Gabriele held out his hand to help me climb, and I managed to scramble up after him despite the interference of my skirts. I settled myself on the platform, trying not to look over the edge. Gabriele turned back to the wall to continue his work.
I sat listening to the muted sounds from below carried up to our perch on the faint breeze. Once, the cathedral bells rang, marking the passage of time, but I was lost in the painting unfolding in front of my eyes—the faint flush on the fourth angel’s cheeks, the gentle curve of her neck disappearing into a blue gown, the gesture of her hands guiding the Virgin upward. Gabriele’s left hand moved across the plaster as he painted, feeling for the readiness of the intonaco to receive the touch of his brush. He painted with a languorous grace despite the imperative to finish the section before sunset. It reminded me of the hushed, deliberate rhythm of surgery. But he was creating beings from paint, or from some mysterious combination of pigment and what resided in his heart and soul. I’d fixed people; I hadn’t made them from scratch.
Gabriele stopped and put down his tools. “I must descend for a brief respite. My spirit is satisfied with painting all day, but my body requires attention.”
“Sometimes I think it’s too bad there’s a body at all,” I said, wistfully. “Its needs get in the way.”
“But the pleasures and possibilities of that limited body keep us marvelously—if painfully—human. Do they not?” He said this so quietly I wondered whether he really wanted me to hear.
* * *
Guido Baldi watched Accorsi and that woman scribe descend from the scaffold and disappear into the Ospedale entrance. The painter was with the whore who’d usurped his position in the scriptorium. The wine merchant’s gold had given him incentive to return to the Ospedale; wine, dice, and flesh required a substantial budget.
How sad it would be if the painter were to fall from his high platform. Scaffolding could be quite unstable—he’d heard of accidents befalling artists often. So very, very sad. Baldi wondered if the scribe would return with Accorsi after their rest. He hoped so. Even if the wine merchant was only interested in one victim, Baldi himself thought it was a tidy way to solve two problems at once. He looked again at the structure rising in front of him. Nice angels, he thought, too bad they won’t be finished. He squinted at one angel, thinking her face looked familiar, but perhaps he’d had a bit too much wine at lunch.
* * *
Iacopo de’ Medici did not trust his new hire. Why should he—any man so easily convinced to kill could not be trustworthy. It had been easier than he imagined to explain what he wanted done, and to hand over the soldi to Baldi to see that the job was completed. But his father had told him—“You must supervise the work of those you call into service, or they will take advantage of your absence.” Some part of him cringed from watching this endpoint of his plan, but he forced himself, finding a spot where he could lean against a building’s wall with a full view of the scaffolding, and those who climbed it.
My father would watch with pleasure, Iacopo thought, and though he knew he should respect his father, even in death, the thought made his stomach turn. I will watch, to be sure it is done, and done well. But I will not enjoy seeing my enemy fall to his death. And he stood, out of sight, his eyes reluctantly fixed on the scene.
* * *
After climbing down from the scaffolding, I headed to the Ospedale kitchens, where a wedge of creamy yellow cheese and a handful of tiny purple plums made a delicious lunch. I peeked into the empty scriptorium and decided a few more hours off wouldn’t hurt. Outside, Gabriele had already climbed the platform and was working on the angel’s hair, somehow making black look like it harbored a thousand other colors in its depths.
I stared up at the scaffolding, watching the clouds drift behind it. The movement made it look like the scaffolding was moving too. I shook my head to dispel the illusion, feeling dizzy. Even looking down, the feeling persisted, as if the ground were tilting under my feet.
A high whine began in my ears, and the aftertaste of the plums intensified in my mouth. When the familiar dampening of sound came, I finally recognized the episode for what it was. I slowed my breathing and forced my eyes into focus. Ordinary strangers were milling about the piazza, doing their business. But when I looked back at the scaffolding, I had a vision of Gabriele falling, limbs outstretched, down past the wooden beams toward the paving stones below. Along with the vision came a rush of satisfaction, the satisfaction someone else would have watching him plunge to his death. But Gabriele was still up there, painting as if the world didn’t exist. The wind had died down, but the scaffolding was swaying. I called up to him.
“Are you all right up there?” He was deep in his work and didn’t hear. “Messer Accorsi!” He dropped what he was holding—I heard a clatter as his tools fell—and he spun around to look down at me. It felt strange calling him Accorsi when he was Gabriele in my head.
“Is something amiss?”
“Come down.”
I saw him hesitate. Most people would have at least asked why, but Gabriele nodded and began to pack up his equipment. The whine in my ears grew louder until I could hardly hear anything else. “Please hurry!”
He left his tools behind and abruptly started his descent. He’d only made it halfway before the platform above him began to tilt. Then I heard the real crack of splintering wood as the joints of the scaffold gave way, and after that everything happened in terrible slow motion. Gabriele gripped one of the wooden supports with one arm, swinging wide of the massive planks as he fell, as the structure he’d so carefully assembled fell apart like a huge, out-of-control game of pick-up sticks. He hit the ground with an audible thud, and the boards of the platform crashed to the ground a few feet from his head.
I found myself standing next to Gabriele, who lay on his back on the pavement. His eyes were closed, and I wasn’t sure whether he was breathing. His face was pale. Look before you act—years of training had taught me that. The position of Gabriele’s head was natural. Good. I watched for a breath. One, two seconds, three. Come on, breathe. There: his chest rose and fell once. A for airway, B for breathing. Circulation next. I reached out carefully to feel for a pulse at his wrist—strong and even—and felt the reassuring warmth of his skin. I saw his fingers move, then relax again—not quadriplegic. His feet flexed in their soft leather boots. Four limbs working: even better. I watched his face for a sign of alertness. What if he never woke up? The watching might have lasted five seconds but it felt like an eternity. That’s when my nondoctor side took over.