intercede for you at the hour of your death if you wore it with faith. But what faith do you have?”
She’s an Abbess now?
“I have the kind of faith not many understand.” It was a faith that only started when I was given the charm. I had just received my terminal diagnosis and was crying for my mortality, stumbling through the Ognissanti—in my original body. Sister Constance, my rebellious, toothless friend, had given the charm to me, and I’d treasured it always.
But how could it have crossed over? Or was an identical charm given to Simonetta?
These were just more unanswered questions to add to my already long list.
“The sumptuary law restricting your jewelry will not be in effect for another year of your marriage,” Antonella continued. “You must take advantage while you can! I would be honored to wear such a handsome gift from such a dignified man.”
I gazed into the mirror that we had moved into my bedchamber, and examined the pearl necklace with the large brooch. The last shred of me hidden by the gaudy piece of jewelry.
“Since you have warmed to the looking glass, I thought you might wish to embrace another of Giuliano’s gifts.”
I’d given enough grief to Antonella for one day, so I decided just to roll with it and wear the damn necklace. Having finished her beautifying/torture session, Antonella vanished from my bedchamber into the adjacent room. I was afraid to venture from my chamber and have to face one of the many voices echoing throughout the palace, fearing most of all that one of them belonged to Marco.
I heard a rap at the front door and descended the stairs quickly towards it, my heart pounding in anticipation of the man I hoped to find on the other side. My racing adrenaline was only amplified by my desire to cross the threshold before I was noticed by any member of the household who might wish to stop me.
“ Buonasera, Signora Vespucci,” Sandro said with a bow.
“Please call me Stacia…I mean Simonetta.” I stuttered, and smiled shyly.
“Then please call me Sandro.”
It was so strange that I’d named my son after this renowned painter who now stood in my threshold.
“A word, my lady, before we depart,” Antonella grumbled unexpectedly from behind, leading me forcefully by the arm back into the foyer. She had changed into a red dress with a blue sash covered in yellow wasps, which no doubt represented the Vespucci, or wasps of Florence.
We?
“You cannot stutter and make eyes at the painter in that manner. Not at the Palazzo Medici. You know what will happen,” Antonella scolded.
“No. What will happen?” I asked, not caring how it came across.
“The wrath of Marco will happen.”
“Ahh,” I sighed.
Been there, done that .
I already had a lifetime of experience with a controlling, jealous husband. I’d spent eighteen years under the thumb of my former spouse, but had liberated myself from his reign and never looked back. Although it was difficult not to be somewhat fearful of a husband I had yet to meet. I decided I should listen to Antonella for the time being.
“Will Marco be there?” I asked.
“No. How could he be?”
Damn. I have no idea.
“Then how will he know who I make eyes at?”
“Enough of these games! You know very well how.”
I was anxious enough in anticipation of meeting Il Magnifico without the creepy thought of my husband having a spy or spies at the Medici’s.
Lorenzo de’ Medici was not nobility, not even close. Nor was he elected. He came from a family of powerful bankers, a monarchy of Lords of Florence. But more importantly to me, he was a great patron of scholars, poets, and artists—the most famous ones in history.
Lorenzo was also known for being quite charming and generous. During his rule, he wisely negotiated peace with the various Italian city-states. He was one of the greatest figures of history, and yet this was all I knew of him.
I imagined his palace to be a museum of treasures, an orgasmic array of
She’s an Abbess now?
“I have the kind of faith not many understand.” It was a faith that only started when I was given the charm. I had just received my terminal diagnosis and was crying for my mortality, stumbling through the Ognissanti—in my original body. Sister Constance, my rebellious, toothless friend, had given the charm to me, and I’d treasured it always.
But how could it have crossed over? Or was an identical charm given to Simonetta?
These were just more unanswered questions to add to my already long list.
“The sumptuary law restricting your jewelry will not be in effect for another year of your marriage,” Antonella continued. “You must take advantage while you can! I would be honored to wear such a handsome gift from such a dignified man.”
I gazed into the mirror that we had moved into my bedchamber, and examined the pearl necklace with the large brooch. The last shred of me hidden by the gaudy piece of jewelry.
“Since you have warmed to the looking glass, I thought you might wish to embrace another of Giuliano’s gifts.”
I’d given enough grief to Antonella for one day, so I decided just to roll with it and wear the damn necklace. Having finished her beautifying/torture session, Antonella vanished from my bedchamber into the adjacent room. I was afraid to venture from my chamber and have to face one of the many voices echoing throughout the palace, fearing most of all that one of them belonged to Marco.
I heard a rap at the front door and descended the stairs quickly towards it, my heart pounding in anticipation of the man I hoped to find on the other side. My racing adrenaline was only amplified by my desire to cross the threshold before I was noticed by any member of the household who might wish to stop me.
“ Buonasera, Signora Vespucci,” Sandro said with a bow.
“Please call me Stacia…I mean Simonetta.” I stuttered, and smiled shyly.
“Then please call me Sandro.”
It was so strange that I’d named my son after this renowned painter who now stood in my threshold.
“A word, my lady, before we depart,” Antonella grumbled unexpectedly from behind, leading me forcefully by the arm back into the foyer. She had changed into a red dress with a blue sash covered in yellow wasps, which no doubt represented the Vespucci, or wasps of Florence.
We?
“You cannot stutter and make eyes at the painter in that manner. Not at the Palazzo Medici. You know what will happen,” Antonella scolded.
“No. What will happen?” I asked, not caring how it came across.
“The wrath of Marco will happen.”
“Ahh,” I sighed.
Been there, done that .
I already had a lifetime of experience with a controlling, jealous husband. I’d spent eighteen years under the thumb of my former spouse, but had liberated myself from his reign and never looked back. Although it was difficult not to be somewhat fearful of a husband I had yet to meet. I decided I should listen to Antonella for the time being.
“Will Marco be there?” I asked.
“No. How could he be?”
Damn. I have no idea.
“Then how will he know who I make eyes at?”
“Enough of these games! You know very well how.”
I was anxious enough in anticipation of meeting Il Magnifico without the creepy thought of my husband having a spy or spies at the Medici’s.
Lorenzo de’ Medici was not nobility, not even close. Nor was he elected. He came from a family of powerful bankers, a monarchy of Lords of Florence. But more importantly to me, he was a great patron of scholars, poets, and artists—the most famous ones in history.
Lorenzo was also known for being quite charming and generous. During his rule, he wisely negotiated peace with the various Italian city-states. He was one of the greatest figures of history, and yet this was all I knew of him.
I imagined his palace to be a museum of treasures, an orgasmic array of
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