“That’s his painting, in fact.”
“But I thought you were painting it,” Felix said, confused.
The boy laughed. “Surely your father doesn’t do all of his painting himself, does he? The renowned artists have their apprentices do the work, too.”
“They do?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” His eyes settled on the painting again, and he sighed.
“Thank you for letting us stay here,” Felix said. “I’ll be back with Maisie soon.”
“Do you see that palazzo?” Sandro asked Maisie.
She looked up at the giant mansion, the light of oil lamps illuminating the windows and casting them in a golden glow.
“That is the home where the woman I love lives,” he said with fierce intensity.
“The what?” Maisie said, just as fiercely.
“Simonetta Vespucci,” Sandro hissed.
“You’re in love with someone?” Maisie demanded.
“I’m in love with her, yes. But the question should be, is she in love with me?”
“How could you invite me to . . . stroll . . . if you have a girlfriend?” Maisie said, refusing to let the hot tears that had sprung to her eyes fall.
“What?” Sandro said. “Simonetta isn’t my girlfriend! She’s married.” He added with disgust, “To a nobleman.”
“You’re in love with someone who’s married?” Maisie said, rolling her eyes.
“Simonetta Vespucci,” Sandro said, gazing longingly at one of the windows, “is the most beautiful woman in Florence. No! Florence and beyond!”
“Does she put that gross stuff with the beans and milk on her face, and dye her hair three times a week?” Maisie said, hoping he caught her sarcasm.
But Sandro seemed to have forgotten about her.
“Every night I come here and stand beneath her window, hoping for a glimpse of her. Just one glimpse is enough,” he said.
“That’s ridiculous,” Maisie said.
“It is not!”
“You aren’t going to marry her no matter how many glimpses you catch, if she’s already got a husband. A rich husband at that,” Maisie said, wanting to make him feel bad. He had hurt her feelings, and now she wanted to hurt his.
But Sandro only laughed.
“Married? I will never get married,” he said with great assurance. “The prospect of marriage gives me nightmares. Love, on the other hand . . .”
He shrugged and sighed and gazed back up at the window.
“How long are we going to stand here, anyway?” Maisie said.
But Sandro appeared to not hear her. Instead, he took a few steps closer to the palazzo, his head tilted upward.
Maisie sighed, loud enough to be sure he heard her. But he didn’t turn around. In fact, he took even more steps toward the palazzo.
Maisie followed his gaze up to the window, backlit in a yellowish glow from the oil lamps. There, a woman stood, staring out at them. Or, Maisie thought, at Sandro. Her blond hair seemed to begin far back on her head, revealing a pale white high forehead above her ivory face. She wore some kind of velvet dress with what looked like embroidery on it and long puffy sleeves.
“Simonetta,” Sandro said softly.
As if she heard him, Simonetta tilted her head and smiled a small smile.
“Simonetta!” Sandro said again, louder, his arms opening wide.
Simonetta lifted one small hand and waved ever so slightly.
Sandro, bursting with joy, lifted his arms toward her as if he could hug her from this great distance.
But Simonetta slowly drew a curtain, hiding herself from him. For a moment, her shadow remained, and then it, too, disappeared.
Sandro dropped to his knees.
“Such pain!” he moaned. “She’s stabbed me in the heart with that one small action.”
Maisie glanced around, embarrassed. “Get up,” she whispered, trying unsuccessfully to pull him to his feet.
Sandro grew even more dramatic, dropping his head lower and banging his palms on the cobblestone street.
“Such love!” he said.
“Sandro,” Maisie pleaded, “stop being so dramatic.”
Slowly, he lifted his head, revealing tearstained cheeks and eyes glistening in the evening light.
“Stop?” he repeated in disbelief. “How can one stop loving the love of his life?”
“But she’s married,” Maisie reminded him.
She couldn’t believe none of the passersby stopped to stare at this guy kneeling in the street and carrying on like this. But no one did.
“The heart doesn’t understand such obstacles,” Sandro said, his voice stronger. “The heart knows what it knows.”
“People do stop loving the love of their lives, by the way,” Maisie said, thinking of her parents. They had been so in love that she and Felix used to ask them to stop holding hands in public. Once, her father told her that when he met her mother, his heart went boom.
“Sometimes,” she continued, “your heart goes boom at first, and then it just goes back to regular.”