Struggles Within

The difficulty with stucco and tiling is certainly not a matter of beauty but a matter of echo. At the moment, when I could hear the raised voices of Papa and Blasio echoing from the scrittori through the passages of the palazzo I wished Agneta would develop an attraction to rugs to place through the rooms and muffle noises. I knew what they fought over and I felt shame and guilt over my own part in it.

I sat on the window seat in my room with the casement window thrown open to the darkening sky. The door to my room opened slowly and Fina crept in like a whipped cur. I reached a hand out to her and she rushed into my arms almost near to tears. I had no words to comfort her, knowing where her pain came from, and simply held her until she felt well enough to sit on the seat calmly.

“You know why they argue?” She asked, her voice so small I could barely hear it.

“I do.” This battle of wills had grown up like an insidious weed over the few weeks since Blasio’s arrival. I felt sure Agneta quietly pushed the battle hoping for the outcome she favored. I heard Pietro’s voice raised in anger now as well. While he was young and full of fire, he would be hardly a match for Blasio’s blustering force and Agneta’s wiles. At best all he could hope for was to relieve some of the strain from Papa.

“Why?” She leaned on the window sill and stared out at nothing, her eyes huge and dark in the evening light, like great, black wells of sorrow.

I shrugged. She knew the reason they fought as well as I did and surely the closest neighbors or any passerby on the street. Though the why of the matter was very complex.

I believed it was all driven by Agneta. Without her constant prodding Blasio could not care less what I did with my time as long as I was not a financial burden on the family. On the contrary, since I helped his frail and all but useless wife take care of their child I was an asset freeing him of the need to hire a nurse.

In Agneta’s mind, though, a woman could be nothing but a breeding mare or a nun. Since the death of my Simon I was caught in that place in-between. I had some small modicum of freedom allowed by Papa as long as I did nothing to shame the family. Agneta believed my painting to be that shame though she could never convince Papa of that. She would see me married or shuffled off to the convent to live a life of seclusion as a bride of God. I would die in a convent. I know I would.

“What will you do?” Fina asked, taking my hand. We both jumped when a door slammed somewhere and the voices quieted. Moments later a horse charged out of the courtyard and its hoof beats echoed off into the gloom.

I patted her hand and rose from the window seat. “I will do as Papa bids me. If he says I must find a husband then I must. If he says I must go to the convent...” I swallowed hard, trying not to choke on the words, “Then I will go to San Geminiano.”

“Geminiano! They are dogs of the Florentines!”

I shrugged and did not answer her. Fina often parroted the political views she heard others use. I was more pragmatic. With the French always nipping at our borders I felt the great city-states of Italy would do better to cooperate than battle each other but I did not pretend to understand politics. Much like my father, I found myself more concerned with art. And war was certainly bad for art.

“Vinca,” she paused and looked at the door as if waiting for someone to walk in before she lowered her voice and continued. “Vinca you could leave. Francesca has said you could come to her in Venice.”

Francesca. How I missed my cousin but I was no fool. I knew the life she led and that she wished me to join her in that life. In her letters she spoke of her freedom and her joys but was being owned by a man of means so free? And what of her soul? When it came time to acknowledge her debt to God what ring would take a soul so stained with sin? I loved my cousin but I could not share her life.

“No, Fina. I could not live that life. I wish to present my soul to God with as little sin as possible.”

“So you would become a prisoner? You would chain yourself to a man or into a convent because Agneta cannot bear the sight of your freedom? You do have some freedom.”

“Selfish freedom. You see the damage these battles with Blasio do to Papa. And how long can it last? Already my ‘freedom’ has gone longer than should be permitted. Only the Vettori support of Papa allows me to remain ‘free’. What will happen when that protection is gone?” I had lay awake many nights asking myself that question. I didn’t know why it must be so; only that it had always been. But society is not kind to widows.

She looked so broken I suddenly understood that her fear was not just for me, but for herself as well. “Then there is no freedom, ever, is there?”

I did not wish to cause her pain but neither would I deceive her. “No,” I whispered. “Papa is far more lenient on both of us than should have been allowed. He has protected us, loved us, given us a taste of life. He will have to find you a husband soon and I fear if he does not give in to Blasio’s demands for me it will cause his health to fail. I dared to hope I could do more. I dared to hope to paint. Now I can only hope that if he does find a husband for me who will wed a widow it will be a man generous enough to allow me to paint on occasion to amuse myself. I do not hold out much hope of that.”

“Vinca, without your art you will die. Your body may walk but your soul will wither away.” I knew the truth of her statement better than she ever could. I wanted to cry, to let the sorrow I felt building inside swallow me but for her I would bury my own pain.

“I will survive. You must do the same. Now let us talk about that lovely smile of yours and how you are going to use it to catch a husband that Agneta and Blasio could never argue with. You will wed eventually but if you are lucky, you will catch the eye of someone with enough social standing to please them and perhaps with enough wit and kindness to please you as well.”

Eventually we buried our uncertainties and sorrows in stories of handsome noblemen come to sweep us off our feet who drape us in glorious fabrics and jewels and shower us with attention. She was still young enough to take comfort in such fantasies. Once she was off to her room to sleep I sat again on the window seat staring out at the darkened city.

She was right. I would die without my painting but I could not blindly watch my father be torn apart. It was then I made my decision.

***************

I found Papa in the workshop early the next morning. He did not come to breakfast and those of us that did felt weighed down by the silence laced so tight with tension. I left the table and sought him out amid his colors and powders. I knew how much peace he found in his bright alchemy of paint mixing for I found the same peace. When I came up beside him I simply stood there for several long moments drawing comfort from the movement of his hands grinding his powders.

When I felt I could speak without breaking my voice or letting loose my tears I found no easy way to broach the subject so I simply blurted it out. “Papa, you must find me another husband.”

His marble pestle dropped to the table with a heavy thud and he turned red-rimmed eyes on me. I was unsure if it was caused by tears or by drink but I knew his night had been too long and it was, in a way, my fault. I felt the guilt of his pain wash over me.

“No,” his voice came out in a broken growl, harsh from the night before.

“Papa you must. My painting—it is foolish. There is no place in this world for a woman who paints. Now the city whispers in amusement about the painter that lets his daughter play in his work shop. For now the name of Vettori protects you from this folly, but what will happen to you, to the family, when that protection is gone? I will no longer be a novelty and will be a shame instead.”

“No.” He turned back to his pestle and paused when he gripped it. “You have a gift,” he said into the silence. “A glorious gift from God himself. I do not know why He put it in your hands but I will not be the one to deny Him. You notice your horse is gone? As is the washer woman and others? They are now in the hands of one of the masters I learned from. I wait word on whether he will take you as a student.”

“Papa—“ I could not finish my sentence. I didn’t know what to say. He truly believed he could find a master that would teach me what I lacked. I was scared to hope. I wanted to let it into my heart and warm me but feared it would not come to pass. My hands trembled with how bad I wanted what he promised but could I watch as his soul was battered by those who would crush my dream?

When he turned to me I realized this was not my dream alone. He fought for this dream for himself as much as he did for me. How could I give up on him?

“Fight for it, Vinca,” he whispered fiercely. “I will fight too but you must fight harder than anyone. The fight will hurt at times. You will feel as if you are ready to give up but during those times you must fight back the hardest.”

He seemed so vehement I could not argue with him but did I dare hope? He patted my hand and turned his attention fully to his powders. “I will deal with Blasio,” he said. My father is sometimes a great deal more observant than I believe. He must have seen the worry I dared not voice. “You worry about paint. There is a wood panel in the corner for you. Paint it how you will.”

I understood the dismissal and said nothing further. Sometimes Papa needed silence and solitude and it seemed this was one of those times. I started gathering up my charcoal sticks and a few sketches I had done to take to the garden to work when Fina burst into the room, her eyes lit up and her cheeks glowing with excitement.

“Vinca! You must come to the sala! Quickly!” I laid my tools back on the workbench and hurried to my sister, her smile and excitement infectious. She took my hand and nearly dragged me through the palazzo. “Something has come for you. A delivery.”

When we reached the sala she stopped so suddenly I tripped over my own feet trying not to run into her. At the far end of the room the loggia doors stood open to the sunshine and breeze from the courtyard and standing there was a man dressed in a peculiar livery and another that bore the manner and clothing of a servant. The servant held something large wrapped in muslin and the other man watched me as I approached. I could see when he noted my simple linen gown and paint-stained apron and dismissed me as beneath his concern.

Agneta stood nearby glaring at me and I felt there was something deeper to her anger with me today than usual. I turned back to the men with the delivery, unable to withstand her gaze.

“Signora Soletti of the house of Vettori sends gracious appreciation to Signora Vinca Taviani for creating a portrait of beauty featuring Signorina Luca Vettori. As a gift the House of Vettori presents cloth imported from far away China. It is requested that it be used for a gown for the upcoming Vettori Masquerade.” With a flick of his wrist he flipped back the muslin to reveal silk of deepest purple with gold vines woven into it and blossoming into flowers. I could not have imagined and painted such beauty on my finest day.

“Tell your mistress the gift is most generous.” I tried not to stumble over my words but knew I must sound like a talking horse to him. “I will be quite honored to wear it for the Vettori Masquerade.”

