In the kitchen, he gathered dates, grapes, and figs, cutting them into small pieces. Since  Maestro had no appetite for mozzarella, Francesco selected another cheese Maestro loved—a soft Lombard cheese, mild, familiar, comforting. He spread butter and honey over a thick slice of bread and carried the plate back to the Maestro.

“Here,” he said. “Begin, and I’ll bring your port.”

Only when Leonardo was settled did Francesco prepare his own modest meal—figs, fresh cheese, bread, and a few slices of salami. Maestro ate no meat, so Francesco kept it for himself.

“This is delicious, Cesco,” Leonardo said.

“Thank you, Maestro. Eat well. You’ve looked pale of late.”

“Have I?” Leonardo murmured. “I grow cold so easily now.”

They ate in companionable silence, the fire the only sound between them. Sap hissed and popped in the logs, once loudly enough to make Leonardo start, nearly tipping his glass. He caught it deftly with his left hand, and Francesco checked the blanket, tugging it further away  from the hearth just to be safe.

When the plates were cleared and the port replenished, Francesco sat again beside him.

“Better, Maestro?”

“Hm?”

“Better with a bit of food?”

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.”

Francesco waited a moment. “Will you wish to work in the studio today? Or perhaps sketch outside, once the sun has fully risen?”

Leonardo sipped his wine, his shoulders easing. His eyes drifted shut. For a moment, Francesco thought he had fallen asleep—but the chair creaked softly as he shifted, and Leonardo’s eyes fluttered open again.

“No, my dear one. I think I will sit here by the fire. Perhaps you might read to me.”

“Of course, Maestro. Ficino?”

Leonardo nodded.

Francesco opened the familiar volume—On the Nature of Love—and began to read. The light was strong enough now to make out the small script. Leonardo closed his eyes as he always did when Francesco read, claiming it helped him listen without distraction.

Now and then, his nose twitched, as if suppressing a sneeze. A low hum escaped him once or twice. Francesco read on.

After several pages, he glanced up.

Leonardo’s eyes were still closed. When he opened them, the tears he had been holding back spilled all at once, flooding his cheeks, wetting his face as if he had splashed it rather than wept—no tracks, no order, just the sudden evidence of how long the tears had been waiting behind his lids.

“Maestro?” Francesco whispered.

“Keep reading,” Leonardo said, his voice trembling.

“But—Maestro—why do you cry? If it troubles you, I will stop.”

Leonardo opened his eyes fully now, and tears flowed down his cheeks, unrestrained. Torment filled their light brown depths.

Francesco set the book aside at once and reached for a handkerchief, dabbing gently at the old man’s face.

“Leonardo,” he said softly. “What is it? Please.”

Leonardo shook his head. “I did not sleep well.”

“What robbed you of your sleep?” Francesco asked. “I’m here. I won’t laugh.”

Leonardo took Francesco’s hand and pressed it to his cheek. “I know, Cesco. I would never think such a thing. I just….” He sighed, settling back beneath the blanket. “I don’t know if I can speak of this.”

“You don’t have to—.”

“I know. But I think—. I think I must.”

Francesco moved his chair closer and took Leonardo’s weakened hand in both of his own. “Then tell me. Begin with the dream.”

Leonardo was quiet for a moment.

“I dreamed of a time before you came to me,” he said at last. “When I received a commission for a painting in the studio.”

“Which one, Maestro?”

“La Gioconda.”

“I love that painting,” Francesco said. “You have never parted with it.”

“No. And I never will, while I live.”

“Is it special?”

Leonardo looked at the fire. “It is. And that is the story.”

Francesco poured more wine, settled back into his chair, and waited.

“Then tell me,” he said.

By Jess Austen

Book One — Chapter Excerpt

Francesco smoothed a stray lock of hair from the old man’s brow, then turned back to the fire. When the logs were burning nicely, he refilled the basket from the wood pile and returned it to its place beside the fireplace.