“Of course,” Sandro said.
They walked through the doors and into a large courtyard. The smell of the oil burning in the lamps mixed with the smells of food cooking, which made for a heavy, unpleasant aroma filling the air. Lorenzo left them to meet more guests, squeezing Sandro’s shoulder as he walked past.
Although Maisie’s stomach rolled at the smells, she hardly noticed. She was standing in perhaps the most beautiful courtyard ever built, which was decorated with gold and fine marble, carvings and sculptures, and even the benches and the floor itself were made of inlaid jewels and stones. A long table was set for a feast, reminding Maisie of the Dining Room at Elm Medona, with its heavy silver and candelabras and gold plates.
Four thick marble columns supported three soaring arches that were lined with twelve oval medallions alternating a coat of arms—the Medicis’, Maisie assumed—with mythological figures that she recognized from paintings and murals at Elm Medona.
“This reminds me of home,” she whispered.
Sandro looked surprised.
“Does home have something like this?” he asked, pointing to a marble bust.
Maisie shrugged.
“That is an antique bust of the emperor Hadrian, restored by none other than Filippo Lippi.”
“At Elm Medona,” Maisie said, “we have so many sculptures and tapestries and—”
“Follow me,” Sandro said, already walking ahead of her toward a small door.
Almost casually he pointed at a sculpture. “That bronze David is by Donatello,” he said, sounding like a stern teacher.
As she hurried to follow, Maisie looked up at the medallions that lined the walls. One of them was very familiar.
“I’ve seen that before,” she said, pointing.
Sandro did not even slow down. “Not unless you’ve been at the Palazzo Medici before,” he said dismissively.
Sandro opened the small door and beckoned her inside.
She took a step in and had to stop. Maisie was standing in what appeared to be a gorgeous, lush painting. There were more busts like the one of the emperor that Sandro had pointed out. But it was the plants, all so different from each other and so exotic-looking, that took her breath away.
“It doesn’t seem real, does it?” Sandro asked, his voice hushed with wonder.
“I feel like—”
“—like you’ve walked into a painting, yes?”
He didn’t wait for her to reply.
“That’s the effect Lorenzo wanted,” he said.
The sounds of voices and laughter floated in the air around them.
“Everyone must be here,” Sandro said. “It’s time for the berlingaccio.”
“What exactly is the berlingaccio?” Maisie asked.
“The eating and drinking that begins Carnival,” Sandro said. He smiled. “It will be a very long night.”
Reluctantly, Maisie left the garden, walking back through the small door into the courtyard behind Sandro.
There, Lorenzo stood as if holding court, surrounded by many men. Maisie searched the crowd, but Felix and Leonardo were not among them.
“Piero della Francesca,” Sandro whispered in her ear, “in whom you took so much interest.”
She followed his gaze to a man who looked as ordinary as any of them in the circle.
“The Pollaiuolo brothers,” Sandro said, moving around the circle. “Andrea del Verrocchio—”
“Yes!” Maisie said, recognizing the man who had come into the room during the thunderstorm last night.
“Domenico Ghirlandaio . . . Marsilio Ficino . . .”
“But who are these men?” Maisie asked.
“Artists, thinkers,” Sandro said, moving to join the circle. “They make up the court of Lorenzo the Magnificent.”
Maisie hung back a moment, taking in the sight of the court of Lorenzo the Magnificent, lit in an amber glow. There were times, like this one, when she had the strong urge to stay in the past. The complications of home seemed far away, and this life here in the Renaissance, filled with artists and dukes and all sorts of wonder, seemed more interesting and exciting.
She fingered the seal in her pocket. This wasn’t the first time she’d considered keeping it to herself. Maisie knew that at some point soon, like always, Felix would get homesick and want to return. But if she didn’t have the seal . . .
Glancing around the courtyard, Maisie saw a large terra-cotta urn, its handles shaped like twisting figures along each side. She walked over to it and casually dropped the seal inside, listening with satisfaction as it landed with a pleasing plink! Then she moved into the circle of men.
As soon as Maisie arrived, one of the men frowned, a look of worry crossing his face. He stepped away from everyone, staring hard at Maisie.
“You—” he said, pointing at her, even though Lorenzo was talking.
Everyone became silent, and turned to also stare at Maisie.