Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1)

by Maria C. Trujillo

  “I think you were trying to make a point about marriage.”

  “Yes …” She took another gulp of water. “Ginerva will not speak to me, so I am alone … except for you, sweet Viola,” she said, weaving her fingers through mine. “Marriages are for advantageous reasons only … money or connections.”

  “Zia, but I’m only fourteen! I’m too young to get married,” I protested. The conversation seemed so ridiculous. The pasta twisted in my gut at the thought of being married at such a young age.

  “That is beside the point. Giuliano Medici will marry a wealthy noble like his brother Lorenzo, who is engaged to Clarice Orsini.” She stood up and began to clean the plates and pots.

  Good for him, I thought with a sneer as I stood up to throw the smooth stones into the low fire. Who says I want to marry Giuliano... or anyone, for that matter? The idea of marriage felt light years away from me. All I wanted was to spend time with him. Maybe stare at him and dance with him. It would be dreamy to kiss him for a few seconds, minutes, or hours. After piling the stones back into the metal canister, I walked towards the stairs.

  “Before you sleep, I want you to think long and hard. Then ask yourself whether Giuliano’s intentions with you are honorable.” Her words must have not had the effect she was hoping for because before I could disappear up the last steps she added, “Think about poor Margherita too.” She had said it, the one phrase that would turn my dreams of romance into nightmares.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Surprise

  Florence was reborn when the clouds darkened and rain poured onto its stone surfaces. The city’s filth drifted away, leaving a new beginning. The air smelled crisper but the cold bit harder. By my feet I could feel the polished surface of rocks. Fumbling under the stiff sheets for Idan, I found it by my waist. Its hard shell was warm from my body heat. The tips of my fingers grazed the bumpy imprint Idan’s cover had left on my skin. Still groggy, I pried open my companion. I held Idan close to my face in the darkness.

  The arrow pointed to the rising sun but the numbers surrounding its opal center told me that today was December 22, 1479 and that I had eighteen days left. My spine straightened and I rubbed the grogginess out of my eyes before I looked and the numbers again. The words of the anonymous letter hung in my conscious. “Idan has a mind of its own.” Startled, I looked at its diamond case as if it were the first time I had seen it. Three days ago the remaining time had been thirty days and now there were only eighteen. Excitement that I had barely let myself feel bubbled up inside me. I would be home sooner than I thought.

  The day before Zia had found some old boots that belonged to her husband. Embarrassingly enough, they fit my gargantuan feet. After I slipped on the black boots, I walked downstairs, past the pantry, and through the door to the back alley. The makeshift wooden roof of Georgina’s roost protected her rusty feathers from stray raindrops. It turned out that chickens were a smelly business but on this early morning, the air was fresh. It felt good to take in the grey break of day. The slope of the roof above created an opaque curtain of raindrops. Water splashed onto the boots’ pebbled leather. Outside, it was still and quiet. My eyes closed as I tried to imagine Ginerva and Antonio exchanging notes of longing in the alley.

  “Lovely morning for a swim.” The sound of the unexpected voice almost made me jump out of my skin. “Just now, your face was priceless,” laughed Leonardo.

  “What do you expect, creeping out of the shadows of a dark alley in the rain?”

  “I wanted to see you if you were really keeping a cow back here.” He smiled. “Speaking of rain, let’s go inside, I’m frozen.”

  Once inside, Leonardo hovered by the stove until a flame sparked while I rummaged through the pantry. We were silent while we prepared breakfast together.

  “I have something for you,” he said as I stirred the milk.

  “What is it?” I turned my head. He had taken off his hooded cloak, and I could see a rough leather-bound notebook wedged between his arm and brown tunic.

  “My sketchbook.”

  “Wow! Things are getting personal. Next thing you know you’ll be hanging a garland of flowers on my street,” I teased.

  “Ha, ha,” he mocked. “Very clever. How long have you been waiting to say that?”

  “Centuries.”

  “Let’s get back to business,” he said, preparing his toast with more honey. “Yesterday, before we ran into Sandro, you said perhaps you have too many secrets … So here I am, bright and early, to lighten your load. I even brought a peace offering.” He held up the book and then let its weight fall onto the table. After finishing my improvised tea of orange rinds and lemon juice, I sat down at the table and reached for the sketchbook. Leonardo blocked my hand before I could open it.

  “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he said.

  I thought about his proposal for a moment. Leonardo scratched at his chin. His beard was growing quickly. Here and there, red hairs clashed with the blonde and brown stubble.

  “That is hardly fair. You have already seen mine,” I pointed out.

  “Correction, I drew in your sketchbook. Which is not even close to what I am offering,” he defended, moving his sketchbook closer to his body. Looking into someone’s sketchbook was just as personal as looking into someone’s diary. Leonardo was offering me a glimpse into his soul.

  “Fine.” I returned in moments with my sketchbook.

