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.

Snapshot Fiction: Visitor in the Darkness

A soft breeze tugged at Vinca’s long hair as she sat upon the thin cushion resting on the window seat. The casement window opened to the night air letting in the breeze as well as the sounds and scents of the city beyond. The palazzo sat up the side of one of the hills of the city giving Vinca a view of the rooftops of the city as it flowed down the hill. She could also see the line of the narrow street in the darkness. Pools of orange oil lamp light broke the shadows of the street at regular intervals until it disappeared around a corner. The street wasn’t lit exceptionally well but enough so those deep in their wine could likely find their way without tripping over their own feet. Or so they could be found when they passed out in the middle of it.

Flickers of light dotted the city and Vinca gazed from point to point, her thoughts wandering as randomly as her eyes. She had tried to sleep but her mind raced and would not let her rest. She could still feel Marin’s warm hand on her back and hear his voice in her ear. After the party where she first met him she never dreamed she would see him again. He was certainly bold. She tried to dismiss him for it; it was downright disgraceful the way he pulled her close to him. Though she would only admit to herself that she found his behavior rather thrilling.

“At last! In the darkness I find my guiding light! Milky white skin surrounded by golden brown hair beckons to me.”

Vinca started and peered into the shadows of the street. Movement beyond the lamplight drew her attention a moment before Marin stepped into the glow. “Marin!” She hissed, looking nervously over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

He smiled and waved his arms wide. “I have come for you! Your beauty draws me like the sun draws a flower.”

“You have been in the wine! Silence your noise. You will wake the house!” She tried to keep her voice low and winced at the way his voice echoed through the street.

“I did promise to come for you, my Vinca, and here I am. Shall I sing you a song?” He fumbled his lute off his back and nearly fell to the street when he lost his balance.

“You can hardly walk, much less play, you are so full of drink. Begone! Before you are found. My brother will have no mercy on you!”

“I am full on the wine of your beauty, fair lady! Open your door for me and I will show you!”

The door between her room and Fina’s opened suddenly and she jumped, her heart racing as her sister walked in rubbing sleepy eyes. “Tell your musician that others are trying to sleep!” She muttered.

“He is not my musician!” Vinca hissed in return. “And he will not leave!”

“Throw something at him then. I want to sleep! And if he is found Agneta will beat you and make you kneel in prayer for hours! She will be convinced you tempted him to this house.”

“I did no such thing!”

“I will climb to you! Leave your window ajar and I will come to you.”

Vinca stuck her head out. “No! No you must not!” He stood next to the wall of the palazzo staring up at her. “Go away. You must go!”

Fina stuck her head out the window as well. “Begone from here or I will set the dogs upon you!” Vinca cast a puzzled look at her sister. “I mean it!” Fina continued. “They are fierce and you will not survive. They will pick their teeth with your lute!”

“Who is there? What is the noise about?” Both girls and Marin turned to the angry voice further down the street. Marin suddenly looked nervous.

“I will return another time, my Vinca. Tonight I will content myself with dreams of your beauty!” He threw her a kiss and disappeared into the shadows again.

When he was completely out of sight and the street seemed quiet once more, Vinca pulled the window shut before turning on her sister. “Dogs? We have no dogs!”

Fina shrugged and grinned. “And he will only know that if you tell him.”

Later Vinca would be surprised that neither the shouts in the street nor their fiendish giggles woke up anyone else in the palazzo. Once the laughter quieted she made her way in the darkness back to her bed. She felt Fina crawl in the other side and made room for her sister. “My room is too quiet. I am not used to being in it alone.”

Vinca reached out and stroked her sister’s hair. “I know. It seems so empty in here as well.”

“Someday I will have to leave and share my room with a husband. You know Agneta is looking for one for me.”

“I know. If Papá would permit it she would be looking for another for me as well.”

The bed shook with Fina’s stifled giggles. “I do not think she would have to look far. It seems there is a musician who fancies you!”

“Hush!” Vinca nudged her sister in the darkness. “Agneta would never approve of Marin. She thinks musicians spread sin with their music. And he is disreputable! Wandering about drunk and shouting outside my window! It’s shameful.”

“You like him.”

“Go to sleep.”

Fina giggled and tugged on the sleeve of Vinca’s chemise. “You like him! You liked him coming to your window and calling out to you! ‘Oh my Vinca, I am drunk on your beauty!’”

“Hush!” Vinca pulled her pillow out from behind her and struck her sister with it, muffling her voice but creating a fit of giggles. “You will wake the house,” she hissed, glad her sister could not see her burning cheeks in the darkness. She did enjoy the attention but would not admit that to her sister. Marin’s words fluttered in her chest leaving her with a warm feeling that she clung to.