He nodded and motioned the servant to hand the precious bundle over to one of the palazzo servants Agneta had called for. I stood there numb and watched the servant carry it off to the sewing room. Agneta saw the visitors out and when she returned I could not read her expression completely though I what I did see frightened me. I most assuredly saw anger and envy but the cunning she let slip scared me the most. She said nothing as she crossed the sala and went upstairs. I heard her enter her own chamber then nothing more. Once she was gone Fina grasped my hand and pulled me through the palazzo to the sewing chamber.

The fabric had been left on the cutting table and she immediately peeled back the muslin to run her hands over it. “Oh, Vinca! It's beautiful! You will look so lovely in this.”

I could not argue with her. Like many women I did enjoy beautiful gowns. I felt strange in them, like a sow wearing brocade, but that did not stop me from enjoying them. My vanity was yet another sin. I should be content with my simple linen gowns and not long for velvet and silk and though I did not pursue such luxuries, I did enjoy them on the rare occasions when they came to me. This was the finest cloth I had ever touched, however. I think even finer than anything Agneta had touched (and she did have a craving for silks and velvets far beyond my own!).

I carefully laid my rough, paint-stained hand on the fabric. It felt so smooth and I felt my skin snag against it as I touched it. My mind began to worry and fret, however, about the cost of such a thing. Three of Papa's finest paintings could not buy this silk, let alone one of my own. I worried about the generosity then began to wonder if truly Imilia's hand was the only one involved in this gift.

“The seamstress will have to begin right away if it is to be done in time for the masquerade,” Fina fretted as she, too touched the fabric. When she noticed how my rough fingers caught on the threads she grabbed my hand and examined it. “Oh this will never do! We must do something with these hands.”

I let her lead me to her chamber clucking her tongue and fussing about my fingers as my own thoughts chased themselves like a puppy after its own tail. Surely he would not have been involved? His game was to insult me, annoy me, anger me beyond all reason. Was this some new tactic to catch me unaware?

“You have that look again,” Fina muttered as she scrubbed my hands with some ointment that smelled so awful I did not want to know what it contained. It did seem to be working the stains off my fingers and it did feel soothing and softening to my skin.

“What look?” I watched her work, her fingers as expert with ointments and cosmetics as mine were with paint. Whenever Agneta felt my hair needed extra work or my face needed to be painted, Fina was the one given the task because I invariably made a mess of it. Already she had worked the pigments from most of the cracks of my skin though around my fingernails would take a great deal longer. I did not have the heart to point out to her that I would likely stain them again before the masquerade arrived, ruining all of her hard work.

“Your 'I'm thinking too much' look. Tell me what you are thinking.” She said, her voice as soothing as the fingers that now worked out stiffness I did not realize had settled into my hands.

“I.,.” how could I tell her I felt like a rabbit sniffing the bait? Felt like this was a silken trap laid for the unwary. “I wonder the true price of it,” I said.

She was silent so long I felt she would never answer and I felt my mind beginning to drift into relaxation as she worked. I loved my sister for many things. Her ability to relax the stiffness from my hands was one of the gifts I appreciated the most.

“You think about him, don't you?”

I could not help it. I jumped at her sudden statement and nearly jerked my hand out of hers. She held fast despite the ointment and gave a tug on it letting me know I would not get free.

“I do not...”

“You do. Do not lie to me. That is a sin.” She pulled a sharpened stick of wood from her box of cosmetics and ointments and used it's fibrous, softened tip to scrub her ointment into the stains about my fingernails. “I know you think I am young, my sweet sister, and that you should protect me, but I know things that would shock you. You think of him. Just as he thinks of you. He watches you. Like a cat at the rat hole. He rarely takes his eyes off you. I have been in Papa's workshop or studio when he is there. If you enter the room it is a wonder he notices what Papa says at all.”

“It is because he hates me,” I frowned watching vermillion disappear from around my left index fingernail ever so slowly. “He plans his next verbal attack upon me. I am his favorite sport.”

She shrugged. “You watch him too.”

“Only to guard myself!” I tried to pull my hand away again but she would have none of it. I did not want to hear what she was saying but if I could not get away from her I could not stop it. And God forgive me, in the hearing I began to listen and to think and wonder.

“Believe what you will, sister,” she said sounding older than I had ever heard her. “But I am not blind. Neither is Agneta. She knows we could never afford a dowry into Vettori but anything she could use as a weapon against you, she would.”

She said nothing more as she worked and I found I had nothing to say. Each time I opened my mouth nothing came out or my thoughts were too confused to make sense. Each denial I thought of sounded more foolish and forced. She just did not understand. Domenico was a beast! A fiend; frightening and callous. He terrified me. From the beginning he wished more to torment me than anything else. The silk could have come from Imilia or it could have come from him as a way to put me off my guard so he could attack from another angle.

As for Agneta, the more I thought about it the more frightened I became. Rumors could do more damage to a woman than a man. If she grew bold enough, rumors about the times I had been alone in the presence of Domenico could do serious harm to my reputation. Serious enough that I would have no choice but to capitulate to her wishes or be turned into nothing but rubbish in the streets.

Angels and Demons

I thought my plan was brilliant in its simplicity. What a fool I was. I should have known something so simple was easily foiled by forces I failed to contemplate in my own naiveté'. I knew today was the day Domenico would be in the workshop for his first sitting for his portrait. No doubt he would wear the fine black velvet gonella with its silver thread and buttons with the matching black calze with the rampant lions of silver thread clawing their way up his legs. Even I, with my fear and dislike of him was not immune to what a fine figure he cut in that outfit. So simply I decided in the darkness of my room the night before to not go to Papá's workshop today.

Unfortunately I forgot to factor in Papá's desire to turn a mere woman into something society would tolerate as an artist. I had to have a finer brush than any man born and he would have me in the workshop every day save Sunday perfecting my skills. And so it was that I found myself once more subject to the scrutiny and biting wit of Domenico Vettori.

To look back on it honestly I must admit half of my irritation with Domenico was indeed with myself. Never have I been gifted with words nor even greatly educated. I am able to read quite well and even enjoy it but our status was not always so well as it was with Domenico as Papá's patron and books were a rare treasure in our home. La Divina Comedia, while as fine a work as any I have read, gave me nightmares and I found I could read no more of Dante's works for fear of losing sleep. Agneta would not allow me to read Plato or Socrates saying they spouted hearsay and pollution for the mind. Fortunately I was still allowed Petrarch and while his work was quite skilled, it was seen as “just poetry”. Sweets that were mild and suitable for the mind of a woman.

Thus my vocabulary was lacking though my mind sometimes felt to burst with ideas and concepts I could not form adequately into words. In my youth, when I did attempt it, I often found myself the subject of ridicule by my brothers and so I learned quickly to keep my thoughts to myself. So it was with great frustration I found myself embroiled in battles of wits and words with Domenico and I lacked ammunition to defend myself. He was never quite cruel, not like Blasio had been to me as we grew up, but his constant jabs at my wit seemed aimed more at raising my ire. Shamed am I to admit he was able to manipulate my anger to the fore faster than any of my brothers ever were.

It also didn't help that he sat there in his finery looking so very handsome even in his arrogance and I did not want to admit that I saw him so! When first I entered the workshop and saw him standing with Papá I felt my heart give a strange little dance in my chest and I swore I would not look upon him again the rest of the day. I pray God will forgive me for I found myself unable to keep that promise and each time I glanced at him I met his eyes as if he knew exactly every time I would raise mine. Though he did not strut like the young peacocks in the street, for he was a great deal more mature than the men on the prowl in the city, he knew when a woman admired him and the slight smirk of his smile, the way his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, told her he could read her secret. He could read my secret. And it infuriated me.

I spent the morning sketching angels; angel hands, angel wings, angelic faces and hair and halos. Perhaps some part of my mind thought if I drew images of such serenity and piety I could banish my sinful anger for was that not the sin of those in the fifth circle of the Inferno? I refused to acknowledge then other thoughts that might be conjured into my mind. I tried not to see his form so fine and his face so strong with his neatly trimmed beard and shining brown curls. So when I did not dwell on my anger I focused on angels.

“Very well done,” I jumped at the sound of Papá's voice so close by my shoulder. I did not even realize he had moved away from his own workbench. Domenico strolled about the room moving his shoulders and neck, stretching him after his long seat.

“Thank you, Papá,” I said meekly with no sign of the emotions that spawned my mad flight of angels.

“Venturing into the biblical imagery is good for you but enough angels for now. You have mastered that form. I have seen no demons in your art. Sketch me some. I want to see your rendition of the horrific as well as the beatific, hm?”

I stared at him agape for a moment before I heard Agneta's voice in my head admonishing me to close my mouth before a fly found his way in. “Papá! That is not appropriate for a woman.”

He smiled and kissed me on top of my head like he used to when I was being a foolish child and for some reason I could not fathom, I felt foolish all over again. “Just a test of your skill, hm?” He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Sketch me a few then I will release you from the workshop. I can tell you do not wish to be here today so perhaps you could go take some sun in the garden when you are done, hm?”

The thought of spending time among the lilac buds doing nothing but enjoying the beautiful sunshine I could see streaming through the waxed paper windows sent a thrill through me that I could only describe as ecstatic. The last few days had been gray and dark with fat clouds of rain hanging over us and now that there was light once more I wanted some time out in it.

“Three demons?” I asked hopefully. I could easily throw out imitations of some of the hybrid creatures I had seen in examples of some illuminations and call them demons. He may recognize where I had seen them from but I could easily tell them that was how my simple mind saw demons. He may humor me on the point for today and dismiss me to my garden.

