continued with a boyish smile. “That face of hers,
mastro,
the eyes most especially, are extraordinary, and if you will pardon me, the words of the man and not the artist, her body seems quite mattressable indeed!” It was uncharacteristically crude, and not in keeping with this boy.
Raphael closed his eyes. Giulio was young and unpracticed in so many things. To work here, among these men, that would need to change, he reminded himself. It was an entirely different perspective, youth.
In spite of her beauty, bedding the girl was not an option. To Raphael she was the Madonna—mother of Christ. One did not consider crossing the emotional chasm that would sully that vision and likely scar the very work he sought to create. Besides, she was nothing at all like the women who lured him and seduced him. But there was no use explaining that to his young, untried apprentice, who did his best to exist in a world of salty-tongued, harsh-tempered artists, far older and more worldly than he. Especially when the young woman had so far refused his offer. And this wild, impetuous thing that had taken hold of him was something he could not allow, nor accept. He was, after all,
Raffaell
o
—painter to popes and kings. He could not—would not—be undone by a common woman!
Raphael drew in a breath and felt dizzy, but he resisted the sensation. “Then I simply must go to her myself and explain the situation,” he said carefully. “What is the address?”
“Twenty-one Via Santa Dorotea. Very near here. Just over the Ponte Sisto, actually.”
“And her husband? Did he seem an impediment?”
“I saw only the father, who was most anxious that she should reconsider.”
“Then it is the father I must entreat to reason with her.” And then, almost as an afterthought, he asked, “Did you not ask her name?”
“She is called Margherita,
mastro.
”
Raphael felt a strange smile tug at his lips as if it suited her. “
The pearl
. . . Well, she certainly is that—luminescent . . . rare. And her family name?”
“Luti. She is Margherita Luti.”
“I know the name not. Ah, well. No matter. She is still my new Madonna, and I shall do what it takes to convince her of it.” She should be honored to be asked, he thought smugly. His work graced many of the great churches and villas of Rome, Florence, and beyond. He had the ear of dukes, princes, and the Holy Father himself. Could she truly turn away from an opportunity such as that? Tomorrow morning he would present himself in the impressive manner she expected, then, of course, he would convince her, and that would be that.
R APHAEL LEFT his house early the next morning. Dressed grandly in a slashed yellow doublet, scarlet hose, and scarlet velvet cap, a folio of drawing paper and sketches beneath his arm, he moved alone soundlessly along the wide Via dei Coronari. Amid the first slivers of pale pink sunlight, he pulled his cloak up around his shoulders to ward away the cold. A heavy dew had fallen during the night, and the wet streets and narrow alleyways around him floated in a kind of opalescent haze. It was too early for many to have arisen except an ambitious painter with more work than time. He made his way even before the shutters opened and servants began their own early morning task of tossing buckets of soiled water, slop jars, and the contents of chamber pots from open windows.
Raphael had wanted at first to go to her alone, but apparently she had expected him to travel nobly, with an entourage. So to get what he wished, he would give her what
she
wished. Before him was the image of those deep, expressive eyes—eyes belonging to a young woman about whom he knew nothing, other than that he must paint her. And he must convince her husband that it would be worth their while.
Walking with purpose, in long, bold strides, Raphael passed an old stone wall studded with brass rings to tie up horses. Beyond was a butcher’s shop, as yet unopened for the
mastro,
the eyes most especially, are extraordinary, and if you will pardon me, the words of the man and not the artist, her body seems quite mattressable indeed!” It was uncharacteristically crude, and not in keeping with this boy.
Raphael closed his eyes. Giulio was young and unpracticed in so many things. To work here, among these men, that would need to change, he reminded himself. It was an entirely different perspective, youth.
In spite of her beauty, bedding the girl was not an option. To Raphael she was the Madonna—mother of Christ. One did not consider crossing the emotional chasm that would sully that vision and likely scar the very work he sought to create. Besides, she was nothing at all like the women who lured him and seduced him. But there was no use explaining that to his young, untried apprentice, who did his best to exist in a world of salty-tongued, harsh-tempered artists, far older and more worldly than he. Especially when the young woman had so far refused his offer. And this wild, impetuous thing that had taken hold of him was something he could not allow, nor accept. He was, after all,
Raffaell
o
—painter to popes and kings. He could not—would not—be undone by a common woman!
Raphael drew in a breath and felt dizzy, but he resisted the sensation. “Then I simply must go to her myself and explain the situation,” he said carefully. “What is the address?”
“Twenty-one Via Santa Dorotea. Very near here. Just over the Ponte Sisto, actually.”
“And her husband? Did he seem an impediment?”
“I saw only the father, who was most anxious that she should reconsider.”
“Then it is the father I must entreat to reason with her.” And then, almost as an afterthought, he asked, “Did you not ask her name?”
“She is called Margherita,
mastro.
”
Raphael felt a strange smile tug at his lips as if it suited her. “
The pearl
. . . Well, she certainly is that—luminescent . . . rare. And her family name?”
“Luti. She is Margherita Luti.”
“I know the name not. Ah, well. No matter. She is still my new Madonna, and I shall do what it takes to convince her of it.” She should be honored to be asked, he thought smugly. His work graced many of the great churches and villas of Rome, Florence, and beyond. He had the ear of dukes, princes, and the Holy Father himself. Could she truly turn away from an opportunity such as that? Tomorrow morning he would present himself in the impressive manner she expected, then, of course, he would convince her, and that would be that.
R APHAEL LEFT his house early the next morning. Dressed grandly in a slashed yellow doublet, scarlet hose, and scarlet velvet cap, a folio of drawing paper and sketches beneath his arm, he moved alone soundlessly along the wide Via dei Coronari. Amid the first slivers of pale pink sunlight, he pulled his cloak up around his shoulders to ward away the cold. A heavy dew had fallen during the night, and the wet streets and narrow alleyways around him floated in a kind of opalescent haze. It was too early for many to have arisen except an ambitious painter with more work than time. He made his way even before the shutters opened and servants began their own early morning task of tossing buckets of soiled water, slop jars, and the contents of chamber pots from open windows.
Raphael had wanted at first to go to her alone, but apparently she had expected him to travel nobly, with an entourage. So to get what he wished, he would give her what
she
wished. Before him was the image of those deep, expressive eyes—eyes belonging to a young woman about whom he knew nothing, other than that he must paint her. And he must convince her husband that it would be worth their while.
Walking with purpose, in long, bold strides, Raphael passed an old stone wall studded with brass rings to tie up horses. Beyond was a butcher’s shop, as yet unopened for the
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