She felt Fina roll over to lie on her side. “You do like him,” she said quietly, her tone serious. Vinca shrugged, the rustle of her chemise the only response in the dark. “Oh Vinca. Agneta would never permit it.”

“Hush. I know. It is just a fanciful thought. That is all.” She sighed and pulled the light blanket up over her. “We should sleep now. I am working with Papá in the workshop tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Fina leaned over and kissed her sister’s cheek. “I will pray for you. Perhaps God will find a way for you to have your musician.”

“Thank you, sister. Good night and God bless.”

“Good night, sister.”

Snapshot Fiction: Celebration at Piazza del Campo

The sounds of the crowd in Piazza del Campo could be heard long before they emerged from the shaded street into the grand square. Bodies bustled around them as they emerged into the sunlight and Vinca stared in awe at the crowds. Musicians, jugglers and a variety of vendors selling everything from food to ribbons milled among the people who turned out for this impromptu festival. She had heard that during Carnivale or the horse races that took place through the streets and square at other times of the year that the crowds and noise were overwhelming. She had seen festivals and celebrations in Piombino but nothing as spectacular as this.

Raucous voices competed with music and the cries of sellers hawking their goods. Papá skillfully led her and Fina away from where the street poured more traffic into the square and into an open space near a great fountain. Vinca gawked openly at the fountain, marveling at the bas-reliefs surrounding it and the crystal blue water within. The white marble shone in the light and she carefully studied each form carved lovingly into it. She clearly recognized the Madonna but some of the other figures puzzled her.

“How lovely!” Fina gasped, reaching out to touch the pale stone carvings. Pietro slowly walked up the stairs surrounding the fountain studying it carefully. Papá smiled and let them explore for a few moments before motioning Vinca over to him.

“You recognize the Madonna?” She nodded. He motioned with his hand then, taking in some of the other forms. “Those are virtues, some Christian and some from the Greek. And do you see those two figures? The nudes?” She nodded, her cheeks blushing slightly at the two nude women displayed so boldly. Each held two babes and she wondered at the scene they depicted. “They are Rhea Silvia and Acca Larentia, the mothers of Romulus and Remus.”

“The founders of Rome!” Vinca studied the relief with more interest now. “How do you know this, Papá?”

He shrugged. “An old man was telling tales one day while I was listening. You see those on the left? The creation of Adam. And on the right. Adam and Eve’s banishment from Paradise.”

"Papá, this is magnificent! We had nothing this spectacular in Piombino!” Fina skipped up the steps to where Pietro stood behind the fountain using the extra height to look out over the Piazza.

“Beautiful, is it not?” Vinca started at the voice suddenly at her side and turned to see the smiling face of Marin, the lute player, from the celebration at the Vettori palazzo. She smiled easily and nodded.

“It is exquisite. I have never seen its like.”

“Sometimes I come and spend my whole day here playing my music for the Madonna. I like to think she appreciates the effort.” He strummed the strings of the lute, the sounds gentle and drifting through the crowd. Several people turned to watch him expectantly.

Vinca reached out and touched the instrument. “Will you play now?”

He frowned, though his eyes twinkled belying the falsehood of the expression. “I am unsure. I have already played soooo much today.”

“Please?” She could sense the game he played. He wanted to play a song for her; she could tell by the way his fingers drifted over the strings. “Just one would brighten the day.”

“Oh yes! Please play!” Fina joined them, pulling Pietro over as well. He eyed the musician warily but seemed amused by the exchange.

“Oh sweet ladies, the sound of your voices is such beautiful music of its own, I would not wish to drown it out with the tones of my poor instrument!”

“Will you please play?” Vinca smiled, enjoying the way he smiled at her when he spoke. She felt no discomfort meeting his eyes and could gaze into their depths all day. “Play for me,” she said quietly. “And my sister. Play for us.” She corrected, realizing how her brother now watched her.

Marin ran his fingers casually across the strings, bringing forth golden tones with so little effort. “For you. I will play and sing.”

The song began simple enough and like the ones she used to hear from the simple musicians in Piombino it told a tale of woe and lost love. If she had to admit to it later, Vinca would have in all honesty had to say she didn’t pay much attention to the song itself. She found herself endlessly fascinated by the expressions of Marin’s face. She carefully studied the way it moved as he sang. Each emotion he portrayed in the song flowed across it fluidly and each one was distinct and recognizable. His face was so mobile it seemed ever in motion, ever changing, and while it retained his look, it was never precisely the same twice.