“Six demons,” he countered as if this were a bargaining session for the best price on a bolt of wool.

“That's too many! Four. Just four?” I pleaded with him and tried to turn on to him the eyes I had used in my childhood to win such arguments.

He tried to frown but I could see the smile in his eyes and knew that I had one. “Very well. Four demons.” He raised his finger and waggled it at me. “Today. I will return in a few moments. Keep our guest company.” He patted my shoulder then and left.

So I had won the battle today but would have to present him with more another day. At least it was a victory, however small. The instruction to “entertain our guest” however was not a victory in any sense. I wondered if it was some subtle punishment for being so stubborn about drawing his demons. Certainly I had nothing intelligent enough to say to entertain Domenico so it seemed the best course was to wait until Domenico decided he wanted to be the subject of my poor conversation. With that thought to justify ignoring him, I returned to my sketching.

Even though our fortunes had turned for the better when Papá caught the attention of Domenico, there was no waste permitted so following his thrifty commands, my paper was turned over and I began my sketches on the back side.

“I find it curious you did not argue more. Demons are not a subject for women to concern their heads about except to bow them in prayer to keep them from corrupting them in their weakness.”

I felt my ire rising again at the same vitriol I heard spewed sometimes from the more fanatical of the holy men. Because in the tale of the Bible, Eve brought the apple to Adam and thus corrupted him with temptation, all women were seen as corruptors and more easily subjugated by the whims of the Devil. Secretly, though I did not ever dare to voice such thoughts, I thought it rather cruel and unfair to lay all of the evils of the world upon poor Eve for was she not tempted by the serpent? And if she was indeed the weaker sex (as all women are apparently) then how was it she forced Adam to partake of the forbidden fruit? If her power was so great over him then how is it that she (and again, all women) is so weak of will, mind and body as to be useless save for bearing children and keeping a man's home?

As well, having been a wife and therefore having experienced the attentions of a man, I find it hard to believe that she could be tempted into the sweating, grunting rut that seemed to please them so and left the woman with naught but the stink of his lust on her skin and a babe in her belly. Though I loved my Simon and my heart aches over his death, the time in our bed was distasteful. A necessary evil I suppose, for the good wife that would bring forth the next generation of her husband's line. In that I failed.

Yet here in the middle of Papá's workshop Domenico was spewing this vile perception of women again. When I glanced up at him I truly saw him in that moment. I saw him watching me, waiting as if a lion ready to pounce on prey. My anger amused him and he would continue to bait me into such unseemly emotions. It irritated me further to be his amusement.

It was in that moment that wickedness stole into my heart and I, in my (female!) weakness, gave it free rein. I took up my charcoal stick and set upon my paper like a woman possessed determined to ignore him and his vile tongue. Every word he spoke to me, every tilt of his head, every look, every nuance of tone was subtle manipulation. He played me as if I were a game, molding my moods into his entertainment. Anything further he wanted from me he would have to force from me for I swore my mouth would become as tight as my marriage chest.

“Have you no remarks?” I heard it in his voice. It actually annoyed him that I did not respond to his bait and at last I had my own game to play.

“No,” the answer was simple and sweet delivered in my most demure voice. Why, the angelic tones that carried it from my lips could not have been spoken sweeter by the Madonna herself.

“You admit to the weakness of your sex so freely? Come come. I do believe we have discussed this before.”

In actuality there was no discussion involved but he used the term as if there had been. Previously he had made the point, seen how irritated it made me, and continued to drive the point into me though he knew I would not reply as I would have liked with my Papá listening to the conversation. So I kept my answer sweet again as my charcoal slashed across the paper. “Yes.”

He prowled for a few moments and though some dark part of me wished to look at him and take satisfaction in witnessing his own annoyance, a crueler piece of my mind was quite determined to inflict further aggravation upon him by simply ignoring him. Schooling my expression into one of beatific serenity, black lines danced faster across my paper drawing forth images to make maidens blush and matrons turn away in fear.

His prowling brought him to my work table just as I heard Papá’s voice outside the workshop door. With him so close suddenly I was awash with fear and shame for my crime and reached for another sheet of paper to cover my sketches. Domenico’s hand on my wrist stopped me when I would have hidden it from his view. Resigned I looked up to meet his gaze prepared for whatever backlash my actions would bring. He studied my sketches with interest and when he looked up to me I refused to show him my fear.

Dancing across my paper were my demons; the most benign of them looked as a satyr, his naked chest melting into his fur-covered goat legs that ended in cloven hooves. A small tail flicked from the base of his spine and he danced with a flute to his mouth, his body carefully turned to hide his masculinity from the viewer. The expression on his face was one of wicked temptation; a look of passion and play carefully crafted to capture the unwary in his spell.

Two more were creatures of nightmare; gargoyles with huge black wings spread out behind them, their bodies grotesquely distended and misshapen, claws dangling from hands too long and feet shaped like those of a carrion bird. Tongues of snakes slithered from their gaping mouths as they stood in combat over the hapless soul being rendered between them.

A fourth was more animal than even the satyr with horns protruding from thick dark fur on his head; his leonine body crouched onto hands and feet like a beast. A tail covered in scales like a lizard extended from his spine, splitting the air with its stinging end, poison dripping from the tip like black ooze.

The last dominated one whole side of the page. The body of a serpent, thick with dark scales that shone oily in the light, coiled around a woman crushing her. Arms sprouted from the body of the serpent, thickly muscled and holding an apple offered to the viewer. Scales transformed into dark curled hair surrounding the face attached to the serpent body and, like each of the other drawings, bore the face of Domenico.

The door opened at that moment and Domenico glanced up when Papá stepped in, still speaking with someone on the other side. Domenico looked at me and something inscrutable passed across his face and tugged at the corner of his mouth. He released my hand and slid the blank paper over top of my drawings hiding them from view. He stepped away from my work table and I felt my face burning in embarrassment for what I had done. If Papá saw them he would be very upset with me and Domenico, the victim of my foolish endeavor, knew my secret and took steps to conceal it from Papá. I should have been grateful but something inside nagged at me that he kept my secret for his own purposes and would dangle it over my head like the sword of Damocles.

Domenico moved back to his seat and smiled at Papá. Papá paused by my table and I noticed something seemed to be bothering him though his look told me now was not the time to ask. “No demons?” He said, though I could tell his thoughts were on something else. “No Papá. May I sketch more later? My hand grows tired.”

He nodded. “Clean up then before you depart. The beautiful day should not be wasted in work.” His words were half-hearted and I grew concerned for him. I was already dismissed, however, as he turned his attention back to Domenico. His patron also picked up on his changed mood but said nothing as Papá took up his own charcoal again.

I quickly put away my own tools and began on those Papá would not need for the rest of the sitting. The damning sketches I carefully folded and hid them within the waist of my skirt. The silence in the room grew uncomfortable and troublesome. I could even see it affecting Domenico who stared at my father with an intensity that most people would feel. Papá seemed not even to notice.

“Girardus,” he said finally and I saw Papá jump, so engrossed was he in his own thoughts.

He looked up at his patron with a false smile plastered on his face. “Signore?”

I am not sure if Papá saw through the cloak of cool indifference his patron wore, so distracted he was by what bothered him. I saw it though. I knew for many months that Domenico truly appreciated my father’s skill as a painter but in that brief flash of insight I saw that he held concern for my father’s well being too. That knowledge would never erase all the annoyance or insult he directed toward me but it would mean I would have greater tolerance of him.

“I am hosting a great masquerade at my home in the country.” He spoke casually about the event, as if the entire city didn’t already know it. Half the well-to-do merchants and politicians were hoping to gain invite to his estate for the chance to see or be seen with others of import who would be present. Generally the celebration lasted for days and the guests stayed for weeks at a time.

“I have heard, Signore. It sounds as if it will be a grand event. Young Luca was most excited by the prospect.” Domenico had Papá’s attention now, though he was just as puzzled as I was.

“I should like for you to attend with your family. Your work has been well received and I should like to show my appreciation of it. It will be good for you to get out of the city for a few days as well.” He spoke as if the matter was already decided, and when I looked at Papá’s nervous face I realized likely it was. I knew how much work Papá had waiting and taking so much time away from it would be a hardship, however maybe a rest from his busy schedule was in order.

“Signore, you are most kind. It is indeed a generous offer—“

“Excellent! We are in agreement then.” Domenico stood before Papá could protest. “I shall send a cart for you and your family. You will be honored guests in my home. Today you must excuse me, however as my time grows short.”

Papá seemed at a loss for words and when I stepped over to him I could see him floundering for something to say.

“Your generosity is most kind, Signore Vettori,” I said rescuing my father from his own stumbling tongue. “He will be honored to attend you.”

Domenico smiled at me and I felt as if I had sprung a trap. It would seem the sword was dangling already. “I would be pleased to see your lovely wife and daughters as well.”

“Of course, yes, yes. Very kind of you.” Papá stood then, gaining his voice once more as he escorted Domenico to the door. “We will be ready, Signore, and most grateful of your kindness.”

