He held up a small notebook and opened it, revealing the strangest handwriting Felix had ever seen. The letters seemed to be written backward, and ran from right to left instead of from left to right. Once, Felix and Maisie’s parents gave them a spy kit for Christmas, and one of the codes in it looked just like this handwriting. To break the code, Maisie had figured out, they just had to hold the message up to a mirror, where it became readable in the reflection.
“And I had to record it,” the boy was explaining.
The man sighed. “That’s all well and good,” he said, frustrated, “but did you get the paints mixed?”
“I . . . hmmm . . . I started to,” the boy said, thinking hard. “I spent all morning washing and grinding the minerals—”
“Such as?” the man continued impatiently.
“Iron,” the boy said. “And maybe terra verte?” he added uncertainly.
“And?” the man pressed. “Did you at least get it mixed with the oil and milk?”
“That,” the boy admitted, “I did not do.”
The man sighed again. “Why do you have so much trouble finishing things? Such a talented young man, but you get so distracted.”
“Yes, Signor Verrocchio, I do get distracted. But these distractions, as you call them, are important. For example, today I was preparing to add the oil and milk, just as you ordered. But I began to think of how I could make the colors less saturated.”
“Less saturated,” Signor Verrocchio said in the voice of a man losing his patience.
“Exactly! Subtler! Lighter!” the boy’s face beamed with enthusiasm. “Perhaps, with your permission, of course, I’ll try this tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, you will paint the angel. Or the landscape, as my master sketches show,” the artist said seriously.
“Yes, yes, of course. But first, perhaps I can add some beeswax and water when the pigment and linseed oil are at the boiling stage? To see if my theory is correct?”
The man shook his head. “Where do you get these ideas, Leonardo?”
“Leonardo!” Maisie gasped.
“Da Vinci?” Felix ventured.
“You know me?” Leonardo asked, confused.
“We . . . I mean . . . yes . . . ,” Felix stammered.
“From . . . Sandro,” Maisie offered.
“Ah!” Leonardo said, satisfied.
Maisie and Felix couldn’t do anything except stare at him, the boy who would grow up to paint the Mona Lisa and The Last Supper, now just an apprentice mixing paint for Andrea del Verrocchio.
Maisie did not want to go up into the hills with Leonardo.
“But he’s Leonardo da Vinci,” Felix said to her in disbelief. How could anyone, even his sister, Maisie, not want to spend every possible minute with the actual Leonardo da Vinci?
“I want to see what Sandro is doing for my mask,” Maisie said.
Even though she realized that Sandro stupidly loved a married woman, and was actually much older than she’d thought (he must be at least twenty, she’d decided), she didn’t care. She had, she realized, a great big crush on the curly-haired, unknown painter. Someone else, like maybe Bitsy Beal or Avery Mason, would have developed a crush on Leonardo, who, with his long eyelashes and dark eyes, was what those girls would call dreamy. But to Maisie, Sandro was cuter and more fun to be around than someone who got all excited about light traveling faster than sound.
“Sandro Botticelli isn’t even that good a painter,” Felix said.
“How do you know? You haven’t seen his work.”
“No one’s ever heard of him,” Felix said.
“Apparently,” Maisie said, defending Sandro, “everyone here has heard of him. He’s apprenticed with some famous monk named Flippy Lippy, or something.”
Felix shook his head. “Flippy Lippy? That does not sound like anyone serious about anything.”
“I don’t know who the guy is, but Sandro said it like he was someone very important,” Maisie said.
“That’s because he’s a braggart!” Felix exclaimed.
“Plus,” Maisie continued, deciding to ignore her brother’s insult, “he’s good friends with these Medici people, and apparently they run the whole city of Florence.”
“Fine,” Felix said. “I give up.”
“Besides,” Maisie said, “we’re going to all go to that palace later for the . . . What did he call it?”
“Berlingaccio, I think,” Felix said. “Whatever that is.”
They were interrupted by the sound of boisterous laughter coming from the artist’s studio where Leonardo had gone to paint.
“That sounds like Sandro,” Maisie said happily, and before Felix could roll his eyes at her she was out the door.
Reluctantly, Felix followed.
Sure enough, Sandro stood leaning against the wall, watching as Leonardo frowned at the giant canvas. In Leonardo’s hand was a clay model of an angel.
“My friend Leonardo here believes the best way to paint something is from a three-dimensional model,” Sandro said, tilting his chin toward the angel.
“That makes sense,” Felix said.
“Do you know how much time he spent making that clay figure instead of painting?” Sandro said, followed by more boisterous laughter. “And do you see those lines drawn on the canvas?”
Felix and Maisie peered at the canvas, following Sandro’s pointing finger.
“Yes,” Maisie said.