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tedious, with its case endings and strange verb forms. And Greek! My tutor once gave me a hint of the Greek lessons that were to follow when I would turn fourteen—enough to convince me that Greek is nothing short of cruel. I was glad when my tutor finally quit, declaring that students like me were the reason education is optional for noble girls.
    Still, I recognize this Latin poem now, because I’ve heard it before. Another man delivered it at noon in the Medici Chapel of the church of San Lorenzo, where the great Lorenzo is buried beside his brother Giuliano, who was assassinated before I was born.
    It’s a lament. The famous Poliziano wrote it. A Flemish composer made the music for it. It’s being recited all day long. And not just here. Funeral orations will be given throughout Italy all week, as the news of his death spreads—in the republics and kingdoms and princedoms, even in the papal states—Lorenzo was so important.
    Papà explained to me what this ode says: poetry and music have fallen silent now that the fine poet Lorenzo, the greatest patron of the arts ever, is dead. The claim is patently false, given that the ode itself is an example of both poetry and music.
    I abandon pretense and look around for anyone I know. Everyone is decked out, on display. Tables line the streets; feasting is part of the lamenting. And tournaments tomorrow, I’ve heard. This whole thing is like a party.
    Oh, I know the people sincerely mourn Lorenzo. He held theatrical performances and circuses in the streets. He fed the crowds at long banquet tables, sometimes days in a row. Because of him, Florence is known as the city where people can come to enjoy themselves in peace and prosperity and stay to make a wonderful life. So the city truly grieves. But right now it just feels like a lot of people are showing off.
    Mamma takes my hand. She always knows when I’m restless. It’s ironic that only a few days ago I said she didn’t understand anything.
    The ode ends and now the young painter Michelangelo reads a poem he wrote. He’s squat-nosed and surly, a thoroughly unappealing person.
    â€œWhat an ugly boy,” I whisper to Papà.
    â€œThey say his paintings are marvelous,” Papà whispers back. “And his sculptures, they’re even better. He’s only seventeen and already he’s a master.”
    My cheeks burn in shame. After all, the artist can’t help his appearance.
    â€œSer Antonio, it’s you.” A middle-aged man appears at Papà’s side. He pulls Papà out behind the crowd, far from the orator’s box. Mamma and I follow.
    The man tips back his hat and I see his face. Oh! Could it really be him?
    â€œSer Leonardo,” says Papà with joy.
    I was right: It’s Leonardo da Vinci, the son of the notary Ser Piero, one of Papà’s important customers. Papà admires Leonardo in the most ferocious way, for the man makes inventions that amaze. I haven’t seen his face since he moved to Milan a couple of years ago, but it’s impossible to forget: straight nose, bold eyes, full lips, thick beard. He’s fun; I remember how he used to make me laugh. I bounce on the balls of my feet in excitement.
    Mamma flashes me a look of reproval. I stand still and try to appear composed. Papà and Leonardo hug, and Leonardo winks at me behind Papà’s shoulder.
    â€œBut I thought you were far away, in Milan,” says Papà.
    â€œI was visiting in Pisa when the news came.” Leonardo kisses Mamma’s hand, then he gasps and pretends he’s just seen me. He kisses my hand, as though I’m a grown-up. “Little Monna Betta, isn’t that what your father calls you? What a stunning woman you’re becoming.” He glances at Mamma. “Exactly what anyone should have expected, given your beautiful mother.”
    Mamma looks down demurely.
    â€œWe should call you by the full title—Madonna