Until she looked up with a start, Demetrice Volandrai did not realize how dark it had become in the Medici library. On the trestle table in front of her three books lay open, their texts indistinct now in the suffused light. She put a hand to her eyes and told herself she had a headache rather than admit that her mind had been wandering. She hesitated briefly before closing the books and setting them aside for tomorrow. Reluctantly she tested the quill that lay beside her notes and was not surprised to find it dried, ink caked on it so thickly that she despaired of being able to trim it properly.

She rose slowly and went to the window. In the last burnished light of sunset her woefully old-fashioned gown of rust velvet seemed more beautiful than it had ever been in better light. Her pale rosy-blond hair framed her face in chaste braids and her simple linen chemise, where it showed above the neck of her gown and puffed around the terribly plain brooches that joined her simple sleeves to her dress, was without stains or grime. If anyone had suggested to her at that moment that she was the most attractive woman in il Palazzo de' Medici, she would have laughed. Her amber-colored eyes were wistful as she watched the light fade.

"Oh, don't move," said a voice behind her as she started at last to turn away from the window.

The familiar sound of Sandro Filipepi brought a rueful smile to Demetrice's firm mouth and she turned to him, her arms extended. "Botticelli, admit it: if you could order the sun to stop in the heavens you would do it, so that you could make a color study."

He shrugged, but did not deny it. "It was color that brought me here this afternoon. That alchemist, Ragoczy, the one who's building the big new palazzo? You know him?" He waited a moment.

"I have met him once or twice." She remembered liking his wit and his gentleness, and the enigmatic expression in his dark eyes. "Was he here, too?"

"Briefly. It seems he has some new formulae for colors. Of course Laurenzo is interested, and he asked me and a few of the others to use the colors and tell him what we think of them." He paused. "I wish I knew what to make of him."

It would not do for Sandro to see her interest, so she smiled and said, "You know alchemists. They are always mysterious. Confess it, amico, you would be disappointed if he were like everyone else."

Sandro nodded. "True. And he is foreign. But his affectations. Always dressed in black, never eating with us, forever curious about metals and earths! Ah, well, he is entertaining, and he does know something about pigments and tinctures. I will give him that."

Demetrice had come around the table and touched cheeks with him. "How generous. Will you try his colors?"

"Of course." He peered around the darkened room. "Cataloging?"

"Yes. Pico is home for a while and Agnolo is in Bologna, so the task falls to me. I am afraid that today I haven't done it very well. These old manuscripts, you know, are very difficult to read."

Sandro's face had clouded at the mention of Agnolo Poliziano. "I don't know why Laurenzo tolerates his impudence." He held up his hand to forestall the answer. "Loyalty is one thing, Donna mia, but this is foolishness. Poliziano trades on Laurenzo's tolerance shamelessly. You know he does."

Demetrice had gone back to the table and busied herself with gathering her papers. "I don't understand it, Sandro. But it is what Laurenzo wants, and I will respect his wishes."

Disbelief filled Sandro's next question. "Do you like Agnolo? How could you like him?"

"No, I don't like him. He's waspish, he's ugly-minded and for all his erudition, he's unpredictable. But he is talented, and truly a scholar." Very gently she said, "I need not tell you, Sandro, that every gift has a price."

"And sometimes more price than gift." He walked across the room and put his long painter's hands on her shoulders. "If there is any justice in this world, Donna mia, you will not have to bear your poverty forever. If your uncle had been a citizen of Fiorenza, Laurenzo would long since have restored your fortunes."

Demetrice felt absurd tears in her eyes and she wiped them away impatiently. "Well, even Laurenzo cannot restore what no longer exists, so perhaps it is as well that Lione lived in Rimini." She tried to smile, but could not. "Laurenzo has been more than generous. He has housed me and fed me and clothed me for almost ten years. That is much more than any of my nearer kinsmen were willing to do." She stopped abruptly and moved away from him. "Pardon me, Sandro. It is not pleasing for me to talk this way of my family."

By now the room was almost dark. Sandro was just an indistinct shape with a voice on the other side of the table. Demetrice thought that the dark must have something to do with it, for she had never spoken to him this way before. She took comfort in his friendship and was grateful for his interest, but she insisted on a reserve between them, and it was as real as the trestle table that stood in front of her.

Sandra tacitly accepted her rebuff, but added one parting shot. "I am twice your age, Donna mia. And I tell you, do not depend on anything or anyone in Fiorenza beyond Laurenzo. Fiorenza is a city of passions, of obsessions, and there is as much dark in it as light."

"This from you, Sandro?" she said, glad to turn this somber warning to banter.

"Especially from me." Then he, too, abandoned the subject. In a different voice he said, "I am going away for a few days. Simone and I have business to attend to."

