Page 20 of A Dangerous Bargain

Leonardo doesn’t need to know that my brother might be alive on top of this. This is quite enough soul-baring for today.

Leonardo’s voice sounds far away, even though he’s right before me. “Obviously we’d split the prize money, Virgil. I’m not interested in hoarding wealth like your merchant family is.” The joke is gentle, just the amount of levity the situation needs to not be weird anymore.

I cross my arms with a huff. “You try telling your mamma to wear muslin instead of velvet.”

His grin unspools like honey. “I wouldn’t dare. A woman’s will is not to be trifled with.” He sticks out a freckled hand. “Seems like we got a bargain, then.”

The word hits me strangely, the new context a shape the familiar doesn’t quite fit into. It’s hard to imagine a bargain made without blood, without me giving something up in return. I clasp Leonardo’s hand and finally meet his eyes. “And we’ll both get what we want from it.” Ideally before this time next year, when I’ll be too dead to enjoy our successes.

The corner of his mouth lifts. When he pulls away, his thumb brushes the skin on the back of my hand. “I certainly hope so.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

So anyway, if humans can swim in water, then it makes sense there’s a way for them to fly in air—oh, whoops!” Leonardo careens into me, and the charcoal bag tumbles from my hands. When he bends to pick it up, he drops a stack of paper. It hits the cobblestones and scatters, skittering toward a puddle of what we can only hope is water and not piss. I race to stop it, but too late.

I shake my head at the soggy mess. “It’s all ruined.”

It’s early—far too early—for a full-energy Leonardo. The time just after dawn is for silence and contemplation, not whatever he’s prattling on about.

“Well, I wouldn’t have dropped it if you hadn’t walked into me,” he says.

Yes, ’tis far too early for this. “You were the one who walked into me.”

Leonardo sighs. “Does it really matter if we both have to tell Verrocchio it’s ruined?”

“Yes!” I say hotly, knowing very well that our master docks our paychecks for supplies ruined from carelessness. “Yes, it obviously does!”

Verrocchio was already annoyed we were both working on the Medici commission. I’d expected him to say no when Leonardo grabbed my sleeve and marched to his office, me protesting and dragging my feet the entire time, positive our plea would never work, but apparently, Verrocchio is as capable of being charmed by Leonardo as anyone else.

“As long as both of you get the rest of your work done.” He made sure to make eye contact with me as he said it, which wasn’t stressful at all. As if I were the person who was able to get Leonardo to do anything he didn’t want to do.

“You’re getting older, and it’s time for both of you to think of the future,” Verrocchio added.

Leonardo went still. “What do you mean?”

“Why, you don’t want to be an apprentice here forever, do you?”

Forever. The word sank down into my soul, making me quiet for the rest of the day.

Four sour-faced guards let us into the Palazzo della Signoria. Even though we left early, the courtyard is already crowded with other artists furiously sketching a yawning, half-asleep Lorenzo de’ Medici. Leonardo manages to smash the bag of charcoal and knock over his stool as he gets settled, earning reproachful looks from everyone else. When he finally sits down, he hesitates, eyes roaming over the other artists nervously. Instead of picking up his charcoal, he’s twisting that curl of his lover’s hair around his finger again. What does he do with it when he bathes? Put it on the floor beside him like a hair ball? Disgusting.

“I’m not sure I can get much done like this,” he says a quarter hour later, having not drawn a single thing. “I don’t think there’s enough time.”

A burst of annoyance goes through me. I’ve put in my own valiant effort to sketch the Medici heir, but my Lorenzo looks like he’s in the final, excruciating stages of a wasting illness. Leonardo needs to draw something if we’re to have any hope of winning. “This is why we practice every morning! If you ever came, then maybe you could do this. Or if you made a bargain with Lupa.”

He shudders. “I’m afraid of blood. I’ve told you that.”

He has, and I couldn’t believe it. Angels and art went together like money and Medici. Like bread and butter. I’m beginning to regret not talking through the details of our so-called bargain before we shook on it. “You didn’t seem afraid of blood when you plunged the knife into your arm to save Giorgio.”

He lifts his index finger, mouth open. Then he shuts it, brushing the white scar on his arm. “That was different.”

“How?” I demand.

Leonardo shoots me a rare frown. “You know, I think you’re the problem today.”

“Fine! I’ll leave, then.” I throw up my hands and walk away. He’s impossible. Talented, but impossible. At least being his moral-support person is only half the reason I’m here. If he wants to be alone, then it’s time to find my brother’s portrait again.

I’ve worn my nicest clothes, and, after making sure the guards are all looking elsewhere, I slip through a side door leading deeper into the government building. There are hushed voices behind closed doors, men deep in conversation in shadowy corners. When I pass them, I nod confidently, shoulders high, like I belong there as much as they do.