Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) (9 page)

Still as a statue, I stood petrified by his actions. With Idan still attached to my neck, he stared with hungry eyes and felt the delicate engravings of its shell. He was on the verge of opening it when I suddenly found my voice.

“I really must be going, Signore Medici, my Zia is waiting for me.” As if drawn out of a trance, he recoiled and recollected himself.

“The gold chain of that interesting object caught my attention … What I was going to ask you was whether or not you had paper.”

“Papers?”

“Documents that say who your parents are and if you are legally allowed in this city,” explained Lorenzo. My hand moved to my mouth as I looked down at my strange sneakers in silent terror.

“No, signore, I am afraid I don’t … What shall I do?”

“Well, you could be sold to a slave trader, sent to the gallows, expelled from the city, or we could simply write up some papers of legitimacy for you,” he finished with a wide smile. My body trembled from my lips to my toes. “I will see to it that Giuliano delivers them to you,” he finished, and then immediately turned and left the cathedral.

Leonardo and I waited a few minutes before stepping out from behind the thick walls of the cathedral that blocked the icy chill waiting for us beyond the entrance. When we stepped in the snow, I could feel the cotton of my shoes start to dampen.

“Let’s hurry, Leo, my feet will freeze.” It seemed like a good idea to try to forget about what had just happened. Talking about it would probably only make it even worse than the encounter was.

“It’s because you are wearing strange shoes. Does it snow where you come from?”

“Yes … quite a lot actually.”

“So that faraway place filled with white brides, snow, and strange shoes is England?” asked Leonardo, wrinkling his brow as we made a left down the deserted Via dei Calzaiuoli. Despite Zia’s advice to not trust anyone, I found myself naturally confiding in Leonardo.

“Didn’t you hear? I’m from England.”

“Where do you come from? You are like a fairy that has leapt out of one of those picture books they give to fair, little ladies. I don’t buy the England answer, and I don’t think il Magnifico did either.”

“
Allora
?”

“Yeah … you are at a disadvantage there,” he admitted. Snowflakes were falling and melting on his eyelashes. “All Florentines are exceptionally good at telling when people are lying.”

“But you are not from Florence!” I protested as cold water sloshed around my feet.

“But I am a fast learner.”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. The truth is, I’m not sure myself. The kidnapped part I told Lorenzo was sort of true, but it’s kind of my fault too … It’s a long story that I’ll have to tell you another time,” I explained before we halted outside Zia’s front door.

At the sound of our voices, the door immediately creaked open and with it, Zia’s expression of relief.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Fire

“Wake up child!” Giving Zia my back, I rolled over and mumbled some obstinate words. “I do not know what you are saying, but I do know you will be leaving home without a morsel of food in your belly,” she added before slamming the door hard behind her.

For a brief moment I thought she was allowing me to relive what was remaining of a very good dream. After only seconds, she strode back in carrying a bundle of clothes. “Come now … I won’t have this idleness.” Sitting up, I tried to rub some life into my eyes. “Stand up! I need to help you into this dress as the sleeves are tricky.”

“Hurry up, Viola!” hollered Leonardo from downstairs.

“You didn’t mention that Leonardo was waiting downstairs,” I said, jumping out of bed.

“Wash your face quickly,” she urged.

While I busied myself with the water and a lump of herb soap, Zia explained that Leonardo had been waiting for over fifteen minutes and was drinking his second glass of milk.

“You are too early!” I yelled back as I slipped into the second hand dress Zia had secured for me the day before.

Like my other dress, it was wool, but not as smooth, and instead of blue it was a burnt umber color. The detached sleeves slipped over the underdress and tied together.

“Perhaps, but only because I knew you would be late!” he shouted.

“I am not particularly fond of this style as I think it’s a little … too flirtatious. But it is better for working. It gives you more movement,” Zia explained while she finished tying up the sleeves.

“I will go and cut up something for you to eat quickly before you head to the workshop,” said Zia before rushing downstairs.

When she left I grabbed Idan’s chain from underneath the pillow. The date had changed to December 21 and the mysterious number that had been twenty-nine was now twenty-eight. It was clear that Idan was counting down to something, but I wasn’t sure what.

As I headed downstairs, I tucked Idan under my dress and pulled my satchel over my head. Leonardo was working on his third glass of milk while Zia had cut up some slivers of sheep’s milk cheese and bread. After I made a sloppy sandwich for the road, I insisted we leave right away.

Leonardo emptied the rest of his cup and Zia protested. “You can’t go out with your hair like that!”

Not a minute later I walked out the door with my sandwich wedged between my teeth as I pulled my hair into a side braid.

“Good luck! Try to be home before night fall,” she called after us as we walked into the fishy smog.

I tried to ignore the smell as I ate, wrapping my head around how I was going to get home. What could I do now? Did I have to wait twenty-eight days? It seemed like an eternity.

“Leo, how long would it take to finish the Baptism painting?” I asked, brushing crumbs that had stuck to wisps of the wool dress.