"I wish you a pleasant and safe journey," Demetrice said automatically. "Do you go far?"

"Only to Pisa. A simple matter. But I would like to ask a favor of you."

"Of course." The words were out before she thought about them, and as soon as she had spoken, she doubted their wisdom. "If Laurenzo does not require my help here," she added prudently.

"It is nothing difficult, I promise you." He stopped as a servant came into the room carrying a taper to light the lanterns that stood at either end of the room and the three candles on the reading desk beside the fireplace.

The strange air of intimacy that had surrounded them disappeared in the light. Demetrice said to the servant, "Will you start the fire, too? The room is really quite chilly."

"Yes, Donna," the servant answered, and bent to her task.

"So it is," Sandro agreed. He rubbed his hands together and adjusted the long folds of his lucco, the standard social dress of most Fiorenzeni. His was of brown wool and lacked the intricate pleating at the neck that more prominent men wore.

"What is the favor, Sandro?" Demetrice had gone nearer the fireplace and was nodding to the servant as the first spurt of flame took hold of the logs laid there.

"Ah, the favor. Yes. It is about my housekeeper, my cousin. You have met Estasia, haven't you?"

"Yes." Her tone was cautious as she thought of Estasia della Cittadella, of her soft, sensuous body and vixen's face. The primness of Estasia's widow's coif did not deceive Demetrice, for she had seen the eager hunger in Estasia's hazel eyes and heard the coaxing languor in her voice when she spoke to attractive men.

"She does not like to be alone," Sandra said with some difficulty. "Would you be willing to call on her one of the afternoons I am gone?"

Before she could stop herself, Demetrice asked, "Why?"

"For me? Demetrice?" He hesitated. "She is lonely, you know. It is never easy for a widow. And she often has trouble with other women. If she had a lover, it would be different. She would be happier and would have someone to enjoy. But in my house, there is little opportunity, and Simone is very severe with her."

Demetrice watched as the fire at last began its steady burn, making a friendly rush and crackle like conversation in an unknown tongue. She frowned, wishing that she did not. "I don't know."

Sandro had come near her again, and the light from the flames deepened the lines in his craggy face. "Prego, carina. I would not ask it if it were a trivial thing. You see, Estasia has been very much upset by the sermons Simone has been preaching to her. Simone..." He hesitated, not wanting to condemn his brother. "Simone worries for her soul, and for that reason he cannot accept the way Estasia wants to live. He does not see that she has fear, too."

Rather dryly Demetrice said, "I have heard him. He was here once last year. He does not approve of the way Laurenzo lives, either. He told him so."

"San Gregorio protect me." Sandro was acutely embarrassed. "I didn't know. He should never have... He does not think, Demetrice. His fervor inspires him and he speaks out. You can imagine, then, how he berates Estasia, which only makes her more determined to have her pleasures." Again he paused, and searched for words. "It would mean a great deal to Estasia to have someone call on her. Someone who is kind."

"Very well." Demetrice sighed and looked at her companion. She wished the room were dark again, so that they could recapture that closeness. With the room lit by candles, lanterns and fire, she saw too much and knew too little. "Since you ask it, I will. But I do not know what to say to her. Tell me: what interests her?"

"Housewifery. She's an excellent housekeeper. Not even Simone can make complaint on that issue. She knows, particularly, a great deal about cooking. She has a way with pastry."

Demetrice laughed in spite of herself. "I know almost nothing about cookery. It is the price of being raised in a scholar's home. Now, if the recipes were in Greek, or even Seneca's Latin, he might have been moved to care about food. About the only dish I can make is honey cakes. But I know a little of lacemaking," she offered helpfully.

"Estasia is expert with her needle. Her embroidery is superb. Take your lace with you."

"Yes, but, Sandro," Demetrice objected reasonably, "we can't sit there and stitch at each other."

Sandro shook his head and leaned against the mantel of the fireplace. "Talk of clothing, then. Compare velvets. Or gossip. Surely there is fruit enough for that in Fiorenza." He waited until the servant was gone from the room, then said, "I fear for her when she is alone. She is terrified, sometimes, thinking that she is forever abandoned. I cannot let her suffer because of me. She makes light of it, but I have seen her eyes when she has been alone too long, and they are bright like a trapped animal's." He sighed, turned to her. "It is not your responsibility. She is my cousin. I know that. But if you would help me, I'd be truly grateful. Who knows," he added impishly. "I might even do your portrait."

"With those new pigments Laurenzo wants you to test?" She, too, moved away from the fire. "It grows late, Sandro, and I have not yet eaten. Will you join me at table? I fear we must take it in the pantry, for the household sat down some time ago."

"No. But it is gracious of you to ask me." Sandro shook off his somber mood and strode to the door. "I, too, have not eaten, and it is time I was home."