He noticed her intense scrutiny and grinned, singing directly to her for a moment before turning back to the crowd that had begun to gather around them. Soon a pipe player joined in the melody, the bell-clear tones weaving around his lute. They moved easily into a lively country song that drew in a tambourine player. Soon the song brought out dancers and with a laugh Fina grabbed Pietro and drew him into the circle of dancers swirling about.

Vinca laughed and clapped with the music, watching her brother and sister. Soon a strong hand took hers and tugged her into the dance. She laughed in surprise when Marin led her to dance, his lute now hanging across his back. She looked around and noticed the number of musicians in this part of the square had increased when the dancing began.

“You stopped playing,” she said, barely audible over the music.

He shrugged and turned her before placing his arm around her waist and moving into the next step of the dance. “There are enough players now my music is not needed.” He tightened his arm around her and pulled her against him briefly. “And at the moment I prefer to be right where I am.”

She felt her face redden at his forward behavior and moved away, careful to keep a respectful distance between them. He caught the movement and squeezed her hand as he spun her away from him then pulled her back to face him. “Shy are we? Are you modest for me or those surrounding us?”

She glanced around nervously afraid Pietro or Papá might have seen how close she had been to Marin. “It isn’t proper,” she whispered.

He laughed again and pulled her to him, brushing ever so lightly against her before stepping away again. She felt her face redden more. “It is only a dance,” he grinned. He leaned in close and whispered to her, “Or shall I come to you and dance for you in darkness.”

She pulled away from him and swallowed her embarrassment. She could not form words to chide him for his scandalous behavior and she would not admit that she found the offer as flattering as it was shocking. Before her thoughts could wander down other dangerous paths about him Pietro took her hand and turned a slashing glance on the musician. “Father says we should go now. The rowdy crowds are coming out.”

Marin smiled broadly at Pietro and bowed ever-so-elegantly to Vinca. “I thank you for the dance, fair lady. I will hold it to me in my dreams this evening.”

“You are quite welcome,” she managed to choke out. She was still watching Marin when Pietro took her hand and tugged her toward their father. Her brother wasn’t watching when the lute player winked at her and whispered only loud enough for her to hear, “I will come for you.”

She turned away still blushing and followed ever closer to her brother unsure if Marin was serious or simply flirting and just as undecided which she wanted.

Snapshot Fiction: In The Workshop

“Good! Very good. The lighting on the vase is quite well done, Vinca. Now just a bit more blending on the surface of the table. Do you see how sharp it is?” Vinca studied the section of the painting Papá pointed at and dutifully blended out the sharpness between the colors. She frowned in thought as she did so. She rather liked the sharpness; it was her own attempt to emulate Simone Martini’s style using the art of outline. Papá, however, preferred a more realistic style and a daring use of light and shadow. Vinca believed that the appropriate path for her would be to follow the styles of the greatest artists rather than to reinvent a style of her own. She sighed and touched up a smudge of color she was unhappy with. As a woman, there was little hope either way of her paintings being anything beyond something she did for her own entertainment. Fortunately Papá let her indulge her love of the art.

“Lovely. Very good.” He smiled and nodded then patted her shoulder before returning to his own painting standing vigil on the easel in the corner. He kept it carefully turned from her, not wanting anyone to see his works before they were complete. Oft times as children, her brothers would talk about sneaking into Papá’s workshop just to dare the one law in the home that there was no breaking. She never would, however, for while she did not share the habit with her Papá, she could understand the desire to keep the work hidden until complete.

“You will be done with that one soon, yes?” The question was casual and she glanced at him watching him adjust his painting and easel unnecessarily. Though he would deny it, it was as close to a command as he would ever get with her paintings. He thought she had worked it enough (overworked it he would more likely say) and wished for her to try her skill on something else.

She forced a smile and nodded. She didn’t feel it was done well enough to be complete yet but he would ask the same question several times a day until she declared it complete. It would be a great deal simpler to call it finished, scrape the canvas, and begin whatever he wished her to work on this time. “I think so, Papá. I would like to show Pietro before scraping it this time, however. I rather like the lilacs.”

“Oh no! No, child. Do not scrape it this time. I have another canvas for you. That one is finely done and I have someone else in mind to show it to. Do set it aside if you would please.” He caught her eye from behind his canvas and simply raised a bushy eyebrow at her when she opened her mouth to protest. She closed it again, no words spoken, and added one last slashing stroke to the painting before setting it against the wall to dry. “That’s a good child. Now fetch that canvas I’ve set out by the rack. That is for you.”

“Yes, Papá.” Seldom did she get a clean canvas to work with, often scraping her own failed works off one or using one her father had scraped so often of his own he found the quality of it compromised. She wondered what he had in mind that he would give her a fresh canvas to work with. “What would you like me to practice?” She asked, setting the canvas on her easel and staring at the blank surface.

