by K. C. Dyer
Darrell nodded. “Me, too. But until we know how to get home, I think we have to concentrate on finding the route back.” She lay down, the straw in the pallet whispering beneath her. “What do you remember about getting here?”
“I remember walking down the stairs in the lighthouse, and then suddenly it felt like I was hauled through a tornado and kicked in the head.
“Yeah, I can relate.” Darrell sat up. “The return journey must start from the small stable, Kate. We need to look through there tomorrow and see what we can find.”
There was a puff of cool air and the tiny candle guttered and died. The door behind them creaked and a small, dark shadow crept into the room, panting. Darrell gasped and then felt a wet nose on her hand.
“Delaney! You scared us,” she scolded, stroking him all the same. “And you smell a bit too much like stable,” she added, wrapping her blanket around her shoulders. Delaney flopped to the floor beside her pallet and curled nose to tail. His presence comforted her, but even after the exhausting events of the day, it was a long time before sleep finally crept in and stole her thoughts away.
The girls awakened early, but were waylaid en route to the stable by the cheerful housekeeper. When they had been introduced to her the day before, she had exclaimed in delight at the sight of two extra pairs of hands to help with her labours.
“Even young ladies must learn the secrets of running a household,” she had proclaimed. In the cool air of the new morning, Federica brought them to the kitchens, fed them a breakfast of a loaf of stale bread with a bowl of creamy milk to soften it, and put them to work. She chatted merrily the whole time but kept a stern eye on the assigned tasks. She shook her head and pursed her lips upon learning Kate’s name.
“Katerina — and with red hair, too.” She bent her head close to Darrell’s. “You must carry the food into Leonardo for lunch today, Dara. He will throw the food in fury, otherwise.”
“Why is that?”
Federica’s smile was sad. “Leonardo’s own mother was a maid, young as yourselves when she took up with his father. She came of poor stock, though, and even after the baby came he refused to marry her.”
Kate’s face flushed. “What do you mean, poor stock? You make it sound like she was one of the farm animals. And why is it only her fault about the baby?”
Federica clucked her tongue. “She showed little more wisdom than an animal, taking up with that man without benefit of the lord’s blessing on the union.” She reached over and patted Kate’s arm kindly, softening her tone and leaving a trace of flour on Kate’s freckled skin. “He has married another woman now, and Leonardo has legitimate brothers and sisters, heirs to their father’s name.”
“What happened to Leonardo’s mother?” Kate prompted.
Federica shook her head disapprovingly. “The young maid Katerina — she found greener pastures and left Leonardo in care of his father.”
“That is so sad,” said Kate, and Federica nodded her agreement.
“Sad, yes, and I fear that it broke young Leonardo’s heart. He will have nothing to do with women, as a rule, and it certainly will stir his emotions to find a flame-haired Katerina in the house.”
“I’ll stay right out of his way,” promised Kate.
Darrell shrugged. “I’ve already met him, and your story explains a few things to me, Federica. I’ll take his lunch in — though he’d probably be better off learning to get it himself.”
Relief from their labours did not come until late morning, when Giovanni arrived, towing Brodie. Brodie grinned broadly at the sight of the two girls wrapped in aprons and dusty with flour.
“Now that we have completed our work soaking the clay, my grandfather has sent word that I am to bring these girls and my cousin Bruno to come before him,” he told Federica, with a disdainful glance at Darrell and Kate. Puzzled, yet grateful for the reprieve, the girls slipped out of their aprons. Dusting flour off each other’s skirts, they trailed behind the boys. The kitchens were actually made up of three separate rooms where different elements of food preparation were undertaken, and Darrell’s face was bright red from working in the stifling room where the bread was baked in a wood stove. Kate had spent most of her time in the scullery, washing dishes in a large stone sink, before coming to help knead bread.
“Why do I always end up scrubbing things?” Kate whispered to Darrell.
“At least it wasn’t floors,” Darrell replied with a grin. She thought of Kate’s red hands after her week as a scullery maid at Ainslie Castle, and she felt sure Kate remembered the experience just as vividly.
