We slept for a time. When I awoke, rain was pounding on the walls and roof of the building. I wanted to huddle back within the blankets; curl up against Sandro’s side and stay there. I wanted to never leave, and damn the consequences.
Yet I knew all too clearly what the consequences would be, now that my haze of love and desire no longer blinded me. If I did not return home, Marco would look for me here first. And nothing good could come of that. Not for me, not for Sandro.
When I returned home, Marco—if indeed he was there and not out whoring—would no doubt know where I had been, but he would have no proof. And I would never say a single word. I would never speak of this night to anyone: not Marco, nor my confessor, nor to God himself. It belonged to me and Sandro and no one else.
Quietly, I slipped from the bed and groped about in the dark for my clothes. The candles had burned out long since, so it was something of a struggle to get into my shift once I found it, before my eyes adjusted somewhat to the dark.
“Simonetta,” Sandro said in a whisper behind me. “What are you doing?”
“Dressing,” I said simply. “Help me, please.” I stepped into my dress and turned my back to him so that he might do up the laces.
Reluctantly, he rose from the bed and did as I asked. “You are not leaving?” he said.
“I have to.”
“It is pouring rain outside, Simonetta,” he said. “You will be soaked, and then you will take ill again. Stay. Stay until it passes.”
I could barely look at him. “No. I cannot.”
“Please, Simonetta. Do not make me beg you.”
I sighed and turned to face him. “I must get home, or else it will not go well for either of us,” I said. “Marco … he would know where to find me.”
Even in the dark I could see the questions in Sandro’s eyes, but thankfully he did not ask them. “Then at least let me accompany you. It is not safe for a woman alone out on the streets at this time of night.”
I shook my head. “No. If we reach my house and Marco were to see you…” I shuddered. “I have never known him to be a violent man, Sandro, but even so I do not want to think what he would do.”
“I do not care about my safety,” he said. “I care only about yours. He will never see me, and I will make sure you are home safe.”
“No!” I cried. I could not tell him the other reason I was refusing so vehemently. If I did not leave now, leave him behind, I was afraid I would never be able to do so. “No. Please, do not ask it of me.”
“Simonetta…”
“No,” I said again. I took his face between my hands. “This has been the most sublime, perfect night of my life. We cannot ruin it with an argument.”
I kissed him, and he kissed me back, deeply. Then I pulled away and made for the door, going back downstairs.
In the dim light of the dying fire in the workshop, I found my cloak on the floor and settled it about my shoulders. Sandro followed me right to the door.
“When will we see each other again?” he asked, cupping my face in his palms.
My eyes filled with tears. “I do not know. I do not know, my love.”
He kissed me one last time, desperately, and then I broke away and stepped outside and into the driving rain, knowing that if I did not do it then, I would never be able to.
38
The rain soaked me to the skin within minutes, and at first I welcomed it, letting it wash the scent of sex and sweat from my skin so Marco would not know where I had been and what I had done. But I began to shiver when I was just out of sight of Sandro’s workshop. It was a chill April night, that time of year when spring is in every ray of sun during the day, but winter still seeks to claw its way back after dark. I began to cough, as though the rain had settled into my lungs and I needed to expel it.
The walk between my own house and Sandro’s workshop had never before seemed so long. When finally I dragged myself onto the right street, I could have wept with relief, yet I did not even have the energy for that. It took me a few tries to pull open the door, as my hands were slick with water and trembling violently with cold.
I managed to get upstairs to my room which, of course, was empty. “Chiara,” I croaked. Just the effort of using my voice caused me to begin coughing again. “Chiara!” I called again, only slightly louder this time.
She came bustling into the room, wiping sleep from her eyes. “Madonna?” she asked, sounding confused. “What has happened? Oh, my…” she said, as she took in my wet cloak, my soaked hair and clothes, my glistening skin. “Dio mio, Madonna, you are nearly blue with cold. Where have you been? Oh, no matter. Come here, we must get those wet things off. Quickly, take that cloak off, and I will get you something dry.” She went into my dressing room and came out with a thick woolen shift. I dropped my sodden cloak to the floor, but that was as much as I could do.
“Oh, Madonna,” Chiara said. With deft fingers, she removed my wet clothes and dried my naked body with a length of cloth, as though I were a child after a bath. Then she pulled the shift over my head and led me to the bed. “I shall get the extra coverlet,” she said. “You shall be warm in no time.”
I only remembered shivering.
*
I had thought before that each bout of illness was God punishing me for one of my many sins—for loving a man other than my husband, for desiring that man, for not cleaving to my husband, for vanity. Whether I was right or wrong, it seemed fitting that the worst illness yet would come upon me after my gravest transgression.
Still I did not regret it. In those moments when I was lucid enough to consider it, I knew that I would do it all over again.
It is worth my immortal soul to spend one night with you, Sandro had said. I had not told him then, but I felt the same way. It began to seem as though it had been a mistake not to tell him.
*
I spent several days—I cannot say how long—in a haze of fever, sometimes waking myself with the force of my own coughing. I saw flashes of blood, black against the sheets. Chiara’s face, then Marco’s, then Sandro’s, always Sandro’s, came to me. Sometimes when I awoke, I was freezing and thought myself still out in the rain; at other times I burned so hot that I thought I was already in Lucifer’s hellfire.
I know Marco was there sometimes; I know the doctor was as well. Chiara hovered over me always, bathing my brow with cool cloths and bringing me water and diluted wine. If I awoke long enough to speak to anyone, it was her.
Yet one night when I awoke, it was no mystery what had roused me: two men’s voices, arguing loudly and strenuously.
“I forbid it, do you hear me? You scum who has laid hands on my wife, who has defiled her with your filthy drawings.”
“You may kill me yourself if you like, Vespucci; I care not. Just let me see her first!”
Sandro. Even in the throes of a fever I could not mistake his voice.
“You would need to kill me first,” Marco shot back. “Only when you step over my dead body shall you enter her chamber.”
Slowly, as my wits returned to me, I realized they must be just outside my bedchamber. Sandro must have forced his way in and gotten this far before Marco intercepted him.