Usually, Maisie didn’t like most olives, but Great-Aunt Maisie’s love of Ni?oise olives had made her fond of those. These were fat and green, cracked and sitting in oil and spices. And, Maisie decided as she tasted one, even better than those shrivelly black Ni?oise olives.
Finally, she couldn’t eat even one more bit. She’d managed to avoid the smelly cheese and nibbled on a hard buttery-tasting one instead.
“Phew,” she said, wiping the oil from her mouth with the back of her hand, “I am stuffed.”
“I bet you are,” Sandro said. “You’ve eaten enough to feed a horse. Two horses!”
Then Sandro and Pasquale set about hugging each other good-bye, and then Pasquale hugged Maisie good-bye, and then finally they were back outside on the dark street.
“Felix!” Maisie said, suddenly remembering that she was supposed to meet him at ten o’clock.
“We’ll go to him now,” Sandro said. “We are only a little late.”
Sure enough, Felix was waiting right where he was supposed to be, looking worried and anxious, pacing back and forth.
When he saw Maisie, a look of relief came over him.
“Maisie,” he said, “I was afraid—”
Sandro reached down and pinched Felix’s cheek.
“I was feeding her!” Sandro said. “No need to worry when she is with Sandro Botticelli.”
“Ouch!” Felix said, rubbing his cheek.
“I’ll have your masks ready before Carnival,” Sandro promised.
“When is Carnival?” Maisie asked.
“In two days,” Sandro said, confused. “You came to Florence for Carnival and you don’t know when it is?”
“Um . . . ,” Maisie said.
“Where are you spending berlingaccio?” Sandro asked.
“Um . . . ,” Maisie said again.
“You will spend it with me!” Sandro declared, banging his chest. “At Lorenzo de’ Medici’s Palazzo Medici!”
“Okay,” Maisie said.
Felix kicked her in the ankle.
“Felix too, right?” she said, glaring at Felix.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Sandro said dismissively. “Felix too.”
“Thank you,” Maisie said, trying to remember the long b word he’d said, so she could find out what exactly they would be doing at this palace.
It was her turn to kick Felix.
“Right,” he said on cue. “Thank you.”
Sandro turned to leave, but he almost immediately turned back toward them.
“Where are you staying?” he asked Maisie.
Felix stepped forward, into Sandro’s path.
“At my friend’s,” he said.
“Really?” Sandro said, cocking his head. “And where is your friend?”
“At Verrocchio’s studio,” Felix said smugly.
“Really?” Sandro said, impressed now. “I know every single artist there.”
“I’m sure you do,” Felix said.
“You will be in good hands,” Sandro said, and once again turned to leave.
But once again he stopped and turned around.
“How do you know anyone in Verrocchio’s studio?” he asked.
“Our father,” Felix said quickly. “He studied art here in Florence. A long time ago,” he added to avoid more questions.
Sandro nodded. “An artist,” he said.
“Yes!” Maisie said, pleased that Felix had come up with an answer so quickly.
She wondered if he really had made a friend in this Verrocchio’s studio, if they really did have a place to stay. The night had grown chilly, and very dark.
Sandro nodded again. “Good night, then,” he said, tipping his hat slightly.
This time, he really did leave them, walking off into the night.
CHAPTER 8
LEONARDO DA VINCI
By the time Maisie and Felix got back to Verrocchio’s studio, making their way through the dark streets lit here and there by candles placed in front of shrines, clouds had swept over the sky, covering the stars.
Felix’s friend seemed distracted and deep in thought as he let them in. The smock he wore had spots of paint on it, and his hands were streaked with various shades of blue paint. He led them to a small storeroom and gave them each a heavy blanket and small flat pillow.
“In the morning, we will go to the hills,” he said to Felix. “But tonight . . .”
He gave a little apologetic smile and a shrug before leaving them there with a lit oil lamp.
“Friendly,” Maisie muttered.
“He is friendly,” Felix insisted. “He’s just busy finishing a painting.”
Maisie yawned.
“Not that I feel like staying up and chatting,” she said, wrapping the blanket around herself and settling onto the floor.
“Ugh,” she groaned. “This is a hard floor.”
Felix lay down beside her, yawning too. “What a day,” he murmured.
But Maisie was already asleep, her hair spread out like a fan around her head, and her arms flung out of the blanket.
A flash of lightning lit the small room, forcing Felix to sit bolt upright.
Oh great, he thought. A thunderstorm.
Even at home he didn’t like thunderstorms. When he was little, his mother used to tell him thunder was angels bowling. Maisie would roll her eyes at that explanation, but it made him feel a little less frightened. Now that he knew that wasn’t true, thunderstorms had become scary again. And here he was back in the 1400s, which made it even— Crack!
Thunder boomed, shaking the building.