Automatically Demetrice glanced toward the windows and saw the last glow of dusk in the cold March sky. "I didn't realize we had talked so long. Yes. Perhaps you'd better leave. Have one of the servants accompany you with a lamp."

But Sandro laughed this suggestion away. "There's no need. The thieves are not that desperate. I'll be safe, I promise you."

She did not object, but when the door was closed behind him, a frown settled on her face once more and there was a kind of distress in her bearing. She lingered in the library until the young Slavic slave who slept there arrived. Sure that the room was safe, Demetrice left it and hurried to the bottom floor in the hope of having a light meal with the stewards.

The stairs of il Palazzo de' Medici were narrow and treacherously steep. Demetrice negotiated them with care, reminding herself as she went that she had fallen once, four years before, and the bruises and sprains had been many weeks in fading.

The understeward, Sergio, greeted her casually and offered to get her a dish of veal-and-pork pie that was left over from supper. "There are some tortolini and some broth, if you'd like that."

To her surprise, Demetrice discovered that she was hungry, and she accepted this offer, spooning pine nuts over the pie when it was brought to her.

Massimillio, the Medicis' enormous cook, swaggered into the pantry and favored Demetrice with a huge smile that spread over his moon face like butter. "Ah, it is la bella Demetrice, who is so kind and who loves my food."

Demetrice knew what was expected. "Massimillio, the food is superb, as always. The tortolini are savory and your pie is delicious."

"Let me pour you some Trebbiano," the cook offered, reaching for the wine flask. "And when you are finished, I have some confetti."

"A thousand thanks," Demetrice said, although she did not particularly like either white wine or sugared almonds.

"Che piacer!" sighed the cook as he poured himself a generous portion of the Trebbiano and stared into its straw-colored depths. "Now, you, Donna mia, appreciate my art. But Laurenzo!" With his free hand he made a gesture of despair. "He would not care if I made nothing but sausages, so long as he got his chestnuts. I have boiled in wine and roasted barrels of chestnuts, I think." He shook his large head and his chins wobbled.

"You must make allowances, Massimillio. Since Laurenzo cannot smell, he misses much of your wonderful cooking." Demetrice sipped her wine and had another bite of pork-and-veal pie.

"Poor man!" He finished his wine and replenished his cup. "Trebbiano is very nice," he said judiciously. "For all the talk of it being workingman's wine, it is very nice."

By this time Demetrice had eaten most of the pie and her tortolini were almost gone. She smiled warmly at the cook and said mendaciously, "How much I would like confetti, but I fear, Massimillio, that it is such a cold night, and your excellent food is so satisfying, that I had much better have some broth, to keep me warm."

Grudgingly Massimillio admitted this was wise and turned back to the cavernous kitchens to heat the broth. As he put the kettle on the coals of the hearth, he remarked, "That foreigner, the one Laurenzo likes so much. With the unchristian name."

"Ragoczy?" Demetrice suggested.

"That is the man. He has us all in an uproar. I have heard that his kitchen is going to be terribly odd. Now, you may say that is his foreign ways, and no doubt it would account for it, but," he added darkly, drawing down the corners of his mouth, "you may be sure that he will have to find cooks elsewhere if he intends to make us change our ways." As he spoke, he reached into one of the small drawers of the divided chest that flanked his cooking table and pulled out a handful of seeds. "I am adding more coriander, to help keep you warm."

"You are kind, Massimillio." Demetrice had come to the door and stood watching the huge man as he added his finishing touches to the broth, which had begun to simmer.

"Ah, Donna Demetrice, it is a simple matter to be kind to you. You are good, you are pleasant, you like what I cook. I don't mind making special meals for you, because you enjoy them and it pleases me to watch you eat." He poured some of the steaming broth into a large wooden mug. "There. Now, when you have finished that, I fear you must leave, for I have much to do before tomorrow. Two Bolognese merchants and the officers of the Arte della Lana and the Arte di Calimala are to take their meal at midday tomorrow with Laurenzo. They will speak of nothing but cloth and money and will not taste so much as the ginger in my savor sanguino."

"Poor Massimillio." Demetrice felt genuine sympathy for the huge man. "Well, if you will, save me some leftovers and we can share a late meal together."

The cook turned to her, startled. "Will you not be eating with the others?"

"Not if they mean to talk only of cloth and money." There was a teasing light in her eyes as she stretched out her hand to him. "It will be much more pleasant to have my meal here, with you. Il comestio is nicer in good company."

"All meals are nicer in good company," Massimillio announced with awful hauteur. Then he relented somewhat, saying, "It will be a treat to share the meal with you. I am making a berlingozzo and a minestra of spring lamb, for we have just got the first new lambs."