The large area behind the house held a number of small buildings, including the stable, enclosed by a high stone fence. Giovanni led them to a small structure, not much bigger than the stable.
“This is my grandfather’s villa,” he said in a formal tone. “He asked me to leave you here.” He knocked sharply on the door twice and then swung it open. His eyes gleamed a vivid blue against the brown skin of his face. “Enjoy your conversation. My grandfather is anxious to meet you. And now,” he said with a stiff nod, “I must return to my work.” He walked off toward the main house, casting a curious glance over his shoulder before disappearing through the door.
They stepped inside and were ushered into a darkened room by an ancient woman as curled over as a comma and dressed entirely in black. It took a moment for Darrell’s eyes to adjust from the brilliant day outside.
“I hope you don’t mind the darkness. My old eyes don’t enjoy the Tuscan sunlight any longer.” The voice, resonant and low, drew them into the room. A man stood in one corner, leaning on an intricately carved wooden cane with a round, gold handle. He was not dressed in the same formal manner as the other men of the household, but wore black leggings, a simple white collarless shirt, and what looked like a grey travelling cloak flung over his shoulders.
“I’m so glad you found time to come,” he said, and reached out to grasp Brodie by the hand. Striding to Kate without a trace of a limp, he swept her hand to his lips and smiled. “Keep courage, Katerina,” he said quietly as she withdrew her hand and looked at him with puzzlement.
He turned to Darrell and she found her hand held fast in his cool, dry grasp. “Be seated,” he commanded of Kate and Brodie without taking his eyes off Darrell. They sat obediently, side by side on a small, ornately embroidered sofa that was stuffed with some kind of coarse, straw-coloured hair that poked through the threadbare fabric. Darrell remained on her feet and stared curiously at the old man.
He smiled, but held Darrell’s hand with an iron grip. “My name is Christofo Clemente and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance at last. Your leg must be terribly painful after standing all morning on that dreadful thing,” he said softly, pointing his stick in the direction of the wooden prosthesis, completely hidden under her heavy skirts. “Please sit.”
She nodded and perched on the edge of the chair he indicated. Her hands dropped into her lap, and she was aware only distantly that her fingers were suddenly cold after the heat of the kitchens. The old man slid into a chair that nestled behind a small desk in the corner.
The air felt heavy in the shuttered room and any noise from the rest of the household was muted and distant. Senor Clemente carefully propped his walking stick against the wall and placed both his hands flat on the desktop.
After what seemed like an hour of silence, he spoke. “Your time here will be very short, and we must make the best use of it we are able.” He leaned forward with a secret smile. “I understand you go by the name Dara while you — visit — here?”
Darrell nodded again, wondering.
“I have reason to believe you may have a better understanding than I of what the future may hold,” he said in a low voice. “But I have lived long years on this earth and I have learned much. Let us see what we may learn together, shall we?”
Darrell shook her head. “I — I don’t understand.”
His smile deepened. “You have had your future foretold
before, young Dara?”
Darrell’s thoughts flew to Luke and his Auntie Eileen in a time and place so far from this one. “Not really, sir,” she managed to reply. “But...”
“Then you will not mind sharing your palm with me just this once?” he said, his voice resonant and low.
Darrell shot a look at Kate, whose expression showed her struggle between curiosity and the need to get away. Naturally, being Kate, curiosity won. She smiled her approval.
Brodie nodded from his seat, but his face was troubled and he leaned forward as though ready to leap at any moment to Darrell’s rescue.
The old man reached over and with a flip of his hand cast open one of the mahogany shutters above his desk. A single beam of morning sun shot into the room, making Darrell’s eyes water.
She looked down at her hands, now clasped loosely in her lap. In spite of the sunbeam, the temperature in the room seemed to drop, and she watched the hair on her arms rise and turn her skin to gooseflesh. For the first time, Darrell lifted her gaze and looked into his eyes. She felt a strange shock of recognition as pools of deep, clear blue looked back at her, without a sign of age or infirmity to be detected in their depths. Luke’s eyes! Who was this man? And how could he share the eyes of a boy from another century?
