Marco wisely slept in one of the extra bedrooms again that night, and I did not even see him the next morning. Just as well. I had nothing to say to him at the moment. I knew that soon I would need to find a way to put this behind me, a way to move forward with our marriage, a way to continue to be a wife to him in every sense of the word. But I could not and would not do it yet.
At just before one o’clock, I set out for Maestro Botticelli’s workshop. I casually told Chiara where I was going, though no doubt she knew. She seemed prepared to keep my venture a secret without being told to do so, yet I did not care. Let her tell Marco. Let there be no secrets in our marriage.
As I approached, though, I found myself feeling a nervousness I thought I’d banished. In my defiance and rebellion and determination to do what I wanted to do, I had let the details of this venture become hazy in my mind. In a manner of moments, I would be removing all of my clothes in front of a man who was not my husband. A man who was a friend—but still. It was contrary to everything I had been taught, to how I had been raised. To the strictures of the Church and of society.
Yet I wanted to do it anyway, and that was what frightened me most. I wanted to, even though and perhaps because it scared me, and now I must learn if I could go through with it.
I hesitated as I reached the door, and I knocked, though I knew Maestro Botticelli was expecting me. In those moments after knocking I became vividly aware that, if I so chose, I could leave now. This would be my last chance.
I remained where I was until he opened the door.
His eyes widened upon seeing me, as though he was surprised, as though he hadn’t been expecting me. “Simonetta,” he breathed, and my name was a greeting and a prayer and an invocation.
“Maestro Botticelli,” I said, stepping inside. Yet even as I spoke I realized that if I was to go through with this, there could be no more formalities between us. “Sandro,” I amended.
The workshop was even more littered with canvases and sketches and brushes than it had been when I was here before—no doubt a sign of the maestro’s popularity. He had lit a fire in the grate, perhaps unnecessary for what was a warm autumn day, yet I could see that he would need the light: lengths of cloth had been pinned over the windows so that no passersby would be able to see in. This, no doubt, was to preserve my modesty. And the room was empty of any other living soul. It was, I realized, the first time he and I had been truly alone together.
I turned back to face him, and he must have read the question in my eyes. “I dismissed my assistants for the rest of the day,” he said, locking the door behind me. “As promised. I am asking enough of you as is; there is no call to have you disrobe before other men as well.”
“I thank you for that,” I said. I wondered if my nervousness could be heard in my voice.
“Simonetta,” he said softly, stepping close to me and placing his hands on my shoulders. “You are certain, si? You do not have to do this. If you have changed your mind…”
Drawing in a deep breath, I met his eyes and shook my head. “I have not changed my mind. I want to do it.”
He smiled, relieved. “Very well. I cannot thank you enough, Simonetta. Truly.”
He led me over to the center of the room, where an overturned wooden box, covered with a length of cloth, had been placed. The worktables and benches had, I saw, been shoved back to make space. “This is where I will have you stand, if that is agreeable,” he said, gesturing to the box. “The light will be right, and I will have you in the center of my vision. Let me know if you get cold, and I can build up the fire.”
So the fire served a dual purpose. I was surprised by his thoughtfulness, though I knew I should not be.
I knew, of course, that Sandro lived above his studio, yet at just that moment I found myself very conscious that his bed was only just upstairs. I was about to undress, and so very close to his own intimate space.
He studied me again for a moment. “We shall wait until you are ready,” he said. “There is no need to rush. We shall not be disturbed all afternoon; I have seen to it.”
I took one more deep, shuddering breath, and bent down to remove my shoes. “No,” I said. “We can begin now. I am ready.”
“Very well,” Sandro said, situating a chair a few paces away from my pedestal—or so I had begun to think of it—fetching his sketchbook from one of the tables.
I kicked my shoes beneath a nearby chair and removed my cloak, draping it over the back of the same chair. I had taken care to keep myself shrouded in my cloak on my way here, despite the warmth of the day; I had purposely worn only a simple gown and shift that I would be able to remove myself; not anything I could be seen wearing in public. There was no lady’s maid to help me, and I would not ask Sandro to help me undress.
“Wait,” Sandro said, standing beside his chair. “If you could—would you unbind your hair?”
My throat was dry as I tried to respond. “You mean … leave it loose?”
“Yes,” he said. “If you do not mind.”
My hands reached up and fumbled for the pins. “Whatever you wish, maestro.” I found the courage to flash him a smile, and his answering smile warmed me and gave me the courage to proceed.
Once released from its pins, my wavy, yellow-gold hair tumbled down my back, ending just below my knees. I shook my head once, letting the front strands fall over my shoulders and frame my face.
“Perfetto,” he murmured. His face flushed slightly as he nodded at my dress. “Do you need … that is, should I…?”
“No,” I cut him off. “No. I shall do it myself.”
Slowly, looking away from him, I reached back and unlaced my dress, draping it over the back of the same chair as my cloak. I slid my shift down my shoulders and pushed it down to my feet. I stepped out of it and dropped it next to my other things before stepping up onto the overturned box. The air of the room felt chilled against my flushed, bare skin, and I closed my eyes for a moment. Yet I knew I could not continue to look away. I must do this with my whole heart. Boldly, I looked up and let my eyes find his.
His mouth was open partway as he beheld me and, in that moment—just for that moment—he was naught but a man looking on a woman: his eyes took in my shoulders; my round, firm breasts; my waist and belly and hips; the thatch of pale hair between my legs; my thighs and knees and calves. Every inch of me.
“Simonetta,” he breathed, and the reverence I heard in his voice made me flush deeper.
I lifted my chin haughtily, about to ask him whether he meant to gape at me or to sketch, and in that instant he became wholly the artist again. “Si, si,” he said excitedly, though his voice was low. “Just so. Hold that position.” With that, he bent his head over his paper and began to sketch.
This, now, was familiar to me: holding a pose, sinking into time and letting it envelop me so that he may capture me and, in so doing, capture time itself. Never again would I be just as I was at this moment, yet it would be one that would be preserved through the alchemy of Sandro’s hand and eye and pencil.