I had hoped to escape this holiday to the country, having no desire to be trapped in the territory of the predator. I finished packing away the tools and slipped from the workshop before Papá returned from his farewells to Domenico. I rushed through the palazzo to my room and closed the doors heavily behind me, my heart crashing against my ribs. I drew forth my sketches and unfolded the paper just staring at them for several moments. It seemed I would be drawn into the Vettori lair and he had a weapon against me and I had no way of knowing how or why he might use it.

OT: Style Change

The last few days I have been struggling to get words written on the page that weren't garbage. I haven't been succeeding very well. So since this blog is not just a story but a way for me to attempt to capture my writing skills again I am going to be trying some different things.

Most noticeably starting with the next story post I will be writing first person point of view rather than third. I am hoping it will flow a little easier if I see the stories differently. This means I have several pages of already written bits and pieces that I will have to scrap and completely start over so there may be a bit more delay of any story. I hope it turns out to be worth it.

I apologize for the disruption to those who are actually reading here (as opposed to the spammers from Russian and China that keep pinging this blog and throwing my stats off! I wish you the inconvenience of falling off a cliff!).

As always, comments and suggestions are welcome.

~Vinca's author

Letter to Francesca from Vinca - IV

To Francesca de Savona

My dearest cousin and friend, how I miss your experience and advice. Such strange happenings do occur here that I find myself unable to address them without distress. I am unsure what even to do.

Blasio has arrived with his wife Margherita and young son. When first they arrived I was most excited to have my brother and his family returned. However it seems that he has joined with Agneta in trying to find a second marriage for me. The things he says to me make it quite clear that he believes my painting has no worth and that my time would be better spent embroidering or birthing children. I fear it may not be long before he convinces Papa that I should be wed again. Though I still retain my dowry it was small to begin with. I fear that there is little I could do with it and may have to bend to the wishes of Agneta.

The guests she invites to join us for dinner has increased and to hear her talk is quite distressing. She parades Fina and I about like prize mares and while once I sat meekly and felt it my duty to abide by her wishes, I find now that I have sipped of the goblet of hope, a hope of freedom, of being my own person, that her politics turn my stomach.

Blasio takes after Agneta in many ways and the gentleman he brought to meet Fina just last night is a despicable creature that I would not wish upon a rat. He is easily older than Papa and looks upon both of us as if we are nothing more than a meal, of which it seems he has seen a great plenty! I wonder that he can afford the fabric to cover his great girth! I spent hours comforting poor Fina last night and hoping I was not telling an untruth when I assured her Papa would never marry her to such a creature.

Despite the quiet acclaim that is spreading about a portrait I completed for the Vettori family, there have been no other offers for me. I often despair that Blasio is right and there is no place in the world for a woman who paints. He admonishes me that I am not nearly modest enough either and I should not pollute my mind with such things as reading and art. I realize my duty is to the family but I do not have to enjoy it. I cannot help but long for more than what is being offered. Perhaps it is a sin for me to do so, but I cannot shed such longings, though I have tried.

I find it disturbing as well how often Papa’s patron visits the workshop. I have taken to painting more and more often in the garden to avoid him. Sometimes he is most solicitous and polite, ever the pleasant gentleman. Upon other visits though, it seems he tries to raise my ire and I feel as if I am sparring against him with words, of which I have no skill! I always fear I will say something to anger him and he will revoke the favors he has granted Papa.

I believe, for a time, Agneta had ideas of wedding Fina into the Vettori family through one of Domenico’s many brothers. Apparently she has realized what a tremendous dowry that would require and even with as well as Papa does now, it would take more florins than he would ever see in his lifetime! I have considered talking to Papa on Fina’s behalf in the hopes that he would take a more active role in choosing her husband. I believe he would find her as good a match as he found me in my Simon.

Recently Signora Soletti invited me to join her and young Luca for a visit. I was both flattered and nervous by the meeting but found Luca’s endless chatter amusing. I believe the wishes of the girl for me to visit were the motivation. She has the loveliest sitting room where we sipped wine and looked out over the garden of her palazzo. When I complimented it, Luca was quite eager to tell me how small it was to the one on their country estate. Such grandness in one family leaves me overwhelmed!

Signora Soletti was most gracious, however, and again praised the portrait I painted of Luca. She is a curious woman to me. I hear stories about what a force she is in the political fields of Siena yet she is such a quiet woman. So polite and demure I find it difficult to believe that she could have any such power. I find it a relief that she does not seem as intimidating as her son!

Do you remember the musician I spoke of in my previous letter? Marin by name with as sweet a voice as could ever be imagined from God’s own heralds. I was saddened when he came to me for the last time before returning to Venice. Though our time together was short I enjoyed his company and his sweet kiss and will miss him. Agneta finally forbade me to see him but she sleeps too deeply to enforce such. She believes I would give Marin more than a kiss, though that is shameful enough in her eyes. She has no further worries since his departure. He promised to return to see me again but I do believe him fickle and will forget me once he sets foot in his home city.

My dear Francesca I have filled this page with enough of my formless chatter. I wish again you were closer and we could spend time together as we did when we were children. I miss your company and I know Fina does as well. Do take care of yourself and I hope not too many days pass before I hear from you again.

Vinca

Challenge Accepted

Despite the successful completion of the portrait, Vinca’s life settled back into a quiet routine. She spent her days working in the workshop painting a variety of objects and faces. She found this rather comforting even if the idea of her moving toward becoming an artist in her own right had been a bit thrilling. And though her own life had calmed, life in the palazzo became busier when Blasio and his wife and child arrived. In the rush Vinca found herself and her triumph quickly forgotten, though, in some ways, she was glad to return to her quiet days.

Marin had returned twice more to sing to her beneath her window and the annoyed glances Agneta gave her over the breakfast table surely meant she knew of his evening visits. Vinca was unsure why she would hold her tongue, however. Surely she wanted nothing more than to give her a verbal lashing over her shameful behavior. She sighed and smiled, her brush gliding through the paint on the canvas before her. She wouldn’t worry about Agneta until she pushed the issue. She enjoyed Marin’s attention, even though she began to suspect it was fleeting.

Today she enjoyed the quiet of the workshop by herself. Papa had taken Blasio somewhere to look at offices to set up his business. Vinca took to the workshop early when the wailing of her newly arrived nephew split the air of the palazzo starting before sunrise and had only stopped for brief intervals since. She frowned and wondered if something was wrong with her that she had not the womanly gift of patience with young children. Fortunately the door from the workshop to the rest of the palazzo was heavy and blocked out the noise of the child.

She stood back from the canvas and studied the dark horse taking shape there. The barding told of his control by the hand of man but she had crafted his shape and facial expression such that it was obvious to all who looked upon him that his spirit would never be held. A wildness radiated from him, his muscles thick and tightly bunched as if he might spring from the canvas at any moment. Clouds of dust swirled around his feet while great, black storm clouds, fat with rain, loomed behind him. Yet even with the power of the storm building to match his great rage, the promise of golden sunlight peeked around one edge of the clouds. She had never been particularly good at painting animals but she was rather proud of how this one was turning out. It also reminded her how much she missed riding through the country. She liked to imagine she was painting a bit of her longing for that freedom into the work.

The door from the street opened and she started, silently cursing herself for not bolting it. Likely someone wanting to commission her father and she could do nothing but apologize for not being able to aid them.

Her heart jumped and her hand tightened around her brush when Domenico stepped into the room. She felt like a mouse trapped by the hungry cat when his gaze settled on her and held her for several moments. It may have only been a few heartbeats his gaze lingered on her before sliding around the room to search it but it seemed like an age for her.

“Your father is not here today?” His gaze returned to her and held her once more. He moved slowly into the center of the room and stopped before drawing too near. She noted his trim frame moved with all the grace of a cat and his footfalls were nearly as silent. She wondered what appointment had brought him to the workshop today. The black velvet of his gonnella stood out in the scattered sea of brushes, pallets and paints in various states of disarray around the workshop. Sunlight streaming in through the windows high on the walls glinted off the silver thread embroidered around his cuffs and collar and off the silver cast buttons marching down the front. Silver lions carefully embroidered around the bottoms of his calze showed the finest needlework she had ever seen. He seemed so out of place in his finery in the midst of the chaos of the workshop.

She absently brushed at the worn and paint stained apron she had pulled on to protect her simple linen gown this morning before she started painting, feeling self-conscious about her own appearance. As fiercely as she did not wish to admit it, she could not help but notice what a fine form he made. “He is not here, Signore Vettori.” She at last responded, realizing she was just standing there gawping at him. “He will return this afternoon.”

“He lets you romp about in his workshop unchecked when he is not here?”

She bristled at the verbal jab and stepped out from behind her easel. “I work in here whenever I need to.”

“Hm.” He flicked a glance at the canvas. “And what 'work' are you doing today? Attempting another portrait?”

She clenched her jaw and tried to remain polite but found it increasingly hard. “I am painting simply for the pleasure of it,” she said.

“Let me see.” The command left her seething and she moved to block the canvas just as he stepped closer.

“No.” She took a hasty breath and continued when he quirked an eyebrow at her. “It is not complete yet. It is not ready to show.”

“It must be terribly wretched then if you can let no other eyes upon it.”

“It is not wretched at all.” She realized he was baiting her. Intentionally he said things to irritate her simply because it amused him. She could see it in the set of his face, and yet she still bristled in anger at him. She also understood he had every intention of standing there all day either to see the unfinished painting or just to chafe her temper. With a huff she turned the easel around and stood back so he could examine it.

