A Bolt From the Blue Read Free

make the various bright-hued pigments for frescoes, and I guessed that the youth had shaped them from scraps he had swept up from the workshop floor. It was a beautiful example that I was certain had taken many hours of work.
    “Any woman would be glad to wear such a fine bracelet,” I declared with an admiring nod.
    Vittorio’s blush deepened. “I am glad you like it. I made it especially for a certain girl. She—she doesn’t know that I like her, and I’ve been afraid to say anything to her. I hope that giving her this bracelet will let her know how I feel.”
    He smiled at me shyly, his expression hopeful and brimming with a secret knowledge at odds with his usual boyish openness.
    Meeting his gaze, I was momentarily puzzled. In the next instant, I was swept by the fearful certainty that Vittorio had discovered the truth about me that even Leonardo did not know. Why else would he have sought me out away from the others, if not to clandestinely confront me with what he had learned? And yet, how could it be? How had he unraveled the secret that had allowed me to remain as apprentice these many months?
    How had Vittorio contrived to learn that I was not the boy Dino, as I claimed to be . . . but was instead Delfina della Fazia, a young woman who had disguised herself as a male in order to study painting with the greatest master in Milan and all the surrounding provinces!
    I snatched off the bracelet and thrust it toward him.
    “Pray tell me you have said naught of this to anyone else, especially not the Master,” I cried, leaping to my feet with a swiftness that sent Pio scrambling out of my way. “You must know that your affection is sorely misplaced. Let us pretend you never spoke such foolish thoughts.”
    “What can you mean, Dino?”
    The youth’s smile faded into uncertainty. He stared up at me with wide eyes, his blush fading and his expression one of dismay. “Are you saying I should forget that I love Novella?”
    “Novella?” Now it was my turn to stare. “Who is she?”
    “Why, she is Rebecca the washerwoman’s daughter,” he replied, his gaze dropping in misery to the bracelet he was turning about in his hands. “She has always been friendly to me, and I thought . . . That is, I hoped . . .”
    He trailed off with a shake of his head. Pio, sensing trouble, put a cold nose to the boy’s pale cheek in sympathy. As for me, my fear of discovery was washed away by a hot wave of embarrassment. So wrapped up had I been in my own concerns that I had let myself believe that mine was the sole small drama being played out among my fellow apprentices. And now, my thoughtless words had caused Vittorio pain.
    Eager to make amends, I seized an excuse to help mend those emotions that I had frayed.
    “Pay no heed to my words,” I urged, dropping back down beside him and giving his shoulder an encouraging shake. “I—I thought you spoke of someone far older than you. I do know Rebecca’s daughter, and I am certain I have seen her give you favorable smiles when you were not watching.”
    “You have?” A flicker of his earlier grin reappeared. “Do you think she will like my bracelet?”
    “I’m sure she will think it a fine gift. Perhaps she will offer to launder your tunic in return . . . That is, if she can manage to chisel it off your back first.”
    With this small jest—Vittorio was known for his overly enthusiastic approach to plastering a wall—I managed a brief grin back at him. I fervently hoped that I spoke the truth about the girl whose name I had never known until now. Still, I had encountered her several times before, trailing in shy silence after her mother and usually burdened by a basket of linens almost as large as she.
    She was a lovely child of Vittorio’s same age, possessing the airy grace reminiscent of mythology’s nymphs. Her delicate features could have graced one of Leonardo’s frescoes, while her pale curls beneath a sober white cap were almost as unruly as Vittorio’s