  We both exchanged our most private possessions at the same time. After taking a sip of my citrus brew, I turned to a random page. The hot liquid that filled my mouth almost came rushing back out.

  “Leo! What is this?”

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing.” The page I had turned to had a series of different hand gestures. Everywhere in between was narrow but curvy scrawl. Bringing the notebook closer to my face, I tried to decipher the script but it was beyond my ability. The words flowed from right to left like Hebrew.

  “Is this Latin?”

  “Of course not! Latin is severely overrated and all those stuck up people who aim to make themselves seem better by speaking and writing it can't help themselves,” he said without looking up from the page he had flipped to. “If Tuscan was good enough for Dante, it is good enough for me.” His protective tone told me I had found a seriously soft spot.

  “Well, I can’t understand a single sentence.”

  “That makes the two of us.” The page Leonardo had turned to was a drawing of my boy-next-door crush, Louis Martin.

  This looks so stalker, I thought. It was one of several drawings I had done of him in A.P. English class. Any time he was in a one mile radius of me, my bones would go jelly-like and I became seriously stupid.

  “Did you admire him?”

  “What? Uh … no … I mean, why?”

  “Well, you took great care with this sketch and with all the other drawings of his face.” It was a good thing he could not read English. All around the sketches, I had professed my undying love for his caramel skin and black curly hair.

  “So what language is this?”

  “It’s English.”

  “So you’re from where exactly?” His face screwed up in confusion.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I answered. Leonardo drummed his fingers impatiently on the table.

  “You have said that before,” he groaned. “Try me.”

  “I have no way of knowing for sure, but I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you or anybody. It’s not about trust, I promise you.”

  “Fine, what did you want to talk about, then?”

  With no further delay, I told him about everything that had happened to me once I had fallen into the crowd in Piazza della Signoria. I told him how I had witnessed the execution and woken up in Giuliano’s arms. The story of what had happened i
n the study with Salai unraveled before I had a chance to stop myself. After I finished telling him about Idan being my key to getting back home, I sealed the explanation by sharing with him my feelings for Giuliano. Leonardo stared back at me blankly.

  “Speechless … This must be a first for you.”

  “I like that you’re smiling. I love those who can smile when they’re in trouble,” he said softly. “First thing I mean to do when we get to the workshop is punch Salai in his pretty face.”

  “Oh, so what you are really saying is that you want to turn Zia’s house into a pile of fire wood?” I asked sarcastically.

  “He’s all talk.”

  “All the same, I can’t take those kind of chances,” I insisted, gulping the last of my cold tea. “These are all secrets by the way. Just to make sure we are on the same page.”

  “Scouz ono.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It was what you said when you promised to trust me one day.”

  “Oh! You mean scout’s honor?” I smiled, repressing a giggle.

  “Yes … that. Are people always so obvious where you come from?” Rolling my eyes, I picked up the dirty dishes and placed them in the basin. “Now, about your sketchbook …” Leonardo cleared his throat.

  Bracing myself for the worst, I sat back down. “Have you tried drawing people or animals in motion?”

  After thinking about it, I realized I usually drew things that were steady. “If I have, I can’t remember right now. Why?”

  “In order to truly master drawing, painting, or sculpting, you need to be aware of all the muscles and bones of the human body and animals alike. Only through the study of how they work together to create motion will you perfect your skills. To this you must further associate yourself with how the muscles and skin clothe bones on bodies, young or old.” He leaned over the table and turned to a page in his notebook.

  “Look here.” The page he showed me was covered with micro studies of dogs fighting, walking, or running. On the opposite page was an anatomical drawing of a dog’s hind leg. “You are talented but you lack in naturalism.” He paused to see how I was taking his criticism, but I was too interested in what he was saying to care. “By rule, I like to work in solitude, but we could try some movement exercises together. It’s difficult but that is probably why it’s my favorite.” He moved to get a refill of milk. White drops hung from his budding mustache as he continued his lecture. “It is my belief that every great artist should carry a notebook around so as to draw what is happening around him.”

  “Or her,” I corrected.

  “Yes. For example, what do you think I was doing at the execution?”

  “Hopefully not because you like that sort of thing,” I said.

  “No, I was sketching.”

  “You were what?”

  “I was drawing her fear, her body, the tension of the rope around her neck, the life escaping from her … Do not look at me like that! Honestly, the way I remember her is much more wholesome than many old women crushing her in between rosary beads.”

  “I guess,” I consented, recalling Signora Rossi’s harsh words of judgment.

  “Well you could hardly carry that beast with you all day,” I said, gesturing toward his thick sketchbook.

  “That is what this is for,” he said as he withdrew a thin notebook the same size of his hand. “Sometimes when I am walking, I see an interesting face and before I know it I have a pencil in my hand and I’ve spent the whole day following that face.”

  “That sounds kind of creepy,” I teased.

  “Said the girl with pages covered with drawings of the same boy?”

  “Well played,” I surrendered.

