Maisie could only nod.
When Felix began to walk on the other side of Sandro, Sandro halted.
“I will return her safely to this very spot at ten o’clock,” he said.
“Whoa!” Felix said. “Ten o’clock? I don’t think—”
But Sandro and Maisie had already moved away from him.
“Um, Maisie?” Felix called.
But his sister didn’t even bother to turn around. She had her head tilted up to catch every obnoxious word Sandro Botticelli said to her.
Felix stood in the crowd in the Piazza della Signoria and watched until his sister and Sandro were nothing more than tiny specks of color in the fading Tuscan light.
CHAPTER 7
IN VERROCCHIO’S STUDIO
“Boy,” Felix heard someone call to him, “why are you dressed that way?”
Dejected, Felix stopped walking and looked in the direction from which the voice had come.
After Maisie took off with Sandro, Felix stood in the piazza, unsure of what to do or where to go. He was tired. He was hungry. And he was angry. Eventually, he started to aimlessly wander the narrow twisty alleys of the city.
“Are you from far away?” the boy behind the voice asked.
Unlike Sandro and his mocking voice, this boy seemed genuinely curious. His eyes were dark and very intense, and he wore a thoughtful, curious expression on his face.
“Yes,” Felix admitted. “Very far away.”
“You are a traveler!” the boy said, impressed.
“Yes,” Felix said again.
“Then you must be weary?”
Felix nodded.
“And hungry?”
“Oh, yes,” Felix said.
The boy broke into a grin. “Then come inside and share my meal with me.”
He opened the door wider to allow Felix to follow through it.
“It isn’t much,” he said apologetically. “I’ve been working on this painting, and I lost track of time.”
Felix studied the unfinished painting, a large canvas covered with what looked like religious figures—angels and saints and the like.
“I’m satisfied with the background,” the boy said, pointing to rocks jutting from a brown mountain stream.
“I don’t know much about painting,” Felix said, “but that looks really good. Realistic,” he added.
“Yes,” the boy said, his eyes still on the painting.
“My father is a painter,” Felix said, feeling homesick. “He studied here, in Florence.”
“Then I must know him! With whom did he apprentice?”
Realizing what a mistake it had been to say something like that, Felix just shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
“Tell me his name,” the boy said.
“Jacob Robbins,” Felix said, feeling his cheeks grow warm.
The boy frowned. “I have never heard such a name. Robbins?”
“It’s English, I think,” Felix offered, hoping they could just change the subject.
“English?” the boy said, surprised. “Have you come from England?”
Felix shook his head. “It’s complicated,” he said.
The boy studied Felix’s face carefully.
“Ah,” he said at last, “I promised you some food, didn’t I?”
He disappeared out of the room for what seemed a very long time, and Felix took the opportunity to look around the studio. The place smelled bad, like oil burning and food cooking, not a good combination. Blank canvases leaned against the wall, and drawings covered a table that reminded Felix of a drafting table. Felix picked up one of the drawings and gasped, surprised.
In pen and ink, someone—maybe this very boy?—had drawn what looked like early airplanes.
“My flying machines,” the boy said, startling Felix.
“Oh,” Felix said. Flying machines? In the fifteenth century?
“I spend many afternoons and evenings at dusk studying birds and bats,” the boy said eagerly. “According to the laws of mathematics, the bird is an instrument equipped to lift off.”
His hands, held together like two wings, slowly rose into the air in front of Felix.
“I say, then man has the power to reproduce an instrument like this with all its movements. What do you say?”
“I say yes,” Felix agreed, nodding. “Absolutely.”
“But how?” the boy said, studying his own drawings briefly before slapping his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Our supper!”
The room had no chairs, just benches to sit on. Felix slid onto one across from the boy, who ladled vegetable soup into a bowl for Felix, and then for himself. He slid a wooden board covered with slices of thickly cut bread in front of Felix.
“This soup is my own recipe,” he told Felix. “You see, I’ve been a vegetarian since I was a small boy, so I often cook my own meals. I like experimenting with different herbs and spices.”
Felix tasted the soup. “It’s delicious!” he pronounced, and eagerly ate more, dipping the hard saltless bread into the rich broth.
“I’ll give you the recipe if you like,” the boy said eagerly.
“That would be great,” Felix said, his mouth full of soup and bread.