s why Raphael needs to draw me soon. Because it’s in the drawing.”
“He will, he will. . . . By the way, do you play backgammon?”
Bee ate an olive. “I play with my grandfather all the time. He’s really good.”
“So am I. Not to boast.” He pushed the jars to one side.
Bee brushed off her hands. “Me, too. Not to boast. So prepare to get clobbered.” She stared at him. “There’s one thing, though. About Juno.”
Fred paused. “What about her?”
“You have to promise me something.”
“Promise what?” His eyes tightened. “Are you threatening me?”
Bee waved at the canaries singing their love songs. The muttering parrot. The darting swallows, faster than blinks. “You have to promise never, ever, ever to let Juno into this room.”
“Why not?” Fred gave her blank look.
“Because she’s a cat! She’ll eat every one—”
Fred’s blank look dissolved into a grin.
“Hey!” Bee tried to bop him. “You know exactly what I’m talking about!”
“What?” He giggled, ducking away. “What’d I do?”
Bee lunged up, chasing him around the table, both of them laughing as loud as the birds.
Chapter 23
Troubling Reports
Federico dashed out of the palace as sunset approached, his head full of giggles and his belly full of food. Bee remained behind in the aviary, chatting to the parrot and finishing off the cheese. She was, he had to admit, rather good at her variety of backgammon. But she was not nearly so skillful at the version Federico played. So they had both ended up winning, which he considered quite sporting indeed.
Federico did not go to the villa via the unfinished corridor, for he did not want to risk meeting Michelangelo returning to his studio. Instead he sprinted through the garden, leaping the shadows as swallows soared over the pine trees to celebrate the coming of dusk. The bells of Santa Rufina rang in the distance, marking the sweet little saint’s upcoming feast day. What a glorious afternoon it had been. And soon, soon, he’d get to show the Sistine Chapel to Raphael and his new friend, Bee.
He hurried through the villa entrance to his room. It would be the work of a moment to retrieve the chapel key from his travel chest. He threw open the door—
“Saints above, where have you been?” shrieked Master Sniffly.
Celeste smacked Federico. “You took your mother’s silver tray?”
“You missed fencing,” Señor Pedro scolded. (Heavens—Señor Pedro was here as well? Federico was in trouble indeed.) “And who’s this new page? We’ve heard troubling reports.”
Federico angled toward his travel chest. “I can explain.” He couldn’t, but the words sounded good.
“The most shameful lad I’ve ever known.” Again Celeste smacked him.
“The young lord can’t be trusted,” Master Sniffly chimed in.
“You need guarding.” Señor Pedro blocked the door.
Federico dove for the chest as the blows rained down. “Forgive me, please—I quoted Virgil.”
He’d blurted this out in sheer desperation, but it stopped Master Sniffly cold. “Which part?”
“What does this matter?” Señor Pedro scoffed. “’Tis training the boy needs—”
Master Sniffly drew himself upright. “Virgil is the bedrock of culture, you half-wit.”
>
Federico dug through the chest. There—the black cloak. “Exoriare aliquis,” he quoted, fumbling for the pocket. “Nostris . . . Nostris something.” He snatched up the heavy iron key.
“Nowhere is safe for a Gonzaga,” Señor Pedro continued. “Not without protection—”
“Nostris ex . . .” Master Sniffly prodded. “And then what?”
“Shut it,” Celeste snapped at Master Sniffly. “We need to hear what this lad has been up to.”
“Nostris ex . . . ossibi?” With these noble words, Federico shot out the door.
“I say, my lord!” Master Sniffly warbled. “What’s the next line?”
Señor Pedro even attempted a chase, but the fighter was not built for speed.
The purpling sky hung heavy over the garden as Federico sprinted back to the palace; a fat moon oozed over the horizon. Never had he been so naughty or so bold. To anger his tutor, his nurse, and his fencing teacher . . . He’d get thrashings for weeks.
In the aviary, the canaries had quieted with the dusk, though the swallows twittered and chattered, and the parrot was as loud as before. “You’re in trouble,” Bee said as soon as she saw his face.
