‘Ah, but we called at your house already and your servants told us they had no idea where you had gone. We were prepared to comb every street in Florence for you, if need be.’
The godling glanced over his shoulder to his companions, as if to elicit their agreements. They chorused their assent, bowing in a swirl of colour and shine. Could such a sight ever be captured in paint, such an unnatural rainbow? Isabella noticed that all the assistants, too, clustered in the doorway, watching in avid, awed silence. And who could ever blame them? It was not every day a fantasy burst into real life. Isabella found herself utterly bemused, a nigh permanent state since she rode through the Gate of Fortune into this magic city.
‘And what was of such vast import, my lord, that you had to rush about in such a state to find me?’ Caterina said, her voice edged with teasing laughter. ‘Surely we will meet tomorrow, if not here, then at the festival.’
‘Not soon enough.’ He stepped closer, the bells on his green velvet shoes singing, and took up Caterina’s hand, pressing a soft kiss to her very fingertips. Those fingers did not tremble now. ‘We have come to solicit your approval for a new scheme.’
‘A new scheme?’ Caterina gave him a tender smile, her eyes half-closed, but her hand she gently withdrew from his clasp. ‘What is it this time? Nay, wait, before you tell me, you must meet my cousin. I shall want to hear her thoughts on your—scheme.’
Caterina turned away from him with a soft whisper of her gown, her gaze searching out Isabella. Thus Isabella found herself drawn from her world of semi-shadows, silent observation, upwards towards the sun. With no wings at all. ‘Isabella Spinola is my kinswoman, who has come to Florence to be my dear friend,’ Caterina said, taking Isabella’s hand in hers. Caterina’s skin was cold.
Up close, the god was even more intimidating than at a safe distance. His flesh was perfectly smooth, touched with a faint golden cast; his dark eyes sparked and deflected, like black ice in winter.
They surveyed Isabella closely, yet gave no hint of a reaction in return.
‘And this, Isabella,’ Caterina said, still that faint mischief, that tease, in her tone, ‘is the most amusing clown in all Florence. Giuliano de Medici.’
‘Alas, Caterina, you wound me!’ Giuliano clasped his hand over his heart, stumbling back a step as if pierced by an arrow tip. ‘You will give your fair cousin the wrong idea of me. I assure you, Signorina Spinola—it is signorina, is it not?—that I am only ever your kinswoman’s most devoted servant. I “clown” only to see her smile.’
‘And obviously you do succeed, Signor Giuliano,’ Isabella assured him. ‘You see how she smiles now, yet seeks to hide it?’
‘I dare say you are right!’ Giuliano exclaimed. ‘I definitely see a dimple, just there. So, I cannot be so useless as all that.’
An edge of bitterness had crept into his charming laughter, but Caterina merely flicked her pale jewelled hand at him, as if in dismissal. ‘I never said you were useless. No man who writes such fine poetry could ever be of no use to a lady. Do you not agree, Isabella?’
‘Indeed,’ Isabella assured hastily. ‘Why, you are spoken of even in my home in the country, signor. Your fame is so very great.’ And that was true. Her father’s visiting scholar friends did speak of this younger Medici, the brother or Lorenzo, Il Magnifico, yet what they said spoke of his love of fashion, art—and beautiful women. Of how he seemed to take no part of the business and commerce of the city, of his family’s banking interests.
Her words seemed to please him, though; for he laughed and said, ‘I think I shall like this cousin of yours, Caterina!’
‘That is very well, for she is going to stay with me for a long time to come,’ Caterina answered. ‘And you will find her here with me every day, as she loves art as I do.’
‘Indeed?’ Giuliano said, a spark of interest in those black-ice eyes. ‘Surely I would have expected no less from any relative of Caterina. Tell me, Signorina Spinola, what do you think of our Botticelli’s work?’
Isabella hesitated, glancing over her shoulder to find Signor Botticelli standing near one of his easels, his muscled arms crossed over his paint-splashed chest. He watched their group carefully, gauging, weighing, as if they were mere objects to be committed to canvas or panel. A sum of parts—arms, legs, hair, eyes, ready to be transformed into a translucent Madonna, a goddess, a spirit, a tortured saint.