“Your still life work is adequate enough to leave off for a while,” he said after a moment, his brush moving methodically over his canvas, “but I would like to see more of your life paintings. You have a strong hand and accurate eye for the features which make each person who they are. Behind the shelving you will find your washer woman and children at play paintings. Pull them out and study them. I like those and should like to see you develop your work in such a way.”

Vinca frowned at the canvas. She remembered the paintings, the last ones she did before they departed Piombino, but she thought they had been painted over already. “Papá, you saved those? They were not very good at all and inappropriate for a woman to paint.”

He snorted. “Child, whatever your hand conjures to brush is appropriate for you to paint. I believe those came so well to you, however, because you could see them.” He leaned around his canvas again and pointed at her with his brush. “And your rendition of Jesus upon the cross was wretched. You work much better with what you can look at. Not that which you have to imagine in your mind.”

She wrinkled her nose and removed the forgotten paintings from their hiding spot, setting them up along the wall next to the one she had set to dry. “Must you always remind me of how wretched that one was?” The question was spoken with humor rather than anger for she knew her father was correct, though at the time that she completed the work he tried quite hard to give his critique of it with kindness.

He smiled an impish smile, shrugged, and returned to his work. She shook her head and turned her attention to the paintings he had so carefully retained. She had never formally titled them, simply calling them by their descriptions.

The washer woman was by far her favorite; she had seen the woman working laundry in a tub by her home in Piombino and the image had stuck in her mind so strongly she could not resist putting it on canvas. The woman was old for the area, her skin wizened and brown from the sun. Wrinkles surrounded her dark eyes and wisps of white hair escaped the braid that peeked from beneath the scarf tied about her head. The worn spots and patches on the woman’s overdress had been the hardest for Vinca to capture and at one point had to ask her father to help her with the texture of the fabric. The dust in which the woman stood and the bucket her hands were plunged into seemed relatively simple for Vinca but capturing the life of the woman, the personality of her face, took a great deal of effort.

She turned to the children at play and studied it as she had the washer woman but found it didn’t capture her as well. The children were alive and active, their colors vibrant on clothing and the ball of cloth they kicked between each other. Smiles brightened their youthful faces awash in glorious sunlight. She remembered the day she had sat sewing on the bench outside their small casa in Piombino watching the children. There was laughter and squeals of joy as only children could, but now looking at the painting she realized she had painted them, not as they appeared, but as she thought others would appreciate them. Her children were clean and well dressed with no patches of clothing nor smudges of dirt. She remembered the children at play were covered in dirt and dust with mud splattered and ground into the skin of their bare feet. Their clothing had been tattered and patched and the ball was even more tattered than their clothing. She frowned, trying to remember why she would paint the scene so different than what she saw.

“Does something bother you?” Since her back was to her father she wondered how he could know of her disturbed thoughts.

“I didn’t paint them right,” she said suddenly. “These are not the children I saw.”

She heard him set his brush on the edge of the easel and walk over to glance at the painting. “Ah yes. Those boys were ragamuffins. I remember them now that you say this.” He shrugged obviously unconcerned about her lack of accuracy in the work. “Your mind saw them differently at the time.” He reached out and gently tapped the side of her head. “What you look at is a guideline but sometimes the mind wants to create something else. Do not argue with it for great art comes from the dark places we cannot see or touch freely.”

With that he returned to his easel and she heard his short bristle brush scratching texture into the paint. She pondered the painting, and his peculiar words for a few more moments before she went back to her own blank canvas and took up a stick of charcoal to begin laying out her lines. She stared at it for several moments before laying the charcoal down again with a huff. “I do not know what to paint.” She said finally.

“A person, child. I want you to paint a person. Surely you have seen someone recently that you remember well enough to paint. Someone unique. And certainly not someone you see every day.”

The sharp features of Domenico flashed briefly through her memory, his dark eyes deepset and brooding. She could see the golden highlights on his curly hair and imagine how she would recreate that color with paint and brush. The velvet doublet she last saw him in would pick up lantern light easily and the orange glow would provide an amazing contrast to the black fabric.

She shook her head, dislodging the image and stared once again at the blank canvas. “Nobody, Papá. The canvas stays blank in my mind.”

He snorted. “We will have to rectify that then. They are having a great celebration at the Piazza del Campo tomorrow. I will escort you there and we will look for someone to paint. We will take Fina too for surely there will be musicians there and I know how she loves music.”

“A celebration?” She turned to her father, the blank canvas forgotten. “For what? It is not time for Carnivale nor any other feasts that I know of. What do they celebrate?”