“Yes.” He did not need to say more.
In silence the two trekked through the palace, passing footmen and chamberlains, ladies in finery, musicians toting lutes. . . . Federico kept his mask smoothly in place, but Bee’s face looked as worried as his heart.
Finally they reached the forecourt to the Sistine Chapel—a space nigh as big as the chapel itself, empty at this hour, and gloomy with twilight. The great carved doors filled half a wall. Music wandered through the columned windows as players somewhere struck up a song. Entwined between the notes were the church bells of vespers.
Federico peered about. Were they too late for Raphael?
“Where is he?” Bee whispered in panic.
The artist glided out of the shadows, a satchel over his shoulder. “My lord.” He bowed. He’d changed into a sleek black jerkin with handsome striped sleeves. “I was afraid you’d forgotten.”
“Oh, no!” Federico waved the key, smiling brightly.
“Marvelous. Months have I waited to study this ceiling. Everyone speaks of Michelangelo’s genius, but what good does that do me if he forbids me from seeing?”
Bee eyed the enormous dark doors. “What if he’s still in there?”
Raphael winked at her. “The sun sets too soon for Michelangelo’s liking. By which I mean there’s not light enough to paint. . . . Shall we, my lord? Or are you not feeling brave?”
Federico was in fact not feeling brave in the slightest. All he could think of was Michelangelo’s muscled arm with its fistful of hammers, and Michelangelo shredding drawings, his face flushed with rage. If Michelangelo learned of this trespass, Federico’s very life might be at risk. He looked down at the key pilfered from Bramante’s key ring. The architect would not be pleased.
“Fred?” Bee touched his arm. “We need to do this. Remember?”
She was right. Federico must do this, for Herbert and the promise of Juno. For the drawing.
With a deep breath, he slipped in the key. The effort required both his hands, for the lock was stiff and hefty. He turned it, throwing his whole weight into the effort.
“We enter the den of the lion.” Raphael laughed, pushing the door.
“That’s not reassuring!” But Bee, too, pushed.
Slowly the door opened. Somewhere in the distance a choir sang, and swallows gossiped, and sweet Santa Rufina tolled of her feast. The last rays of twilight filled the space with a magical glow; the canvas cloth stretched high above. The room’s far end held an altar wrapped in shadows that looked almost like a man kneeling.
Raphael slipped into the chapel, eyes dancing. “I am already inspired.”
“Wait.” Federico held Bee back. The shadows seemed almost to move in the stillness. Was someone there, lurking? No—
Yes.
A phantom stepped out of the darkness. Michelangelo. “You peacock!” he roared, running at them. “Get out!” He hurled a bucket at Raphael.
“My fine man—” Raphael dodged, but too late. The bucket caught him on the forehead and he dropped like a stone.
“And you!” Michelangelo swung a tub at Federico. “A disgrace to your name.” The tub hit the wall behind Federico, spraying sand everywhere.
“Master—”
“Enough!” Michelangelo ran for the door. “I am done with this city of serpents.”
Bee raced to help Raphael. “This is bad. This is really, really bad.”
Federico dashed after Michelangelo. “Master, it’s not what you think!”
“I’ll tolerate this snake pit no longer!” Michelangelo’s footfalls crashed through the hallways.
Federico pounded by grubby clerks gaping like inkwells, and a message boy flattened against the wall. “Master, please stop—” Dimly he saw, or felt, a Swiss Guard, but was too panicked to pay heed.
Michelangelo threw open the heavy door to the corridor. “I’m returning to Florence!”
“I only wanted to help—” Federico gasped, chasing him.
Michelangelo unlocked the low door to his studio. “I’ll tell the world of your crimes!” With a last furious glare, he disappeared from view. The deadbolt clinked behind him.
Helplessly Federico tugged at the door. “I can explain!”
Bee galloped up. “Wait—he went in there? What do we do?”
“What are you doing here?” Federico snapped. “Michelangelo!”
“Here.” Bee held up the key to the Sistine Chapel. “Take it.”
“That doesn’t matter! Master, open this door. Please.”
