Struggles Within

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Geminiano! They are dogs of the Florentines!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think about him, don't you?”

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

“I do not...”

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

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

She shrugged. “You watch him too.”

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

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

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

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

Angels and Demons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OT: Style Change

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

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

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

As always, comments and suggestions are welcome.

~Vinca's author

Letter to Francesca from Vinca - IV

To Francesca de Savona

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vinca