“Not long; tempera paint dries very quickly. If all goes to plan and Verrocchio allows me to paint the missing angel, I would work with a new kind of painting technique. It involves using oil to bind the pigment instead of tempera’s vinegar, water, and egg.”

“But oil takes so much longer!” I protested.

“You’ve used it?” he asked, completely stunned.

“Yes, it’s common in … London,” I lied.

“Shocking! Well, anyhow, it is highly uncommon here. To finish the painting, it is more a matter of finding the time to sit down and do it. Or rather, it’s about Verrocchio feeling the pressure of a deadline.”

“Well, we need to speed it up.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you just yet.”

“So many secrets, Viola … Will I be in danger if you tell me?” He grinned.

I shook my head and put a finger to my lips to silence him on the subject.

“How can we hurry it up?” I pressed.

“As I already hinted, I am trying to convince Master Verrocchio to let me paint the missing angel. Two days ago I sketched a young boy at the market who would be perfect for the angel. His face is still very clear in my mind.”

Idan’s sporadic and low tick had started up again. My eyes skimmed the dark frosted street for the bald stranger with the sharp mustache or some other weird happenstance. It was still quite early and very few people, apart from shop owners and farmers, had stepped out their front doors.

“Could I go to the church that commissioned the painting and ask them to inquire after its progress? Would that help?” I looked at Leonardo to see if he noticed the low
tick-tock
…
tick-tock
.

“Maybe. We’ll have to see. I think I have him almost convinced.” The tick grew louder and so did my frustration. There was no one around.

“What’s that sound?” he asked.

“You hear it too?

“Wait,” he hushed. “It just got fainter?”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Hold on.” When I retraced our steps, Idan’s ticking quickened. There was an archway on the right and I took it. Leonardo followed me and the growing clamor into the Piazza della Signoria. Maybe the stranger was here?

“Viola, I think the ticking is coming from you,” insisted Leonardo.

Drawing Idan out of its hiding place, I placed it in my palm, feeling it pulse. I looked around but the only thing that was nearby was a rickety wooden door. People in the piazza were scarce and the fog added to our secluded situation.

Leonardo’s nostrils flared and his pupils doubled as he gawked at Idan. “What is that?”

“It’s a watch of sorts,” I heaved.

“A watch?”

“A small clock.”

“That is nonsense. Clocks cannot be so miniature,” he said, narrowing his eyes at Idan’s engraving.

“Well … it’s very dear to me for that reason.” I shifted awkwardly.

“I think your small clock is broken … I might be able to fix it for you in exchange for a secret or two. I am skilled with that sort of thing, you know. That is, tinkering and trust …”

His voice trailed off as hope started to consume me. Was this the door? My heart started to skip beats at the thought that home might lie beyond the handle of that door.

“What are you doing?” asked Leonardo as I slowly approached the door.

The morning’s sandwich was stuck somewhere between my throat and stomach. What if I opened the door only to see a family eating their breakfast? More than anything I was scared of being disappointed. That this was just a regular door that opened a home nowhere near New York. Although I knew failure was certain, I had to see it. I needed to touch it. Once I got closer, I noticed the door wasn’t wood at all but metal. Someone had gone to great lengths to make the metal barrier look like wood. With one hand on the keyless door handle and the other confining Idan in a tight fist, I turned the door’s sleek handle.

It didn’t budge. Entirely crushed, I turned away from the barrier, but Leonardo moved closer to it. After a few moments he said, “Look here! There is a note wedged underneath the door.”

Spinning back towards the door, I saw he was right and reached my hand down to pull the note out. My fingertips could feel the sandy surface of paper.

My body quaked with frustration. Why did I get my hopes up so high? This whole time I’d been cursing my circumstances and trying to find my way back at every turn. It occurred to me then, in that moment of distress, how ungrateful I was. Since I stumbled into this city of wilting flowers, my path had been so easy. One might say too easy. I could have been starving, begging, or worse. Instead, my very great-grandmother serendipitously found me. A coincidence, I still had trouble explaining. Ever since my birthday, she has clothed, sheltered, fed, loved, and worried for my well-being.

“Viola, are you feeling all right?” Leonardo asked, pulling me to my feet.

He stood by my side almost forgotten. To assure him I was fine, I nodded and gave him my best attempt at a smile. Although grateful for Zia, I was almost equally thankful for meeting the genius that would be Leonardo. Despite my confusion, I had found a friend in the most unexpected place. Concern shone through his frown when he passed me his pristine handkerchief.

“Why are you handing me this?”

“Because you are crying.”

Feeling the dampness, I said, “I didn’t notice …
grazie
,” I brought the linen to my face, patting it dry. The fog was lifting as carts, donkeys, and breadwinners filed into the piazza.

“I don’t mean to be … insensitive, Viola, but we should head to the workshop now or we will be really late.”

“Right,” I agreed, realizing that my left hand still clutched Idan and the mysterious letter.

All this time wasted! I should have just read it immediately. Leonardo had already begun to stride towards one of the entrances of the piazza. Slipping Idan and the envelope into my satchel, I ran across the damp stone to catch up with him.