“Calm down,” Bee announced. “I’ll fix this.” She dashed back up the corridor.
Federico sprinted after her. “Where are you going?”
“Remember?” She reached the closet. “I’m making everything better.” She stepped in.
“Don’t—”
She was gone. Vanished as if she had never been there. Just like Herbert. Like Juno. Now he did not even have Bee.
This is what came of courage. All Federico had wanted was a friend. A pet. A quest, perhaps. But now he had nothing.
The door at the end of the corridor opened. Footsteps, coming from the palace.
Federico must hide—he needed to think! He’d made enough of a mess of this evening.
In one lunge, he opened the closet and leaped in—
And plunged from the dark Roman evening to a room filled with light. In the ceiling, candles glowed bright as the sun.
He blinked, eyes adjusting. He had stumbled into a small office with a dusty metal desk. Rusty tacks held scraps of paper to the wall. A bookcase hung from the wall—a secret bookcase, obviously, with a half-visible staircase beyond. How appropriate for Herbert.
“Bee?” he whispered. Carefully he stepped forward. The closet looked quite the same: dark wood, glass balls, strange symbols. The water sloshed in its sealed glass globe. “Juno?”
He peered under the desk. With some caution, he tugged open the drawer. Chocolate! Hastily he ripped open a package and stumbled back in disgust at the flies.
A sound drifted into the office. A shout, possibly? “Bee?” he called. His eyes fell on a thick book, the thickest he’d ever seen. It lay open on the desk—
There—his family, right on the page: GONZAGA (1328–1511). The first number he knew: 1328, the year his ancestor Luigi Gonzaga founded Mantua. The second number baffled him, though. It was as if the Gonzaga family ended. If only Federico could read what it said.
At the bottom of the page, he spotted his name. He did not like the look of Federico Gonzaga (1500–1511). He did not like how GONZAGA then finished, and how the page continued with a garble of words he did not know.
Federico reached for his knife, gulping in fear. The book made it seem that he . . . that he . . .
That he was dead.
Chapter 24
A Different
World
“I’m making everything better.” That’s what Bee had said, stepping away from Rome and Fred, the Sistine Chapel key in her hand. “I’m making everything better,” she repeated as she stumbled out of the wardrobe into the dusty light of Herbert’s office.
“Mrow?”
“Juno!” There was Juno! Sitting on the desk with her tail curled over her paws, just as Bee had left her. “I know someone who’s going to be so happy to see you.” See? Things were better already.
“Mrow.” Juno purred, butting her hand. Pet me.
“Okay, okay.” Bee scratched the cat’s neck. “Let’s get you to Fred.” That’s what she needed to do first. Then she and Fred could figure the rest of it out. How to get the drawing and calm down Michelangelo and help Raphael.
She frowned at the key. She should store it somewhere. Her jerkin thing didn’t have pockets, but— “Look at that.” It fit pretty well in her knife sheath.
Juno jumped off the desk. “Mrow.”
“Hey, don’t you go anywhere.” She picked up the cat, heading for the wardrobe.
Juno leaped out of her arms in a smooth golden arc. “Mrow!”
“You don’t want me to carry you? Then walk in.” Bee held open the door.
Juno looked up at Bee. At the wardrobe. At Bee. At the half-open bookcase with stairs beyond. She turned and trotted out.
“Hey! Fred needs you.” Bee bolted after her. “Wait up—” She froze.
The attic was clean. Like, weird clean. No dust on the floor. No cobwebs.
“What’s going on?” she whispered.
An echo up the stairs: “Mrow. . . .”
“Juno!” Bee called, peering over the railing. She really didn’t want to go downstairs. The house sounded . . . weird. Not bad, but different. Strange. “Come here, cat.”
“Mrow,” Juno called, fainter.
Bee crept down the steps. “Juno, this is really irritating.” She had better things to do right now than chase a cat who wasn’t even hers. She reached the second floor hallway. “Hey, Juno—” She looked around. “What?”
The bedroom door stood open—the bedroom with dark furniture and the painting of young Miss Bother . . . But there wasn’t any furniture in the room. It was perfectly swept. Not a speck.
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