She saw his brush pause before he spoke. “A treaty has been signed at Lodi. Meant to still the fighting between Milan and Venice. I have heard it establishes an agreed upon border for them and confirms Francesco Sforza as Duke of Milan.”

Vinca puzzled over this. “So they celebrate in Siena?”

“Anything that stops the shedding of Italian blood is worth celebrating, child. If you take no lesson to heart, remember that one. There is no disagreement worth the spilling of blood of our brothers.”

The wars in Lombardy were well known and there were few families that had not been touched in some way by them. A series of conflicts between Milan and Venice over territory and political control. Vinca had tried to understand and quizzed her father about it once but even with his patient and gentle explanations she could never comprehend those who have so much wanting so much more. Even when they lived in the small, simple casa in Piombino where wind and water blew in through cracks around the windows and dripped through the roof, she never could have conceived of harming another to gain more. To take a life was a sin against God and surely damnation in His eyes. To willfully kill so many? Especially those whom you may share blood with? The very thought was foreign to her.

“There you are!” She was startled out of her thoughts by Fina sticking her head through the doorway, her dark hair escaping her braid. She smiled brightly at Papá before turning to Vinca. “Agneta said the cook needs our help in the cucina. She sent me to fetch you.”

“Well! Off with you then! I’ll not have my dinner spoiled by a lack of hands!” Papá grinned at the girls and waved Vinca from the room. She nodded and heard him call after she left the room, “And tell your sister what we are doing tomorrow! If you keep it from her she will never forgive you!”

Fina tugged anxiously on her sleeve as they went up the stairs to the attic. “What? What are we doing tomorrow?”

Snapshot Fiction: Doubts

The pale wooden brush glided through Fina’s dark hair. Vinca stared at the strands of hair her thoughts too occupied to speak. She didn’t think she would rest well this first night in the palazzo, especially with the encounter with Domenico so fresh in her mind. She chided herself again for her fear of the man. He had never done her harm and had only been generous to Papa and the family. Why just today he had told Papa that not only would he hire him to paint his family’s chapel but new portraits of them all as well. Those two tasks would pay Papa more than two year’s worth of work back in Piombino!

Whenever she tried to shed her thoughts of Domenico, however, they inevitably drifted back to him. His dark eyes dominated her thoughts and she clearly heard the deep tones of his voice. She wondered if she would still find him so frightening if he did not have so much power over her family.

“You have your head in the clouds again, sister,” Fina said with exasperation, turning her head and tangling the brush in her long hair. “OW!”

Vinca shook her head. “You did that to yourself. Hold still now. And you natter so much how am I to be expected to hear it all?”

Fina straightened where she was seated on the edge of Vinca’s bed letting Vinca untangle the mess of brush and hair. “I was asking you a question and you said nothing. Have you heard anything?”

She heard deep tones echoing off stucco walls asking her if the palazzo met with her approval. “No. I am sorry sister. You are right. My head is so full with the bustle of today I paid no mind to what you were saying. Would you please repeat it for me?”

With a huff Fina slapped her hands into her lap. “I was saying I saw Domenico here today.”

The brush stuttered but Vinca recovered quickly. “I saw him too,” she said, her voice quiet and noncommittal.

“I don’t believe I have ever seen him so clearly before. He is rather handsome. Don’t you think so?”

When being honest with herself, Vinca did have to agree with her sister’s assessment. God had graced Domenico with a face and form young women, and some old, would fan themselves over. The brown curls surrounding his face were still thick and shone with touches of gold in the light. Though his expression remained ever somber, that intensity had an attractiveness of it’s own that was difficult to deny and though she would hardly admit it, sometimes she conjured his voice in her memory just to hear the rich tones once more.

She shrugged. She would never admit her thoughts to her excitable sister. “I suppose.”

Fina sighed with theatrical enthusiasm. “Your eyes have died if you do not see it. How could you look upon him and not long to have him cast his gaze in your direction?”

Dark eyes loomed up in front of Vinca. Memories of the times she had been caught in his gaze. She shivered, a cacophony of emotions welling up inside her in a confusing mix that she could not sort through. Over all of it, however, swirled her fear of his power.

“Perhaps it is because I was so loved by my Simon. And I loved him too dearly to cast it aside.”

A quiet huff from Fina startled Vinca and she frowned at her sister for a moment before finally speaking. “What did that mean?”

“Hm?” Fina shook her head suddenly and reached back, pulling her hair over her shoulder to begin braiding it loosely for bed. “I meant nothing.”

Years of sharing their deepest thoughts left Fina an open book to her sister. There was something she was not saying to Vinca and how she slid off the bed and moved away, not meeting Vinca’s eyes said a great deal about it. “I do not believe you.”