Although these were not the greatest delicacies available to the Fiorenzan upper class, they were still special treats. Demetrice smiled delightedly. "If they do not enjoy your art, Massimillio, be certain that I will."

"Bella mia. I will perish of joy," he announced, and took back the empty cup she handed him. "Now, you must rush off to your bed, or the virtue of the broth will be for nothing."

Demetrice thanked him again, and left the kitchen for her small bedroom, three floors above. She tasted the ginger, garlic and coriander long after she had extinguished the candle and pulled the worn damask hangings around her bed.

Text of a letter from Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi to Leonardo da Vinci:

To Leonardo in Milano, his friend Botticelli sends his affectionate greetings on our Beato Antoninus' Day:

I am sending with this a wallet containing some new tinctures that may interest you. Laurenzo's new friend, the alchemist I have told you of before, developed them. I have used them myself and have found that the colors they produce are of rare luminosity. Try them, I urge you.

I had your letter of March 27 in good time. If you are as much distressed by the Sforzas as you say, then why do you remain? You know that Laurenzo would welcome your return, and surely there is work for you to do in Fiorenza that will interest you as much as your work in Milano. Consider, then, caro amico, for you are much missed here. Even that sharp-tongued Poliziano speaks of you affectionately.

You will perhaps be saddened to learn that Laurenzo has not been well. As has been his practice in the past, he has taken the waters and he insists that he is better. But I am worried. His hands often swell and he is sometimes weak without reason. Often of late, his kinswoman Donna Demetrice Volandrai reads to him, sometimes the works of Plato, sometimes new tales. It has become his habit to spend his evenings thus. Yet his mind is keen, and he is, as always, seeking out gifted artists. That young student of Ghirlandajo is part of the Medici household now, and for all your loathing of marble sculpture, you would admit that young Buonarroti has talent. Laurenzo is pleased with his progress, which, considering his youth, is remarkable. I think that Magnifico would prefer it if his own sons showed the promise of Michelangelo Buonarroti. Giovanni is for the Church, of course, and his mind is as tenacious as it is agile. But Piero is another matter. Piero has done little but indulge himself since he was old enough to ask his father for favors. He has not changed since you knew him-he is as capricious as a child, forever making demands.

Yet all is not bleak here. There was a great festival on Ascension Day, and all Fiorenza went into the fields to catch grasshoppers and to sport. There was a special Requiem Mass that day, at San Lorenzo, in memory of Giuliano. That deed will forever be a stain on the house of Pazzi, who would appear to be well-named, so insane was that act.

We have heard that you are still in the habit of buying birds in the market and setting them free. A friend of that alchemist I already mentioned has recently come from Venezia, and made a stop in Milano while the city was still talking about your most recent escapade. Leonardo, amico, you will not save the birds. They will only be caught again and someone else will eat them. How is it that you can invent such terrible weapons of war, and think nothing of examining the bodies of the dead most thoroughly, but balk at eating songbirds?

In reference to your love of machines, you would be delighted at the new palazzo that Ragoczy, the alchemist, is building. It is in the Genovese style, and he has added every innovation imaginable. The builders all gossip about it. He has modified his bath, and made a special chamber for storing and heating water, instead of making a holocaust. The chamber is about the size of two traveling chests, and adjoins the bath closely. It is tarred and lacquered so that it cannot leak, and the water is fed to the bath through a pipe with a spigot. He has also invented a new sort of oven for his cooks, one made of metal, which he claims is more efficient (though why he should want cooks when he never dines, I cannot conceive). Many of the cooks in the city have said they would have nothing to do with such an instrument. I understand that he has a very simple, hard bed, but that everything else is wholly magnificent. If you do not want Laurenzo for a patron, then consider Ragoczy. He has a great deal of wealth and loves beautiful things almost as much as the Medicis. When I told him of your silver lute, the one you fashioned in the shape of a horse's head, he was delighted. You need not fear his generosity-he is quite wealthy and completely honorable. I have myself seen some of his jewels, and their size and beauty would stagger even you. At Christmas he presented Laurenzo with an emerald as large as the pietra dura bowl of Laurenzo's silver cup. He, Ragoczy, knows many secret processes with metals. You would enjoy his conversation as well, Leonardo, for he is an erudite conversationalist and his range of interests is broad.

I pray you will consider coming once again to Fiorenza. We all here miss you. We miss your songs as much as your excellent work, for all you say you never finish anything. Whatever Milano offers you, Fiorenza can give you. Remember that you are loved here, and that the blessings of your friends follow you wherever you go, even home.

My cousin Estasia calls me to table, so I must end this. With the hope that our next greeting will be face to face, this brings you the affection of your friend

Sandro

In Fiorenza, on the 10th day of May, 1491

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