  Suddenly, there was a light knock at the door. From the window I could see a flurry of red hair. Opening the door I could see Giulia’s flustered face with two babies in her arms. One was Luca and the other must have been her little girl.

  “Buongiorno, Viola, is Zia up yet?”

  “Not yet, should I wake her?”

  “If you don’t mind watching Luca for an hour there is no need to wake her. I need to go to the market early and I need at least one free arm. My husband forgot to tell me he had found a good day’s work in the quarries.” Not waiting for me to answer she moved close to my chest and I made a nest with my arms. Little Luca was sleeping soundly. “I just fed him, so he should be no trouble. I will be back very soon!”

  “Who was that?” asked Leonardo as I sat down at the table. It felt so nice to hold Luca close to my body. He smelled like soap and his little hand was so soft.

  “A neighbor … Leonardo, you still haven’t explained your writing,” I added, giving him a pointed glance.

  “Well, I write in my own kind of shorthand because I have ideas and inventions in there that I would rather keep to myself.” The soft tap of Zia’s footsteps descended the staircase. “Also, since I am left handed, it is less messy to write from right to left,” he explained, taking the last bite of his toast.

  “Leonardo?” Zia squinted at the bottom of the stairs. “You are here before the sun! If you continue to walk Viola home at such a late hour, which I don’t approve of, I will start making up a bed for—”

  A knock on the door interrupted Zia’s speech. It was still rather early and Zia’s expression told me she was just as surprised as I was at the unexpected sound.

  “Who in the world?” Peering out the window, I tried to make out who it was but they were standing too close to the door. “What are you doing with Luca?” asked Zia amidst the confusion.

  “Giulia had to run to the market. She will be back soon,” I assured her as I carefully passed her the baby.

  “Don’t, Viola! You are not dressed!” she urged, but my hand was already on the door handle.

  When it flew open I suddenly became aware of the old boots, tangled hair, oversized green sweater and semi-transparent gown I was wearing. There stood Giuliano in all his glory—his black cape lined with soft brown fur. The red tunic underneath blazed against the shadows of his cloak. I must have looked wild as we both stood speechless in the doorframe.

  “Who is it, dear?” Zia’s voice cracked from within.

  “Buongiorno,” I said, finding my voice.

  “Buongiorno, Lady Viola.” He nodded.

  “Again, you surprise me,” I said, signaling towards my dress.

  “You look lovely,” he said before Zia tiptoed behind me to catch a glimpse of our visitor.

  “Signorino Medici! Please, please, come in!”

  “Pardon my intrusion, Zia Cioni. I hope I did not wake you.”

  “Not at all, young sir.” She signaled to him with her full arms to come into the house.

  “I came in the hopes of escorting Viola to your nephew’s workshop,” he explained, stepping across the threshold with his chest held high.

  “What a wonderful notion. It’s just that my nephew’s pupil Leonardo arrived earlier with that exact same design,” said Zia.

  Giuliano had just noticed Leonardo, who respectfully stood up. “I have been beaten to it. I don’t believe we have met before,” he said, extending his hand to Leonardo.

  “We have not. Leonardo da Vinci.”

  “Of course, I have heard of your exceptional talent.”

  “Thank you,” said Leonardo, squeezing his hand.

  “Shall we all walk together?” I suggested.

  Neither looked excited about being a third wheel. Taking their silence as a yes, I flew upstairs and squeezed myself into a stiff gray dress and swapped the boots for my sneakers.

  They were both waiting outside. Zia raised her eyebrows at my loose hair. Before we left, she passed me her embroidered shawl as a polite reminder. At first our walk was quiet. Even pigeons were scarce. Ice lodged itself un
der my nails and in the cracks of my lips. The air was sharp. Rearranging the stole around my neck, I tried to take short breaths.

  “Are your hands cold?” asked Giuliano.

  “Very,” I admitted.

  “Here,” he offered, prying the fine leather gloves off his hands.

  “I couldn’t! Really, then your hands would be cold and I would feel bad.”

  “I have other pairs … I insist.”

  “I do too,” I persisted.

  He seemed a little disappointed. For one reason or another I did not want to take anything from him. The seed of doubt that my friends had planted was growing. Angst pulsed against my ribcage.

  “What’s that you have hanging around your neck?” asked Giuliano, pointing to Idan.

  I had forgotten to tuck Idan underneath my dress in my rush to leave the house. I tried to look casually at Leonardo but he was completely lost in his own reflections. Just like his older brother, he made a grab for it, but I beat him to it.

  “Oh this? It’s a family heirloom. The only thing left I have from my parents,” I softened my voice to make it sound more convincing.

  “But what … is it?” he stressed.

  “It’s a compass.”

  “Interesting family heirloom.”

  Usually I considered myself pretty good at reading people. On the subway ride to school I would glance at the familiar or strange faces of commuters and try to make out their lives through the clues they wore or what dangled from their bodies. The tightness in his beautiful smile seemed insincere.