His smile of triumph was the final dollop that pushed her anger from simmering to boiling and while he examined the painting with all signs of true interest she imagined the horse leaping from the canvas and pummeling him into the terracotta tiles of the floor.

“Not bad. I want it.” He turned and started away from her as if that were the end of the conversation.

“No,” she said. She moved in front of the canvas and set her hands on her hips. She didn't know why she didn't want him to have this one. Perhaps because he so casually demanded it. But he would not get it.

He turned pinning her with his eyes. She began to tremble but she wasn't sure if it was fear or anger driving it. “No?”

“That is right. No. You cannot have it.” She clenched her hands at her sides to hide her nervous shaking. She knew she should not say such things to this man but her tongue had already run off with her sense; it was far too late to call it back now.

“Is it promised to someone already? I will pay more for it.”

“No.” Papa would call her foolish for this stubbornness but Domenico's careless assumption that he could walk in and claim her painting was more than her temper would abide. “It is not promised to anyone. But you cannot have it.”

The smile that spread across his face as he glided back over to her was terrifying and enthralling all at once. She stood her ground when he stopped within a handspan of her as if testing her will and resolve. His touch as he ran his hand slowly down her arm and took her hand sent a shiver down her spine. His deep brown eyes held hers and he brought her hand to his mouth whispering over it, “Do you truly believe there is anything in this city I could want and not have?”

She could not speak nor could she look away. He did not hold her hand tightly and though she knew she should break this spell, she did not. His hand was warm on hers; soft and enticing. His eyes seemed at once both dangerous and alluring. When a slow smile spread across his face her anger began to simmer again. This was yet another game to him. Another manipulation, and not about the painting at all.

“You may not believe it,” she said, finally finding her voice. She slipped her hand out of his and stepped away with a toss of her head she hoped looked as indifferent as she tried to project, “but truth is, there are some things in this city you cannot have, no matter how badly you desire them.” She turned back to the painting, her courage nearly spent, and pulled the protective cloth over it. Though she knew she should have expected it, she still jumped slightly when he stepped up and whispered in her ear.

“Challenge accepted.”

At that moment the door from the street opened again and Papa's voice echoed into the room. Domenico turned with a gracious smile and greeting for the painter.

“Domenico! So glad I am you have come! You must meet my son, Blasio. Vinca, daughter. Go fetch some wine. Be a sweet child for your Papa. We will be in the sala.”

“Yes, Papa,” she muttered as she rushed from the room. She could still feel the touch of Domenico's hand on hers; could still feel his warm breath on her neck as he whispered to her. Both made her tremble and though she wanted to believe it was fear, she was shamed to admit it was something else entirely.

The Unveiling

The studio seemed too full with bustling bodies. Vinca stood quietly by the easel containing the portrait still hidden from view. Papá stood near the door greeting the Vettori family as they entered. Luca led the way chattering excitedly, followed by her mother, Imilia Soletti, and finally by Domenico. His expression remained respectful as he greeted Girardus’. When his gaze settled on her she felt her throat tighten and her heart pound wildly in her chest. He noticed her nervousness and though the expression was fleeting, she felt like the twitch of his mouth and the slight lift of his brow was certainly a smirk.

Papá’s words came back to her, reminding her nobody would believe in her work if she didn’t. She drew up proudly and held his gaze until he nodded politely to her and looked away. She clenched her hands at her side and swore not to let him see her so nervous again.

“Is it beautiful?” Luca stood next to her eyeing the cloth covered canvas, eyes bright with excitement.

“In a few moments, you will tell me.” She smiled at the girl and motioned her to step back from the canvas.

She noticed Fina and Pietro standing in the back of the room grinning like fools and she felt a surge of warmth and confidence just from knowing they were there. Certainly there was plenty of room in Papá’s studio for more people. The room was primarily used for when he wanted to bring in a group of people to see his works on display. Today, however, his were covered and he had carefully arranged it so hers would be the focus of all eyes. Because of this, it felt far too small for her comfort. She was not used to bearing so much attention.

The room quieted and she met the eyes of each person present as she spoke. “Welcome. I have no great flair for presentation but I would like to take this moment to acknowledge the great honor of allowing me to paint a daughter of the House of Vettori.” She smiled directly at Luca. “It was truly a pleasure.” She turned then and Papá stepped up to the other side of the easel when she reached for the corner of the cloth. She tried to hide her shaking hands as she grasped her side of the cloth. On her nod, her father helped her smoothly flip the cloth away from the portrait.

Too nervous to watch the initial reactions, Vinca stepped away and stared at the floor. After several moments of silence she couldn’t stand it and glanced up at her father. His expression was certainly one she had seen before; the artist evaluating the work of a student, however she saw him nodding in approval and when he caught her eye, he offered her a smile of pride. She released a nervous breath, realizing his opinion was the one she most valued. With his approval she could face any stones thrown at her work.

She turned to Luca, who stood gaping at the portrait, her eyes wide. Finally she said, “Oh! Oh, Vinca! You made me beautiful!”

She reached a hand out to the child who took it without glancing away from the portrait and pulled her closer to examine the painting. “I did not make you beautiful, Luca. God did. I simply put it on canvas.”

Smiling down on herself, the Luca of the portrait still held the unique shapes of the girl’s face but softened slightly. Vinca had carefully smoothed out the sharp lines and softened the face that appeared harsh in adolescence but would blossom into a beautiful young woman. The dark green velvet of her dress lay perfectly against her pale skin and the waves of golden hair flowing from the crown braid atop her head caught the light and held the eye as it draped about her shoulders. The pearls and gems caught up in her hair and around her neck shone in the light of the painting as if they were real and Vinca felt a surge of pride in that particular detail. So well done were they, one almost wanted to reach out and touch them to see if they were real.

Luca squeezed her hand and turned to her mother. “Mama, do you like it? I do!”

Vinca turned to glance at Imilia Soletti awaiting her opinion of the piece. Imilia met her gaze and smiled in approval. “Very nice. You take after your father.”

The simple statement washed over Vinca and released yet another band of tension from her shoulders. The matron of the Vettori family approved and her voice would carry a great deal of weight despite being a female. The woman had a keen mind and though she would deny it with great modesty, she was a force in the political world of Siena to be reckoned with. One did not want to be on her bad side. Equally so, anyone that wished to be noticed wanted first to be noticed by her. Vinca still suspected she had been the one to first see and admire Papá’s work.

Finally she turned her gaze to Domenico. He still studied the painting, his thoughts his own and his face neutral. Luca squeezed her hand again and Vinca took comfort from the girl. Luca knew that her brother’s opinion was the one they all waited to hear and offered comfort where she could.

When he turned to Vinca he remained silent for so long she began to wonder if he were playing a game. Nervous fear gave way to irritation and the early stirrings of anger as they all waited. Unable to withstand anymore waiting she raised her head proudly, almost in defiance of his silence, and spoke directly to him.

“I hope it does meet your approval, Signore Vettori.”

His eyes narrowed and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and her anger bloomed even more. He had been playing a game. A game meant to get her ire up and prolong her nervousness. He turned then to her father and spoke. “Payment will be made upon delivery, as previously agreed.” With that he bowed to Vinca with as much respect as she had ever seen him pay her father and turned to leave the studio.

Imilia regarded her for several moments as if seeing her for the first time. Her gaze was considering and thoughtful, both of which made Vinca nervous. When she nodded politely, Vinca she was sure some decision had been made about her and feared ever finding out what it might be.

“Come Luca. It is time to go.” With another nod to Papá she turned and left the room in a rustle of brocade. Luca scrambled after her seeming suddenly like a child again rather than the young woman she was becoming.

Once they were gone Pietro rushed over to Vinca with a whoop of glee. He caught her up in an embrace that knocked the wind out of her and spun her around in a circle. When he set her down Fina rushed in and threw her arms around her as well.

“Oh Vinca! It is beautiful! The finest piece you have ever done!”

She felt her cheeks grow warm and her hands start to shake as the built up tension began to ease. “I think I need to sit down,” she muttered.

She felt a chair pressed to the back of her legs and she sat down heavily. Apparently Papá had anticipated her need before she expressed it. Fina knelt beside her clutching her hand while Pietro rubbed her shoulders. Papá came around and knelt in front of her with a smile. He reached out and laid his hand over her free one.

“You do me proud,” he said with a smile. “Such a fine piece. I knew you had gifted hands.”

“Thank you, Papá.”

He patted her hand firmly once more before he rose. “Now to find your next client.”

“What? Papá, no!” She scrambled to her feet. “I cannot. This was a fluke. I am just a woman. I cannot sell art.”

“Pah! Of course you cannot if you take that attitude!” He turned to her and shook a paint-stained finger in her face. “But you are my daughter and I know you would not back down so easily! You have painted for Vettori, one of the most powerful families in Siena, and been complimented by them.” He shrugged as he walked over and stood as if studying the portrait. “And I have a good eye for art. Once this piece is seen, and spoken of by Signora Soletti, you will be on your way to being an artist in your own right.”

Hope bloomed in her, a hope she never dared to let see the light of day. Never would she have admitted out loud that what he said she wanted. She wanted it more than anything. Was it true there was hope for a woman painter with the right support and backing? Could she carve a name of her own in the world of art in Siena?

“There is more I need to learn, Papá,” she said. She knew there were areas she was still weak in. Surely he would see it too and help her.