A wave of shyness struck Isabella, almost nauseating in its chill. Who was she to speak of this art in front of them? How could she even find words to stammer out? All she had were emotions, overwhelming feelings and longings. Longings that came out so strongly when she thought of her green-eyed rescuer.
Her eyes suddenly prickled behind her lashes and she feared she might cry.
Fool! she thought fiercely. Fool. Not here, not now.
Caterina seemed to sense her distress, or something of it, for she took Isabella’s hand in hers and said, ‘How can she say, when she has scarcely even seen Alessandro’s work? He was about to show her his new scene, when you came bursting in like some wild bravos. Why don’t we walk over there while Isabella examines the paintings and you can tell me your great secret?’
Giuliano led Caterina away, his friends tumbling behind them. Isabella was glad of the sudden quiet, the space that opened up around her. She wandered in the other direction, away from the echo of laughter. She took in the canvases stacked along the walls, the swirl of colour and beauty that was almost too much to bear. She found herself behind a screen, with a table laid out before her that was grander than any banquet.
Clear jars and pots held chunks of minerals, swirls of dyes—ochre, greenish-brown underwashes, vermilion, purple, priceless lapis, even flakes of pure, shining gold. All waiting there, just for her, like a box of jewels.
As she drew closer, her breath held, she saw the piles of brushes in all sizes, the charcoal sticks and planes of poplar for stretching canvases. Everything an artist could want, everything so hard to find in her country home, all in one place. It was amazing.
Isabella leaned over a selection of valuable crushed-insect pigments, envisioning the sheer veil on Signor Botticelli’s painting. What could be used to create such an effect?
‘You are an artist, then, signorina?’ a deep, quiet voice said behind her.
Isabella gasped and spun around, half expecting to see one of the artist’s assistants come to demand how she, a mere female, could be caught snooping about. Her mouth opened to explain herself, but the words suddenly strangled in her throat. The man before her was not like any of the pale young apprentices she had seen running around the studio.
If he was a man and not an angel. For there he was again, the man who had saved her from the thieves the day she arrived. And she had begun to think he must have been a figment of her imagination!
But, no. He was as beautiful as she remembered, transcendentally so, but she saw right away the comparison to an angel was not apt. The darkness that she had glimpsed when he fought the thieves, the darkness that had frightened and thrilled her in equal measure, was still there.
He looked like a Hades, sailing the dusky waters of the Styx towards his shadowy kingdom. He was tall and lean, with dark brown curls brushed back from the perfectly sculpted, almost harsh angles of his face. His eyes, green and unreadable, stared down at her, but reflected nothing back. She was used to reading people as she sketched them, trying to find the essence of them to give life to her paintings, but this man was completely baffling.
Unlike Giuliano de Medici and his merry band of friends, this man again wore black. A black-velvet doublet, narrow-sleeved and high-necked, trimmed with the moonlight glint of silver. Black hose, soft black boots. An onyx set in silver dangled from his ear, tangling with those dark curls.
Was he really a mirage, a spirit come to drag her down to the afterlife? Hades, that was surely who he
was, the dark king of the underworld.
But then he smiled at her and she knew he was no illusion. He was all too real.
‘We have met before, signor,’ she said hoarsely. ‘You did me a great service.’
‘I did only what any gentleman would have done for a lady. Forgive me, signorina, but I thought I knew all the artists in Florence,’ he said, giving her a small half smile that only seemed to increase his beauty and mystery. ‘Only an artist could look so enthralled by brushes.’
‘What makes you think I am an artist?’ Isabella said, intrigued. ‘I could be an artist’s assistant, sent on an errand for pigments and brushes.’
‘A most devoted servant, then.’ He gestured towards her hand, the charcoal streaks on her skin that could never completely wash away.