“It is a matter of but a moment, my girl.” He reached down and lifted her hand into the beam of mote-filled sunlight and turned her palm upward. With one finger he traced the blue veins pulsing at her wrist and then drew her fingers well back to better see her palm.
His smile faded. After less than a minute’s scrutiny, he carefully folded her fingers over her palm and squeezed her hand.
“What did you see?” demanded Darrell.
His expression remained serious. He paused a moment and shook his head.
“What does it mean?” cried Kate. “Is it bad news?”
He chuckled and nodded kindly at Kate. “The palm doesn’t give news, mia cara. It but gives pictures of possible futures, of things that might be.”
“Or things that may not?” asked Darrell.
He met her steady gaze with his own. “You show a wisdom beyond your few years, piccolina,” he said in a low voice. “And rather than paint pictures for you of what may or may not happen, let me tell you something your hand did not show me.”
Darrell’s mouth felt dry. “What do you mean?” she muttered.
Still holding her hand, the aged man bowed his head. His voice was the merest whisper.
“Hear me well. I know things with you are not as they would seem, and your time here is brief. Know this. Time does not forgive. It has no mercy. It befriends no one but death and is a twisted ally. When you dance with time, there is always a price to be paid.”
He gazed pointedly down at the wooden peg supporting Darrell’s leg. “Please God you have paid enough already.” He grasped his cane and stood, and turned on his heel more nimbly than Darrell would have thought possible.
“I’d like you to have this, mia cara,” he said, and placed the cane in Darrell’s hands.
Darrell opened her mouth to decline but a glimpse of his eyes told her protests would be useless. “It’s very beautiful,” she whispered, gazing at the strange animals carved into the rich surface. “Thank you.”
His hand was steady as he gestured toward the door. The tiny woman saw them out, her toothless mouth an empty moon of a smile.
As she reached the door, Darrell turned to look at the figure, still standing by his desk.
“Why did you want to see us if you could tell us so little?” she asked.
“An old man’s indulgence,” he answered, and his smile was sad. “It is important, when one is ready to move on, to know life will continue to flourish.” He raised his hand in a mute gesture of farewell, and she never saw him again.
Leonardo’s voice was the first thing Darrell heard as they stepped into the sunlit garden.
“Bruno, have you the sketch you promised Verrocchio?”
Brodie gave Darrell a quick wink. “It’s right here,” he said, pulling it out of his pocket with a flourish. “Sorry, it is a bit creased. I think Kate sat on it.”
Leonardo reached to take the sketch but stopped with his hand in the air.
“Who sat on it?” he asked coldly.
Kate rolled her eyes. “I did not, Bro — Bruno.” She looked at Leonardo. “He’s teasing me,” she explained.
Leonardo’s lip curled and he turned his back on Kate to examine the sketch Darrell had drawn of the view from her window earlier that morning. Keeping his back to Kate, he spoke to Brodie. “You must come to show Verrocchio. He will be very pleased with your abilities.”
Darrell spoke hastily, visions of Brodie’s actual artistic ability in her mind. “He has promised to help us in la cucina until lunch.”
“Help you in la cucina?” Leonardo laughed. “That is work fit only for women,” he paused to glower at Kate, “and servants.” He grabbed Brodie’s arm. “Come with me now. I want you to show me how you make the casa in the background look so distant.”
Brodie caught Darrell’s frantic look. “I will follow you right away, Leonardo,” he said. “But I have forgotten my chalk. I cannot draw without my own chalk.”
“Very well then.” Leonardo turned on his heel. “I will tell the master you are on your way.”
“That was a close one,” hissed Darrell as the door closed behind the young artist. “Look, Brodie, I think you need to suffer a serious hand-related injury right now. Your reputation as a great art student will go right downhill if they see how you really draw.”
Brodie looked alarmed. “What do you mean by serious?” he asked.