Fina shrugged, tugging the hair into place and taking her time tying off the braid with a piece of ribbon. “Truly. A tickle in my throat is all.” When she looked up Vinca caught her gaze and held it until she slouched like a small child caught playing in the mud and stared at the floor. “I just… It just sometimes seems when you speak of Simon that you are trying to convince yourself of your affection for him. And his for you. No doubt he was a wise choice and Papa did well for you but did you truly love him so deeply? And he, you? It did not seem so to me.”

“Do not be foolish!” Vinca slid off the bed and began prowling the room pulling her own hair over her shoulder to braid it harshly as her bare feet slapped on the tile floor. “Of course I loved him. I was very fortunate. He was kind to me. He spoke gently to me.”

“I have no doubt that he was kind but kindness does not mean love. Did he tell you he loved you? Did he show you in any way?”

Vinca frowned as she stared at her sister but Fina did not back down from her. “Of course he did. This is foolish. It doesn’t matter anyway. I loved him. I was crushed when he died.” She dropped her brush on the bedside table with a clatter and stood there staring at it for several moments. She dared not admit that he had never called her beloved until the day of his death. And in fact spoke to her little until he became ill. She did not think about that or question it.

“Of course. My apologies for questioning it. I’m sure you know how it was better than I ever could.” Vinca heard the heavy door between their rooms open and Fina spoke quietly one last time before departing the room. “Does it not seem to you, however, that you must constantly remind yourself of your sorrow over his death? Though perhaps I do not see that clearly either. Good night, sister. May God hold and keep you through the darkness.”

Vinca stood there long after Fina left, her feet growing cold on the tile floor. She stared at the brush on the table, not really seeing it. She choked on the realization that sometimes it did feel like she had to remind herself of her sorrow for her dead husband. She blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness, and climbed into her bed, her thoughts a mass of confusing emotions. She lay there in the silence and tried to conjure Simon’s face and realized that she found it difficult to recall. She tried to remember the sound of his voice and found it likewise just as faded.

Long into the night she lay there troubled by her inability to recall the man she loved yet when her thoughts drifted to the man she feared, his every feature came clearly and easily to her mind.

Snapshot Fiction: At What Price?

Motes of dust drifting through beams of golden sunlight danced and shimmered, disturbed by the passing of bodies through the loggio into the sala beyond. Vinca paused to watch them dance, her mind transforming them into daylight stars with the pale stone walls as the backdrop for their antics. Her eyes wandered over the walls and traced the intricate carvings of fanciful birds around the double door entry and across the top of the walls. She followed their flight out to where the loggio turned out into the courtyard and realized they must extend all around the wall enclosing it. She made a note to study the carvings around the courtyard closer at a later time.

The rattle of cart wheels echoed into the courtyard as their belongings arrived with a small army of hired servants. She sighed, her solitude interrupted, and carefully made her way into the palazzo. Her feet moved quietly across the warm brown stone tiles of the sala and she paused to study the frescoes high on the walls surrounding the gallery on the second floor. Only two walls were complete, and a scene of Poseidon taming the thrashing waves dominated one while the other found him surrounded by his consort, the nymph Amphitrite, and several of his hero children. She could see where the artist had ceased painting for a few lines lay against the stone roughly laying out shapes for further work. It seemed that hard times had struck the former owner of this place quite suddenly indeed.

Rushing footsteps echoed on the tiles of the balcony and Vinca looked up just as her sister thrust her head over the rail, her eyes bright with excitement. “Vinca! You must come see! One of the chambers has angels! They are beautiful! Surely the artist was touched by the hand of God! It is a small room and Agneta has said I can have it!”

Vinca smiled and waved at her sister. “I will come see shortly then. I am sure it is lovely.”

“Agneta has gone to the attic to examine the cucina and servant sleeping. I must go to her now but come find me when you have chosen your chamber. Do not choose the one with the horses, though. I believe she wishes that one for Blasio and his wife when they come.”

“I promise to come find you,” she called as she waved her sister off. With an impish grin Fina waved back and disappeared from the gallery. She could hear footsteps in the chamber to the right of the sala and thought that must be her father for she remembered him describing that room as the one he would use for his workshop. To her left dark, shining wood surrounded doorways leading into another set of rooms. Surely he had plans for those as well though she couldn’t remember what they were. Her step carried her through the sala where a door at the back of the room led to a smaller room.

From that room a set of narrow stairs led from a door in the outer wall to the second floor of rooms. The stairs were dark but she could see sunken areas in the wall where lanterns or candles could be placed to illuminate it. She turned from that to the doorway in the back wall. When she opened it the scent of greenery washed over her and she smiled, stepping eagerly into the enclosed garden.