She laughed ruefully and tucked her hand into the folds of her skirt. The dark avenger of their first meeting was gone and now he was all light banter. Her head spun with confusion. ‘I’m an amateur only, signor, though I hope to learn more while I’m here.’
‘And what is it you wish to learn? Better things than what greeted your arrival, I hope.’ He leaned on the edge of the screen, his arms crossed carelessly over his chest. He watched her closely, seemingly truly curious.
It made her feel uncomfortable—that steady gaze of his from such endlessly green eyes made her feel like she couldn’t quite catch her breath. She looked away, back to the array of brushes, but she could still feel him watching her.
What was it she wanted to learn? Everything, she wanted to cry out. Everything Signor Botticelli knew, so she could capture this man’s beauty on canvas and never lose it.
‘I wish to—to—’ she said, then broke off, suddenly dizzy. Dizzy from the whirl of sights and smells, from this man’s intoxicating presence. He had only said a few words to her, yet she was alarmingly fascinated. She pressed her hand to her spinning head.
‘Are you weary from your journey to Florence?’ he asked, all his teasing and smiles gone. He made a movement towards her, so close she could smell the light, warm scent of his citrus cologne. She instinctively took a step back and he stopped.
‘I was weary when my cousin insisted we come here,’ she answered, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. That seemed like the only safe way to watch him. ‘It’s a long journey and I’m not quite accustomed to riding such distances. And—well, you know what happened when I arrived. But somehow, when I came through the gates of Florence and saw everything that was here, that weariness was gone. It’s all so astonishing, not like anything at home.’
She had no idea why she would confide in him, a stranger, like that. Unless he really could cast enchanted spells. But he just smiled at her, so gentle. ‘Truly, signorina, there is no time to be weary in Florence.’
‘None at all.’ Isabella laughed and had the sudden, insane urge to twirl around and around, to take in everything, every palazzo, every fountain, every person, and hug them close to her. Especially this man. This man, with his unfathomable gaze and the dark beauty that was unlike anything she had ever seen before. ‘To sleep would mean to miss something! Surely there’s more here than could be seen in one lifetime.’
He laughed, a deep, dark chuckle that made her think of fires on cold winter nights. Of spiced wine and all warm, summer-bright things, despite his black attire. ‘You have decided all that already, signorina? Most people do take a lifetime to absorb even one tiny ounce of this city. Of what it all means.’
‘It’s true that I have a great deal to learn. But I think I’ve now seen the greatest sight in all Florence,’ she said, feeling the strangest urge to tease him a bit. To make him laugh again.
He tilted his head as he watched her curiously. ‘The Ponte Vecchio? The dome of the cathedral?’
‘Nay, though I’m sure those are beautiful. I’ve seen something everyone, especially ladies, would appreciate.’
His dark brow arched. ‘Is that so?’
‘Yes. I have seen a real artist’s studio, where beauty is created.’ Or where beauty, like his own, was merely reflected.
He did laugh again and she had to laugh with him. ‘Then I was right. You are an artist.’
‘Not a true artist. Just a dabbler.’ Isabella thought of the paintings on Caterina’s walls. ‘I don’t have the elevated tastes some possess. But I do love art. It’s been my friend for as long as I can remember. Colour, line, shape—they dance in my mind and won’t leave me alone.’
Her laugh turned nervous as she realized she was confiding her deepest self to this Hades. There was something in his eyes that seemed to draw it out of her. She turned away again, studying the pigments in their jars. ‘You must think me addled, signor. I fear I have little courtly polish yet.’
‘I hope you may never gain it, then, fair signorina,’ he said suddenly, intensely. She glanced back to him, startled, to see his eyes were very dark. ‘Florence is filled with polished ladies, as hard as diamonds. Ladies who always guard their thoughts. Who laugh so carefully, and sigh, and never speak of what they truly love. What they really find vital in life.’
‘And art is vital,’ she murmured, captivated by his sudden passionate words.
‘Everyone here speaks of art, buys and sells it, but who really feels its essence deep in their souls? Who sees that it’s more than mere fashion, more than a superficial beauty? More than base politics.’
