The Smile Read Online Free PDF Page B

Elisabetta— for you rival the Madonna.”
    I’m blushing. I’m not foolish enough to believe such nonsense; men go to absurd lengths in flattering women. I blush only because this behavior is new to me. I’ve always been just a girl. I won’t look down, though. I keep my eyes on this illustrious man, to let him know I’m not taken in, though I do appreciate his words.
    â€œWhat do you make of it?” says Leonardo, turning to Papà. “Only forty-three years old. Brothers of the Medici family seem ill fated. But he wasn’t assassinated, at least.”
    â€œHe was sick for months,” says Papà. “Everyone expected it. Especially after that Dominican monk predicted it.”
    â€œGirolamo Savonarola.” Leonardo shakes his head in disgust. “I heard he said Lorenzo led Florence into debauchery. Such sanctimony.”
    â€œHe even criticized the Pope for his worldliness. He’s a renegade, that one. He’s predicted trouble ahead for Florence.”
    They go on talking, and I’m confused. Papà speaks as though he discounts Savonarola. But last night he told Mamma that Savonarola’s predictions worry him. He said Lorenzo called his three sons “the fool,” “the wise one,” and “the good one.” And the oldest, the heir to his father’s position, is the fool. Trouble ahead, all right—that’s what Papà said, though now he’s guarding his opinion. That puts me on edge. What harm could there be in speaking plainly? Especially to Leonardo, a man we’ve known forever?
    I recognize all three Medici sons by sight. Anyone in Florence does. When I was ten, I was actually introduced to the youngest. It was a chance meeting of our fathers in the street, with each of us in tow. Papà does business with them, after all. And a few times, when I was little, I played with the youngest Medici daughter. She’s only a year and a half older than me, but she’s been going to balls for a long time already. My own party, after my birthday, would have been the first real social event of my life. And now I don’t even know whether we’ll have it. Papà said you don’t talk about celebrations in the middle of mourning.
    â€œMadonna Elisabetta,” says Leonardo with a crisp nod to me.
    I’m pulled from my reverie. I have no sense of what they’ve been talking about. My eyes question him.
    â€œLet me take you as my companion for the rest of the day.” He turns to Papà. “With your permission, of course. I promise to keep her out of harm’s way.”
    â€œHow could I refuse?” says Papà.
    Mamma’s eyes shine with hope and determination. I know why. Leonardo is the talk of the town. He was born the illegitimate son of a peasant mother and noble father in Anchiano, near Vinci. His family moved to Florence and his father—a champion of intellectual and artistic freedom himself—insisted the boy study with the best tutors. He was apprenticed to Verrocchio, the leading sculptor and painter, who, in turn, had been the student of the great Donatello. But Leonardo soon surpassed both. No one commands higher fees than him. I’ve heard Mamma say it’s because his artistic talent is undeniable—she swoons over his drawings, while Papà admires his inventions. The man has something for everyone. But his physical self has to be part of his allure; he’s handsome. With a wonderful physique. And he sings well, on top of everything else. He might be the finest artist, scientist, philosopher, anatomist, astronomer, engineer, inventor, who knows what all—like people say. But he’s a man first—and even at forty, most women consider him one of the best bachelors Florence has to offer.
    He paints for the wealthy, though he has a reputation for working years on a project and never finishing. He did a portrait of Ginevra de’ Benci that