A covered flagstone walkway surrounded the garden on all sides and she walked in its shelter for several paces admiring the architecture. The scent of lilacs just coming into bloom drifted over her and she stepped out among the greenery to examine the bushes surrounding the garden. A small fountain sat dry and forgotten in the center of the grass with four stone benches surrounding it. More benches were well placed about the area among the lilac bushes. She reached out to caress one of the branches fat with budding purple flowers. She easily imagined herself spending many hours in this garden painting and enjoying the scent of her favorite flowers.

Eventually she left the garden and returned to the sala. She could no longer hear her father in the workshop but she could hear Agneta in the courtyard giving instructions to the servants delivering their belongings. She could hear Fina’s excited murmurs somewhere on the second floor. Likely chattering happily at Pietro about her chamber.

Not ready to explore the upper levels yet, Vinca moved into the workshop. The walls were bare in this large room save for a large fireplace at one end and several tall windows covered in waxed paper. Some of the windows had been opened letting the sunlight stream freely into the room and she examined it, carefully picking out where would be the best spots to set an easel for painting. Certainly there would be plenty of room for her and Papá both to work without getting in each other’s way!

The scuff of boots on tile alerted her to someone else entering the workshop and she turned expecting to find Pietro or Papá standing there. When she found herself caught in Domenico’s gaze she started and a shudder crept up her spine. She quickly cast her gaze to the floor and curtsied to him, trying to gather her composure before speaking.

“My apologies, sir. I did not realize you were there.” Her voice cracked when she spoke and she cursed herself for her fear.

His voice echoed in the empty room making it seem that much deeper and more powerful as it washed over her. “I am sure you expected to see someone of your family instead.”

She nodded her head then heard Agneta’s voice in her head admonishing her to speak her answer. “Yes sir. I expected Papá.”

He chuckled. “I am sorry to disappoint.”

She clenched her teeth against the first answer that came into her mind, determined she would not let her mouth run amok with her again, and simply stood there in silence. Careful not to stare at him, she still heard his movements and his footsteps as he crossed the floor slowly. She could see his boots when finally he stopped, so close to her she trembled, wishing fervently for her brother or father to arrive. Even Agneta would be a comfort at this moment!

“Your father told me he would be moving his family in today. So what do you think?” She glanced up briefly as he waved his hand around indicating the palazzo. “Do you approve?”

“It is quite beautiful,” she answered quietly. On that there was no doubt and she found the answer easy to speak. Her nerves kept her voice speaking when she would have preferred to stay silent but silence around this man felt dangerous to her, like a beast waiting to pounce. “The garden is lovely and peaceful. I do enjoy lilacs. And Agneta let Fina have the angel chamber as her own.”

“That one is a lovely room. I am sure your sister was hard to deny. Though I imagine she is not the only one.”

Vinca looked up, unsure what she heard in his voice and found herself caught in his gaze. His expression seemed pleasant enough; a gentleman carrying on a simple conversation. She could feel there was something deeper prowling his thoughts and there was nothing simple about this conversation. She would need to tread very carefully.

“There are also those,” he continued, his deep voice rolling through the room, “who should not be denied.”

His words seemed ever pleasantly spoken but she thought she could hear menace beneath. Perhaps it was her imagination; foolishness dredged up by her own fear of a powerful man. It was a feeling she could not discard.

“Vinca! There you are. You must come see—“ Pietro’s voice shattered the wall of silence that had built in the room around her and Domenico and she felt it wash over her like a protective balm. She should not be alone in a room with any man, though she had taken no action to permit it, but she knew her brother would not blame her for such and would stand with her now.

He paused when he caught sight of Domenico and when he caught Vinca’s eyes she knew he could tell by her face that she was grateful for his arrival. In an instant she saw her smiling brother transform to fierce protector and he focused his gaze on the man he now saw as a threat to his sister. Three long strides put him between Vinca and Domenico and he faced the man boldly.

“My apologies, sir,” he said as calmly as she had ever heard her brother speak, “We have just this day begun moving in and have no one to announce your presence. I am Pietro di Girardus Taviani, and who might I be addressing?”

Vinca dared a glance at Domenico around her brother’s broad back and saw a flicker of anger flit across his face when he met her gaze. When he turned his attention back to Pietro she saw the muscles in his jaw tighten and he spoke calmly to her brother with effort. “Domenico di Marciano Vettori.” She heard the slight emphasis on his family name and realized he must often use that to cow others who might challenge him. The brother she remembered before he traveled to Florence would have accepted the challenge and pushed back gleefully. She wondered if the man he had become would be a bit more circumspect in his dealings with those of power.