Our journey was silent but my imagination kept me busy. Idan must have started ticking for a reason. Today it had led me to the door I had come through and all the impossibility of it. Yesterday it ticked when the stranger had cut me. Idan must have sensed something different about him. Maybe the letter belonged to him and that was why Idan led me to the door? It could also be totally unrelated. Two lovers might be using the crevice in the peculiar door to write to each other in secret.

The familiar scent of rawhide and burning fat hinted we were close to the workshop. Leonardo ducked in and I followed almost out of breath. When I entered, Leonardo had taken to the stairs and Margherita was sweeping away curls of wood that littered the platform. She stopped and wiped her face with her apron.

“Good morning, you are right on time … almost too close for comfort. I woke up Leonardo extra early to make sure you would be here on time.” She was barely audible because of the racket going on in the workshop.

“Thank you, Margherita … I promise to arrive earlier tomorrow.”

“Go up to my space in the study. There is something waiting for you. It is probably a good idea to put your satchel up there while you are at it.”

Following her advice, I climbed the steps to the study. The room was almost blinding with light. As instructed, I went to Margherita’s space behind the decorative dividers. There was a narrow feather bed with clean linen sheets accompanied by a modest dresser. A painted wooden set of the holy family embellished the dresser. On the bed lay a cotton apron and on its neck strap was my name stitched with purple thread.
Margherita must have done this yesterday
, I thought.

Truly touched by the gift, I took off my satchel with the intention of tying the apron around me but I stopped when I saw the corner of the cream envelope poking out. The temptation was too great. Guiltily, I moved my fingers over the paper. It had a scarlet seal embedded with the head of a horse. Using my fingernails, I broke it and began to read the sheet of fine paper.

20
th
of December

Viola,

With a little help from Idan, I hope you find this letter before it is too late. It is most imperative that Idan does not leave your person. Without it, you will be unable to make it back to your proper time, ever.

The creak of the door disturbed my reading. Reluctantly, I stuffed the letter back into the satchel and rushed to put on the apron. Looking between the cracks of the divider, I saw Salai softly closing the door behind him. Salai looked about the room before approaching the bookcase. He then took out four books from the top shelf and placed them aside. Metal scraped as he fidgeted with a box. After opening it, he began to stuff the contents of the box into a small pouch tied around his belt. The sound of coins jangling against each other rang heavily against my conscience. Hoping against all odds that Salai was not stealing, I squeezed myself farther into the small corner I found myself.

“Viola! What is taking you so long in the study? You are needed in the kitchen!”

Fear immobilized me. Sure that even the next door neighbors heard her, I decided to run for the door. Remembering the warning, I took Idan from my satchel and hid it underneath my brown dress. After, I quickly tossed my satchel underneath the mattress and ran to the door but Salai had already blocked the door with his body. He looked down at me with a smile that oozed malice. He silently caressed the loose locks of hair that had fallen out of my braid. My bravery extinguished. His voice and touch made my skin crawl.

“What you think might have happened … well it did not.” His perfumed fingers started getting closer and closer to my face. “Is that not so?”

“Please stop, Salai. I need to go downstairs.” Suddenly his hands grabbed my face and my legs went numb with panic as I tried to pry them off. “Maybe you didn’t hear me clearly, sweet flower,” he whispered. “You didn’t see anything … right?” His face was too close to mine.

“Right,” I consented.

“If I see so much as see a glance that I don’t like from you … Well, it would be a shame to see poor Zia’s house on fire.” Horrified, I stood there wishing someone would save me. “I’ll wait till she has left for the market or church of course. I am not a monster,” he added and then pressed his terrible lips against mine. After struggling violently, he finally let go of my face and moved aside.

Heaving the door open, I flew downstairs. My heart felt as if it would leap out of my chest and make it to the kitchen before I did. Margherita’s chastising words were lost on me as I stood there petrified and useless. She pointed to a dead chicken waiting to be plucked. Probably noticing the frightened state I was in, she kindly added, “Clean and chop those mushrooms instead.” I took the knife from the cupboard without a word. “Are you all right, Viola?”

“Yes, of course,” I managed, wiping off the mushrooms. The water was icier than the day before, but the feel of its cold stream against my hot palms quieted my distress.

“Did you not like the apron?”

“Yes, it was so thoughtful … I meant to say as much when I first came into the kitchen but I forgot.” Margherita’s hands moved effortlessly as she plucked the chicken’s buttery feathers.

“I’m glad.” She smiled. “Master Verrocchio bought the apron but I had some free time in the evening.”

“Thank you, Margherita, I really like it.”

While I continued to clean and chop, my mind kept drifting back to Salai’s warning. Why had courage failed me? I could have screamed, kicked, or confessed what happened the moment I reached the stair platform. It was an aspiration of mine to be fearless, but somewhere during my growing pains, bravery had marooned me. Not wanting to risk Zia’s safety or her beloved house, I kept what happened in the studio to myself but with great difficulty. Having secrets always made me feel trapped, so I seldom kept any. Now I had enough secrets to make up for all fourteen years of my life.