‘Yes. It is life,’ Isabella whispered. Life—what she saw now in his eyes, sparkling and fizzing as a fine wine.
‘Exactly. And you can see it here, if you look deep enough.’
She felt something tug deep inside of her, a shimmering, unknown filament that connected her to this stranger. ‘I do think that—’
‘Isabella!’ Caterina suddenly called, just beyond the screen. ‘Where are you? We must return home soon!’
‘Coming, Caterina!’ she called, instinctively turning towards the sound. When she turned back around, her Hades was gone, vanished as if he had never been there at all. She almost thought she had imagined him, yet a faint trace of citrus cologne hung in the warm air.
Who was he? Would she ever see him again?
‘Coming, Caterina,’ she called again. As she left her haven behind the screen, she felt like Lot’s wife, her entire being straining to look back, to find that man again, to talk to him more. But there was only the real-life world, the crowded room of swirling colours and hurrying assistants. Paradise closed to her. But surely she would find him again? Surely Caterina would know who he was?
Clinging to that thought, she hurried to join her cousin and all of Caterina’s laughing, jostling friends.
* * *
Orlando stood hidden in the window embrasure, watching the lady hurry away. A veil was drawn over her glossy dark hair, concealing most of her profile from him, but he remembered exactly how she looked. The light of wonder in her wide eyes. The soft hesitation of her smile, which when it came made it seem like the sun had emerged. He had to know who she was, where she had come from, for surely it was from a different world than the hidden darkness of Florence. He had not been able to think of anything but her since they parted in that courtyard.
There was a flurry of movement in the studio behind him, the quick whiff of paint, and Signor Botticelli appeared beside Orlando to peer down at the street.
‘A most interesting young lady,’ Botticelli said musingly. ‘She seems most appreciative of art.’
Orlando laughed wryly. She had indeed seemed appreciative. More than that, awestruck. ‘Who in Florence does not appreciate art, my friend? They keep you very busy, decorating their chapels and palazzi.’
Botticelli shrugged. ‘To impress their friends. But a true love of beauty...’
Orlando remembered how the dark-haired lady had studied the array of brushes and tools with a rapt absorption most Florentine women gav
e to velvets and ribbons. She was truly intriguing. ‘Is rare.’
‘And she is a beauty herself,’ Botticelli said. ‘Of a most unusual sort. I’d like to paint her. Mayhap as Artemis of the hunt. Perhaps she will return here soon. Shall I send you word if she does come back, Signor Landucci?’
Orlando glanced up to find the artist smiling at him and he suddenly felt like a schoolboy being teased for an unrequited passion. ‘Why should you do that?’
‘You liked her, did you not? I haven’t seen you look at a lady thus since the brightest days of the fair Lucretia.’
Orlando stared back down at the street. His dark-haired lady was long gone, swallowed up in the crowds of market-goers with their baskets on their arms, servants bearing bundles and bolts of fabric, bravos looking for trouble, monks in their robes. She was no longer there, but he could still see her in his mind so clearly. Her glossy sable hair, her eyes so wide and shining with delight as she turned around and around, taking in all the beauty around her as if she would absorb it and make it part of herself.
He had lived so long amid the cynicism of Florence, the watchful stares, the whispered gossip and family quarrels, that her wonder had swept over him like the sweetest of summer breezes, clearing away the ugliness of everyday life.
He wanted to talk to her more, look at her and see if her sun-touched skin was as soft as it looked.
‘As you said,’ he murmured, ‘she is pretty in a most unusual way. You should paint her as a forest nymph.’
‘A most excellent idea,’ Botticelli said. ‘Dark and mysterious, dwelling in the shadows of the trees. And shall I tell you when she comes back here to model for me?’
Orlando turned his back on the life of the street, his arms crossed over his chest. ‘You can start by telling me her name and what she is doing here in Florence.’
‘Her name is Isabella,’ Botticelli said. ‘Cousin to the beauteous Caterina Strozzi, who was here with her.’
Betrayed by His Kiss Page 6