“Of course,” he said, already deep in thought. “You need a teacher. I will find one for you.”

“Papá, why can you not teach me?”

He laughed. “Because you are my daughter! The same things you have less skill in, I also have less skill in! I will find you a teacher that will make you a better painter than I am.”

“Papá!” She threw her arms around him and buried her face against his shoulder. “Do not say that. I can never be better than you.”

He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her out to arms length looking her in the eyes. “You nearly are already, child. Modesty has its place, now. Remember that. But not in art.” He patted her on the cheek then turned to Pietro and Fina. “Now the lot of you begone. I have to think.”

Fina grinned and grabbed Vinca’s hand and tugged her from the room with Pietro right behind them. She bounced excitedly when they entered the sala and threw her arms around Vinca again. “This is so wonderful! Such a beautiful painting! You will be an artist like Papá!”

“Do you really think I can?” She could hardly believe it might be possible. She wanted to but it seemed like such an impossible path.

“I do!”

“Papá would not tell you it was possible if it were not,” Pietro said. Then a slow smirk spread across his face. “Once you are a famous painter you will have even more musicians singing under your window.”

Her cheeks flamed instantly and she turned on her brother in shock. Fina covered her mouth but didn’t quite hide the giggle. He grinned and backed slowly away from her as she stepped toward him. “How did you--?”

“How did I know? Who did not know! He made enough noise to wake the dead.” He clasped his hands together and held them against his chest while casting his gaze skyward. “Oh my beautiful Vinca. I will sing to you and make noise and pretend nobody else can hear…” He grinned at her and she saw once more the brother teasing her to ease away the last of her tension of the day with laughter. Ever the dutiful sister she knew her part and played it, enjoying the game of their youth.

“You had better not tell anyone!” She hissed, smiling as she advanced on him.

He laughed and skirted around the trestle table set up for meals. “I think I shall only tell Anna! Surely she will keep your secret!”

“She would not remember it long enough to be a concern!” Vinca giggled.

“Really? Let’s find out!” Pietro dashed for the stairs and Vinca squealed, running after him. Fina laughed and followed, the sounds of their feet thundering up the stairs echoing through the palazzo.

Snapshot Fiction: The Night Before

“Papá, please! Please just look at it and tell me if it is bad.” She felt like a child begging for a pat on the head but more than any other time in her life she needed his reassurance now.

“Vinca, my child, whether I look at it now or tomorrow with everyone else, it is too late to change it. If you do not have faith in your work, nobody else ever will. You must believe in its worth. Only you.” He cupped his hands on either side of her face and looked her in the eyes. She drew comfort from his, a mix of green and brown so much like her own. “Tomorrow they will come to see your first portrait. You will hold your head high when you remove the cloth and you will display it proudly. Your heart and your soul are in that paint and spread across the canvas for all to see. This is why you are scared. But give them the chance and they will see what I see; the beauty you have created with those two greatest of tools. Do not question. Do not doubt. Know your work is great and others will know it too.”

“But Papá, what if he hates it? It will cost you three paintings.”

“Pah! If he hates it, then he is a fool with no eye for beauty and for his three paintings cost I will throw dung at a canvas and have them framed! He will know not the difference!” He kissed her forehead as he had done all her life when she needed his comfort and she found that simple gesture more comforting than any of his words.

“Tomorrow you will present Signorina Luca’s portrait and it will be the greatest day of your life. Trust your Papá.”

“I trust you, Papá.” He smiled and patted her cheek before stepping away. “Now, you have spent too much time in this room. Off to sleep with you.” He waved his hand at her ushering her out of the studio. She glanced one last time to the painting carefully covered with cloth waiting its unveiling in the morning.

Her steps echoed in the sala as she crossed it, the light from oil lanterns casting living shadows across the terracotta floor. Rather than go up to her chamber, however, she found her way to the garden. Silver light gilded the trees and bushes and glowed on the water flowing in the fountain. She sat on the stone bench next to the fountain and trailed her fingers in the cool water.

Whenever her chaotic thoughts would not let her rest, she found herself in the garden. Often she found comfort and peace there when it would be found nowhere else. She realized that of all the things different between their home in Piombino and Siena it was the greenery she missed the most. Houses of stone and stucco crowded along narrow streets and flowed over the hills in Siena. Within the city walls there were few trees. Many of the palazzos, even the small ones like theirs, had walled in gardens. Islands of life and greenery where one could find peace away from the crowds and bustle of city life. In Piombino trees still lined the streets and flower boxes bursting with color hung from every window. Wherever one walked in Piombino the sounds and sights of the sea were to be found as well. In Siena, even if one were up high in the hill city, all that could be seen were roofs and streets.

She missed the ability to leave the city as well. Now one could walk all day and never pass out of the city wall, or so it seemed. And even after passing through the wall, there was more city beyond! She wanted to be able to walk in a field or to go riding again with the wind pulling at her braid. Surely there was grandeur to be found in the city, but she did miss the simplicity of the small seaside town.

She sat there in the garden for some time enjoying the scents of the lilacs drifting around her and the song of the water in the fountain. Much as she tried to find solace, her thoughts kept returning to the next day when her painting would be revealed. No others had seen it yet except her. When she had laid down the last brush stroke and stood staring at it for nearly an hour she felt confident she had created a painting worthy of presenting to the Vettori family. As the days passed and the unveiling drew near, however, doubts crept in and clawed at her confidence, wearing it to nothing until she could hardly sleep at night.

Her imagination conjured any number of humiliations for her when her inadequate painting was presented to Domenico. Part of her wanted the treacherous sun to remain hidden so she would not have to reveal her painting while another part of her wanted it to be over with at last. Her stomach felt so knotted and her throat so dry from nerves she felt sure she would never feel well again.

She closed her eyes forcing her thoughts away from the following day and letting it drift, carried by the sounds of the city outside the wall. So late there was little to be heard; the occasional cart as it rattled along with a late night burden, laughter from a home nearby echoing loudly as it escaped a suddenly opened door and muffled once more when the door closed. Strains of music drifted to her and she focused on that.

She smiled when she recognized the words sung so gently with the music. Some clever musician had set one of the poems of Il Canzoniere to music. She adored the poetry of Petrarch and Il Canzoniere was one of the few books she owned. A gift from her father long ago that was special beyond words. She found herself mouthing the words as they echoed in the street beyond the walled garden.

She opened her eyes again and stared at the wall, puzzled, when she realized the voice singing seemed familiar, and oddly close. She rose from her seat and crept out of the garden to the servant entrance just inside the palazzo. The door opened quietly letting her out to the servant gate in the back wall. She pushed it open as easily, grateful there were no creaks or squeals that might alert someone in the palazzo. When she peered around the corner she spied a familiar body standing in the street below her window, lute in hand.

She smiled and waited patiently for him to finish his song. He stared at the window a moment more then turned away, his every movement showing his disappointment and rejection.

“A lovely tune. How sad that no response came from the window,” she said just loud enough for Marin to hear.

He looked up and she saw him smile in the dim light. He hurried over to her, swinging his lute over his back. “Vinca! You did hear.”

“Shhh!” She hushed him and looked nervously over her shoulder. “You will wake someone. Please.”

He took her hands in his and kissed each of them causing her to blush. “I would wake the world for a moment with you.” Despite his vow, however, she noticed he kept his voice low.

“I see your words are as sweetened as the last time we met.”

“They speak true, though. Your beauty would capture even the stony heart of Atlas and cause him to drop the heavens from his shoulders.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I think the sweetening has been poured too thick.”

He smiled and pulled her hand to his chest and held it there. “Perhaps but since I so seldom get to speak them to you I must provide you only my best.”

“Marin, you must not be here. If Agneta were to find you there would be trouble.”

“Where else would I see you?” He caressed her cheek and she felt the rough calluses of his fingers. She knew she should send him away. Agneta would never approve of a shameful musician showing up under the windows of the palazzo. Why the woman was convinced that any music that was not singing the praises of God would poison the mind of the listener with sin.

She jumped and peered into the darkness beyond the servant’s gate when a door within the palazzo closed heavily.

“Marin-“

“Shh.” He laid a finger over her mouth and smiled. “If stolen moments are all I shall have then I will take them and keep them locked up tight. I will bring you another song tomorrow night. Meet me here. You must promise me.”

“Marin, no, I cannot.”

He smiled wider and leaned in close. She turned away and he kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Here,” he whispered. “Tomorrow night. Let me gift you with a song.” With that he let her go and hurried down the street, his steps echoing into the darkness.

She rested her hand on her cheek where he had kissed her and tried to puzzle out the myriad confusion of emotions. She found his attention flattering, there was no mistaking that. Surely someone as handsome as he with such a golden voice could charm many a woman. She found it surprising he had turned his attention to her.

She glanced down the street one last time then hurried back into the palazzo. She wanted to meet him tomorrow night. If she were caught surely Agneta would punish her. The thought of defying her even so small an amount was a thrill. Almost as exciting as the thought of seeing Marin again.

She laid her hand on her cheek once more still feeling the brush of his lips against her skin and smiled as she made her way silently to her room.

Snapshot Fiction: The Sitting

“Painter-girl, how long does it take you to paint a portrait? Will it be ready before the Masquerade?”