Darrell laughed. “Wait here. I saw some rags in the kitchen that should do the trick.” She ran into the kitchen, the walking stick making every step seem easier, and grabbed what she needed before the cook had time to turn around.
Darrell worked quickly on Brodie’s hand. “Now don’t forget. Federica told me everyone has a big lunch here and then a riposino in the hot hours of the afternoon.”
“Okay.” He nodded. “So while everyone is napping we can meet in the stable and look for the route back through to the lighthouse near Eagle Glen.”
Kate nodded her agreement, and in moments Brodie’s hand was bandaged with a rag, bloody from the remains of a chicken that had been slaughtered in preparation for the evening meal. His lip curling, Brodie headed inside to tell the master of his unfortunate accident with a kitchen knife.
“That was really gross.” Kate chuckled.
“Gross, but as realistic as I could manage on short notice,” said Darrell, dunking her bloody hands in a wooden bucket of water left beside the kitchen garden. “Hopefully they’ll give him a job that will let him hide his true talent for now.”
“Ragazze!” Federica’s voice came bawling from the kitchen. “Girls! Where are you? I need you to help me with the pranzo.”
Darrell shrugged. “It’s only until after lunch,” she promised Kate as they made their way back into the cucina to help prepare the midday meal.
“Federica tells me you want your lunch in here,” Darrell said, as she set down a tray in front of Leonardo.
He grinned at her and smacked the table, making her jump a little. “Ha! Glad to see you doing the work you are meant for. Over here, beside me — and make it fast.” Darrell’s face burned. How could the artist who had produced so many beautiful things have been a young man like this? She moved the tray as requested and headed for the door, reminding herself that he didn’t have the benefit of a twenty-first-century education.
She stepped over to the table and looked down at the sketches he had set to one side depicting a vicious-looking beast, fire leaping from its mouth.
“These sketches are wonderful,” she admitted. “It looks like you have taken the body of a lion and added the head of a serpent, or perhaps a lizard.”
“Yes, and the hind legs are actually those of a squirrel I found dead in the garden. I copied the
shape of them and then lengthened them to resemble the legs of a horse,” he responded, a note of pride in his voice. “This sketch is meant for the image on the shield I showed you earlier.”
Leonardo walked around the table, his voice distant, as though lost in thought. “My father thinks he will get something any stupid farm boy could draw, but I will make him a masterpiece. Then we shall see what he thinks of the ‘low arts,’ as he calls them.”
Darrell looked at him quizzically. “You sound so angry,” she ventured. “But didn’t your father arrange for you to learn art from Master Verrocchio?”
“Only for a year, until he can buy me a commission in the army. He thinks this is an easy way to keep me quiet and out of his hair.” For the first time, Leonardo grinned, and he took Darrell roughly by the arm. “If you think these are good, wait until you see the finished result.”
He whisked her over to a small closet and from the recesses drew out a large package wrapped in rough sacking. He pulled the sacking aside and Darrell gasped. It was the beast from the sketches, painted in magnificent colour upon the surface of a shield.
“This will show him,” Leonardo crowed. “He will see I am more than just a bastard son and know I am meant for more than life as a soldier or a notary.”
Darrell nodded and headed for the door.
“Wait!” he barked, and she was forced to turn around. “What are you hiding?”
Darrell flushed. “What do you mean?”
He made an impatient move with his hands. “What are you hiding?” he repeated, and clarified, “In the stable.”
“There are horses in the stable,” she muttered, trying to sidle out of the room.
“Don’t be stupid. There have been no horses in Verrocchio’s small stable for years. What do you have in there that is not a horse?” He looked at her craftily. “You seem to be full of secrets, just like Giovanni’s crazy grandfather. Perhaps I should take you back to him in his dark, foul casa. He would make you tell me.”
“No — no. Don’t do that.” Darrell’s thoughts raced. She didn’t want anyone in the stable this afternoon, most particularly this arrogant young artist. “I’ll tell you. It’s my dog. I know he is not welcome in the casa, so I keep him out there.”