“Ah yes, father’s patron. How good of you to visit us on this happy day.” The words were proper and pleasantly spoken and no fault could be found in his manner, but anyone who knew Pietro as well as she did would hear the subtle disapproval buried deep within.

She saw Domenico’s eyes narrow as he sifted through the words seeking the insult he knew to be hidden somewhere. Her brother had spoken carefully however and after a moment he responded. “How glad I am your family is pleased with this humble dwelling. I could not, in good conscience, have my artist living in squalor, now could I? I was just discussing such with your sister.”

Vinca felt her throat close up and her mouth turn dry as ash. Domenico owned this palazzo and allowed Papá to move his family in. The way he described her father as “his” artist set her teeth on edge and she knew that he would not hesitate to claim a price for this palazzo that would be impossible for them to meet. As she suspected, it would be too high. She saw her brother’s back muscles tense at the words but his tone stayed pleasant and amiable.

“How kind of you, sir! Indeed the family is most grateful! But surely a man of your fine standing must understand that to be alone in the company of my sister could be misconstrued as impropriety and it would be dreadful to have the reputation of a man of such import questioned!” Domenico studied her brother carefully, a tic forming in his cheek. She knew he had understood the implied accusation of impropriety on his part in approaching her without her chaperone present. Pietro had become skilled with his manner in his time in Florence, however and his tone and posture belied no overt insult.

She could feel something building in the silence, like the feeling she often got back in Piombino right before a storm came sweeping in from the sea to crash down on the small town. Desperately she wanted to reach out to Pietro and draw him back from the confrontation growing in the room but she feared any movement she made might shatter the thin veil of civility both men still clung to.

Domenico caught her gaze once more and his face relaxed into that pleasant smile she had seen before. “Of course, you are right.” His gaze turned back on her brother and while Pietro did not react, she could see the rage of a man thwarted deep in Domenico’s eyes. Her brother had made a powerful enemy this day and she feared for him and the family both.

“Domenico! How good to see you, sir! Welcome, welcome!” Girardus entered at that moment, a smile as Vinca had never seen splitting his craggy face. Splotches of paint showed on his vest and pants though she knew he had touched no paint today. She suspected he did not have a single piece of clothing that wasn’t splattered or smeared with the signs of his art. Despite the tension still lingering in the room she smiled for her father, pleased whenever he was happy. She could brood later about the price of such joy.

“Girardus. Good to see you settling in so well. I hope it meets with your approval.” In that instant Vinca saw Domenico transform from predator to patron and it occurred to her that no matter what she or her brother saw, this was the only face their father would ever see; generous and kind patron. As the men spoke, she studied them and understood that Domenico did believe her father an artistic genius and truly held him in high regard. She did not delude herself in thinking that would prevent him from doing whatever he felt necessary to achieve what he wanted, however. It was a balm to know, though, that he really did appreciate Papá’s art.

“Ah, your generosity is far too great to one so unworthy as myself, sir,” her father bowed slightly to his patron as he spoke, his tone and posture carrying nothing but the greatest respect for the man before him. “I can rest easy at night knowing my family is comfortable and safe in such a fine home! Come! I believe I can scare up some wine for you and I will tell you of the feast my wife plans to celebrate this fine occasion. And I hope you will grace us as the guest of honor!”

Vinca did not hear his response for they walked from the room and Pietro immediately turned to her and grasped her shoulders, a bevy of emotions, none of them pleasant, flashing across his face. She grasped his arms, panicked to think he would believe she had invited the encounter. “Pietro, you must believe me! I have done nothing! I was alone and he came in! I did nothing!”

“Shhh…. Hush sister,” he said quietly and wrapped her in his strong arms. “I believe you. The predator needs no invitation to hunt. But do not doubt he is a predator.” Pietro stepped back and held her at arms length his green eyes full of concern. “He is dangerous. Surely you can tell that as well as I can. Be wary of him.”

She nodded. She had no response, for her own thoughts echoed Pietro’s since the first night she had met Domenico at the party.

He sighed and she could feel some of the tension drain out of him. “Come then, little sister. I will go upstairs with you and help you pick out a chamber of your own. There is one right next to Fina’s that I believe you may find to your liking. With… flowers and womanly things on the walls.”

Vinca wrinkled her nose and he smiled. He knew well she was not fond of paintings of flowers or other “womanly things” as he called them but she took his offer of escort seriously. “Be careful or I will make you help me pick out which curtains of lace to hang upon the windows.”

He chuckled and wrapped his arm about her shoulders to lead her from the workshop. She found his strength comforting and a much needed balm after her encounter with Domenico.