Vinca grit her teeth and hoped Luca couldn’t see her irritation. She very much wanted to say it would go much faster if Luca would learn the value of silence. “It takes as long as it takes,” she said serenely, mixing a dark green to mimic the girl’s dress. It had taken two full sittings of arguing with the child and her chaperone to convince them she needed to be wearing colors more complimentary to her complexion. Of course they wouldn’t believe her until Papá told them. Obviously she was just the “painter-girl” and didn’t know what she was talking about!

“What kind of answer is that? Do you not know?”

The smooth stroke of the brush along the canvas soothed Vinca’s thoughts and for several moments she forgot about the young woman sitting on the chair draped with silk before her.

“Painter-girl, I asked you a question!”

“I have a name,” Vinca replied quietly, refusing to acknowledge the question.

Luca seemed taken aback. “I am aware of that.”

“Then use it, or I will not answer you.” More mixing and soon a layer of lighter green started to grown on the canvas showing the highlight of the rich fabric of the gown.

“You must answer me,” Luca said.

“Speaking is not required to paint.”

Silence greeted that statement and Vinca glanced around the canvas at Luca. The girl seemed to be considering her words with more thought than she expected.

“My apologies, Vinca,” she said, suddenly seeming more adult than she had at the beginning of the conversation. Odierna, her aunt and chaperone, tried to hide a smirk but did not insinuate herself into the conversation. Vinca wondered if Luca’s spoiled tongue were an issue they were already having. Compared to others she had encountered, though, Vinca found Luca to be rather mild in her temperament, despite her occasional tendency. She expected that eventually Luca’s behaviors would shift from spoiled child to outspoken adult and she did not envy the rest of the family in dealing with the woman she would become. She was already proving to be quite intelligent which could be considered inappropriate for a woman all by itself without the addition of a sharp tongue.

“Your portrait should be completed by the time your family’s masquerade happens,” she said, well aware of the mid-summer party already planned at the Vettori estate in the country. Luca was so excited about it she brought it up at least once during every sitting. The progress on the portrait went well enough, Vinca felt confident it would be ready within the week.

“My mask is a butterfly!” Once more Luca was a girl, the maturing young woman she had been a few moments before thrust aside in her excitement. “It has sheer silk for wings and ribbons and pearls!”

“You are not supposed to tell anyone what mask you wear beforehand.” Vinca smiled at the girl’s exuberance. Surely everyone in Siena knew what mask she would be wearing! “The game is to guess who is behind it.”

“Oh Vinca, everyone will know it is me! Bartolo says I will look more like a stick with butterfly wings than a girl!”

“I think you listen too much to what Bartolo says. Sometimes brothers like to pick at their sisters.”

“Domenico never says things like that.”

She had no answer to that, preferring to avoid him as a topic altogether, and focused more on the painting. After several moments of silence Luca spoke again. It seemed she couldn’t bear to go too long without some sort of noise, even that of her own voice.

“What mask will you wear?”

“For what?” Vinca asked, her thoughts focused completely on the shading of the sleeve.

“For the masquerade! You have to have a masque.” Her tone seemed so firm and sure Vinca almost felt guilty about deflating her enthusiasm.

“I am not wearing one. I am not attending the masquerade.”

“But you must! Odierna! She must attend.”

The old woman looked up as if this was the first she was aware of the conversation taking place. “Attend what?”

“The masquerade. Have you not been listening?”

The woman chuckled. “Obviously not, child,” and she turned her attention back to the knitting in her lap.

Luca huffed and slapped her hands down in her lap. “You have to come, Vinca.”

“Shhh.. Please be still so I can paint, Luca.” She waited for the girl to settle back into place before continuing. “It would not be appropriate for me to be at such an event.”

“Why not?” Vinca could almost feel the girl’s stare boring through the canvas. Sometimes she found it startling how wise Luca was in some areas and yet so immature in others. However there was only so much to be expected of a child barely thirteen years old.

“My social standing is far below those who would attend such an event at your family’s estate,” she explained.

The silence from Luca began to bother her and Vinca peered around the canvas to study the girl’s expression. She wasn’t sure she liked the determined look she saw on her face. “Luca,” she said quietly and the girl looked up. “It is not an event for commoners. You are old enough to understand that.”

She did not answer but could tell by the girl’s brooding sulk that she knew what Vinca said was true. She didn’t like it, but understood the truth of it.

“I think I have enough today, Luca,” she said with a smile. She set her brush aside and pulled the protective cloth over the painting. She knew that was something else that irritated the girl but for this one she had picked up her father’s habit of keeping the work hidden from all eyes until it was complete; including his.

“Shall I come tomorrow?”

“The day after, if you please. Tomorrow there is no need to make you sit when all I shall be doing is mixing paint.” She really didn’t need the girl to sit at all any longer but she suspected the sessions had become a relief to boredom and loneliness for the child and would not cut her off from them yet. Luca’s crestfallen expression when told she shouldn’t come the next day confirmed Vinca’s suspicions.

“Very well,” she said, her obvious disappointment only slightly bordering on sulky.

“I thank you for your time escorting Luca, Signora,” Vinca offered a hand to help Odierna to her feet. The woman seemed spry for her age but more than once Vinca had seen her legs stiffen up after having sat for the length of Luca’s sitting.

The woman nodded and motioned Luca to precede her out the door. She seldom said anything, a habit which at first bothered Vinca but something she had come to suspect was just part of her personality. After they were gone she turned with a sigh to the workshop.

“You work well with her,” her father called from behind his easel. He had remained amazingly quiet through the entire sitting; so much so she had forgotten he was there.

“Thank you, Papá,” she picked up her brushes and began cleaning them.

“Now honestly, how much longer have you to go, hm?”

She smiled. He had noticed her evasive answer. “Within the week, Papá. I am unsure how to tell Luca, however. I think she has grown fond of the sittings.”

He snorted. “Of course she has! You only treat her as a child when proving a point to her. The rest of the time you treat her as a friend. I would imagine she has had precious few of those!”

She didn’t mention that she also thought the girl was looking for someone that would treat her with more kindness and respect than her brother did. It wouldn’t be proper for her to voice her opinion of the oft-mentioned Bartolo and his insults toward Luca. She could tell that each one was carefully crafted to destroy the confidence of a girl who had a budding intelligence and will that would put many men to shame.

“I daresay she may wish to continue to visit when the portrait is done.”

Vinca heard the question in the phrasing and thought about it for several moments. Perhaps it would be good for the girl to continue their friendship. Fina had met her briefly too and seemed to like her. Supposing her family didn’t mind her spending time with them perhaps she would like to return on occasion. “I think that would be lovely,” she said honestly. “She has times when she is very aware of her status above us but not as often as many I have seen.”

Papá smiled and nodded. “Excellent. I will be sure it is made clear that she is welcome to visit my daughters if she should so desire.”

“Papá, what if my painting is not good enough?”

“If you believe it will be, then so shall it be. If you believe it will not, then so shall it be.” He disappeared again behind his canvas and she sighed. When seeking reassurance, sometimes he was not the best at giving it.

“Thank you, Papá. May I go?”

The grunt from behind his easel seemed to be assent and she left the room, still nervous about the quality of her own work, even though it was nearly complete.

Snapshot Fiction: A Sister's Wish

Several sticks of freshly sharpened charcoal lay on the table next to an untouched sheet of paper. The blank canvas stood on the easel nearby glaring down at the lack of progress in Vinca’s work. As Papá bade her, she found the face she wanted to paint but a nagging voice of propriety told her it would not be appropriate for her to paint the face of the brash musician. His behavior towards her was downright shameful and if anyone ever found out about it a fierce tongue-lashing from Agneta would be the mildest reprimand she could hope for.

There was so much character in that face, though. It cried out to be painted; captured forever on canvas. If she put charcoal to paper this moment she felt sure she could capture the fire and joy of his personality. She couldn’t hide the smile as she remembered his voice and the touch of his hand on hers. Maybe nobody else would recognize him.

She thought of Pietro. The face would not escape his notice. What would he think? Would he think her shameful for entertaining thoughts of Marin? Could she convince him it was nothing more than simply a face she wanted to paint? Perhaps she could keep him from seeing it.

She set the charcoal in her hand next to the others on the table and just sat there for several moments, her hands in her lap.

“It does not speak to you today, does it?” Her father called from behind his canvas.

“No Papá. Not today.” She hoped her voice didn’t reveal the lie hidden beneath. He would believe the face was simply the one she found most interesting to create in paint but it was not his opinion she feared.

“Perhaps after church I will point out some interesting faces to you on the way home, hm?”

“What will I do until then? That is two more days away. Besides, just glancing at someone in passing is not enough. I need some time to study the face.”

She could almost sense his shrug as he spoke though she couldn’t see him behind his canvas. “Perhaps you could… embroider… something?”

She grimaced and wrinkled her nose. “Papá! You know I don’t like embroidery! I have no hand for it. Even Agneta has declared me useless with a needle.” And she wouldn’t tell him that her darling sister, whom she loved more than anyone in the entire world, told her it looked like a drunken donkey had done her embroidery for her.

He chuckled and she realized the tease.

“As for needing more time, child, I have seen you sketch a face after just watching them pass the window. Your memory for people is far greater than mine, I fear. However if you must put aside working on a portrait for today, then just sketch something. Anything. It does not matter. Just let your hands and thoughts wander.”

With a sigh and trying not to sound sulky she took up the charcoal stick once more and answered, “Yes, Papá.”

At first she stared at the paper again simply wondering why Papá had been pushing her so hard recently to create. In the weeks since they moved into the palazzo it seemed as if he pushed her harder than ever with her painting. Surely he realized she could never do anything but entertain herself with it! Art was the man’s world and there was no place in it for her. Why if he didn’t have such a powerful man protecting him, allowing a woman, even his own daughter, in his workshop would be a death sentence to his art.

If only she had been born male she would be free to follow her father. What a cruel thing to give her such love of the work but put it in a female body. While her thoughts wandered she let her hand guide the charcoal in quick, sharp strokes. Even as she brooded, lines took shape under her hand and she didn’t realize what she had drawn until her father stood over her shoulder nodding in approval.

“Well done,” he said and she looked down at the face staring back at her. “Your memory works well when you do not think about it. And though this is a fine sketch I think it would be prudent for you to choose another subject to paint, hm? This one seems to be presented rather fiercely and I would not like for him to take offense.”

Domenico’s face glared at her from the paper, his visage fearsome. Dark shadows sharpened his piercing gaze and gave him a more terrifying face than she would have dared to draw consciously. She dropped the charcoal and hastily rolled up the paper when the door from the street into the workshop opened and Papá turned to greet the visitor.

She tried not to stare at the girl that stepped into the room but there was something about her that held her attention. If someone were being kind her face would be called plain but Vinca realized most commonly she would be considered homely at best. The girl’s features were long and her chin jutted out prominently. Her nose was sharp and resembled a beak while her eyes seemed too small in her face. Pale skin and hair was washed out by an equally pale yellow over dress. Vinca frowned thinking the girl’s complexion would be much better suited to dark jewel tones or tones of the earth.

When she stepped further into the workshop she gazed around with polite interest, waiting for two older women to follow behind her. She moved with the awkward motions of a youth that has suddenly sprouted too much leg over a summer and didn’t quite know what to do with their feet. As she studied the girl it occurred to her that her homeliness was more a lack of physical maturity. Vinca stared at her trying to picture what she would look like when her face and form filled out replacing the awkward form of adolescence.

The girl turned then and met Vinca’s gaze unflinchingly and she found herself staring into eyes that seemed vaguely familiar in their intensity. She realized where she had seen them before when Domenico stepped into the room mere paces behind the other visitors. She quickly averted her gaze and tried to wish herself hidden from them.

She picked up the charcoal and focused on another sheet of paper, sketching quick lines of the fountain she had seen in the square, as Papá greeted Domenico. Distantly she registered the introduction of Imilia Soletti, the name she recognized as the matron of the Vettori family. The girl was introduced as Luca, the youngest daughter and Domenico’s sister. Vinca didn’t hear an introduction of the other woman because a voice at her elbow drowned out the conversation near the door.

“Did you draw that?” The voice was young but not as high pitched as she expected and she turned to nod politely at the girl next to her.

“I did,” she said quietly, meeting the girl’s gaze.

The girl studied the drawing for several moments more. “You know it is not proper for a woman to do the work of a man.”

Vinca tried not to tense up defensively as she shrugged. “It is only a sketch.”

“I have heard that you work here in your father’s shop and he lets you paint.” Her tone was of smug superiority and it grated on Vinca’s polite self control.

“He does let me paint to amuse myself,” she said.

“Show me what you paint.”

Not wishing to draw further attention she motioned toward the painting of the washer woman leaning against the wall. If she judged this girl correctly she would look at the painting of the commoner at labor and quickly lose interest in the work.

She was surprised when Luca approached the painting and took several moments studying it, her expression one of deep thought. Vinca watched a bevy of emotions play across the girl’s face; surprise, foremost among them. She began to get nervous when her expression slowly settled into one of determination.

“I am surprised at how well that is done, painter-girl.” She turned and pinned Vinca with that determined look. Had this girl been born male she would well be the match for her brother. “She is an old wrinkled plebian but you made her worth looking at.”

She had no response, though it seemed Luca wanted one, and she glanced nervously at her father. No help was to be found there, though, for he was deep in conversation with Signora Imilia. Without meaning to she glanced at Domenico and found him watching her and Luca in return. She couldn’t read his expression well but she felt almost sure there was a touch of amusement in his dark eyes. It made her more nervous than him looking fierce did so she returned her gaze back to Luca who seemed to be patiently waiting her answer.

“There is beauty to be found in all things created by God’s hand. One just has to look deep enough.”

Luca seemed to consider her words for several long moments again. Vinca realized she would have to take care with this child for she had a keener mind than she first expected. “Do you see beauty in my face?” She said, setting her jaw and thrusting her chin forward almost defiantly. “My brother says I have the face and form of the horses they use in the street races.”

The length of the face would lend itself to the insult and Vinca heard the pain beneath the words. Her height and long limbs would lend more credence to it for her thin frame did seem rather like that of a gangly colt. Beneath the child’s unformed features Vinca could see what the face would do once it started to fill out in adulthood. When the roundness of womanhood, which didn’t touch the girl yet, started to bloom the face would fill out. The jaw, which would always remain square and strong, would not stick out so and the fullness of her cheeks would balance the nose that seemed overly large on her face now. A dusting of charcoal on her brows would bring out her eyes making the deep brown of them stand out in her cream colored face.

She considered her words carefully before speaking because she understood what the girl was asking for. Vinca could easily imagine how many cruel taunts she had endured already and she simply wanted someone to see her differently. “You should thank your gracious brother,” she said. She continued when she saw the muscles around the girl’s eyes tighten in anger and hurt. “The horse is by far one of God’s most beautiful creatures.”

She watched the anger stop as Luca considered her words with a look of puzzlement on her face. Into the silence she continued. “When you see one, do you not agree they are beautiful? Graceful and powerful only as God Himself could create. Truly they are creatures straight from His glorious hand and it is so very kind of your brother to see that grace and beauty in you. Unfortunately I have not your brother’s gift for seeing the hidden graces of God. I see, though, the handsome woman you will become and she, too, is a gift from God’s hand.”

She turned and walked away and Vinca sighed in relief, wondering if it would be too noticeable if she slipped from the workshop and out of sight. Her relief was replaced by horror when she heard Luca speaking firmly to the gathered adults.

“I want her to paint my portrait. The painter-girl.”

She flicked a frightened glance at her father who peered at Luca for a moment then nervously glanced to Domenico. He said something quietly but Vinca couldn’t hear him and wasn’t sure she wanted to when Domenico turned and stared at her. He turned his attention back to Luca and said in a voice just loud enough for Vinca to hear, “Girardus is the painter. She is just his daughter and nobody of import.”

Luca drew up to her full height, which Vinca noted was nearly equal to her own, and stared straight at her brother. “I want her to paint my portrait.”

“Signorina Luca, I swear I will capture your beauty as it should be in your portrait,” Papá said in his calmest voice.

Vinca half expected Luca to stamp her foot and found herself mildly surprised when she did not engage in such a show of childish dramatics. “There is no need to try and flatter me, painter. I know what I look like. Bartolo reminds me regularly.” She thrust her arm out, pointing at Vinca and all eyes landed on her. She felt her throat tighten and her hands begin to shake. “She does not see me like that. I want to see what she sees.”

Domenico looked at Vinca again and she wished she could decipher the look in his eyes. “Women do not do the job of men,” he said, watching her. “It would be shameful to encourage such unbecoming behavior. It is the source of street gossip that she is even allowed in a workshop with brush in hand.”

Vinca felt her face grow warm and she found it difficult to tell if it was from embarrassment or anger. She stood from her stool and spoke before she even realized what she was saying. “Would it not be even more shameful to deny the will of God?”

Her words caught Domenico off guard and she continued while she had the advantage. “Many of the greatest artists are said to have God in their hands, my father included, for their ability to create. Their gift of art comes straight from Heaven and His blessing. Why, isn’t God the greatest creator of all; ‘In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.’ In all His glory and His power how could one simple girl of no import have a gift to create images of the beauty of His creations unless He so chose to bestow it? Does it not hold then that it would be a denial of His generosity not to use His gift?”

She saw his eyes narrow and he would have responded if Luca hadn’t wrapped both of her hands around his and looked up at him with the most woeful expression Vinca had ever seen. She would have laughed at how skillful the girl was if she hadn’t been seething inside with anger. “Please, Domenico? If the painting is terrible then the real painter can do one. And you will not have to pay for it if is awful. There will be no harm done. Please?”

He watched his sister for a moment more before turning his steely gaze on Vinca then her father. “When it comes out wretched you will owe me three portraits for the price of one.” He gave no time to answer before turning to leave the workshop. His mother nodded politely at Girardus who bowed to her, a bit shaken. She then turned and nodded at Vinca and she was almost sure she saw admiration and amusement buried deep beneath her serene expression. “Odierna will bring you home when your sitting is complete,” she said to Luca. “I would advise you to sit well and still since you chose the painter.”

Luca nodded meekly, her hands folded demurely in front of her. “I will, mama. Thank you.”

“Do not thank me. Thank your brother.” She smiled slightly and flicked a glance at Vinca then focused on Luca again. “I am quite sure he will wish to have a conversation with you later.” She held out her hand to Girardus who bent over it with as much grace as any courtier. “Good day to you, Girardus. I look forward to your portraits.”

“Good day to you, Signora Imilia.”

As gracefully as she had entered the room, she left and Vinca felt extremely grateful she would not be in Luca’s shoes for that conversation.