Free I, Mona Lisa by Jeanne Kalogridis

evoked profoundly painful memories—and focused instead on the subject before him.
    Despite all attempts to mask their true feelings, all men and women nonetheless revealed them through subtle signs in expression,posture, and voice. Baroncelli’s regret was blatant. Even in death, his eyes were downcast, as if contemplating Hell. His head was bowed, and the corners of his thin lips were pulled downward by guilt. Here was a man overwhelmed by self-loathing.
    The artist struggled not to yield to his hatred, though he had very personal reasons for despising Baroncelli. But hate was against his principles, so—like his aching fingers and heart—he ignored it and continued with his work. He also found killing unethical—even the execution of a murderer such as Baroncelli.
    As was his habit, he jotted notes on the page to remind himself of the colors and textures involved, for there was an excellent chance the sketch might become a painting. He wrote from right to left, the letters a mirror image of conventional script. Years before, when he had been a student in Andrea Verrochio’s workshop, other artists had accused him of unwarranted secrecy, for when he showed them his sketches, they could make no sense of his notes. But he wrote as he did because it came most naturally to him; the privacy conferred was a coincidental benefit.
    Small tan cap
. The quill scratched against the paper.
Black serge jerkin, lined woolen singlet, blue cloak lined with fox fur, velvet collar stippled red and black, Bernardo Bandino Baroncelli, black leggings
. Baroncelli had kicked off his slippers during his death throes; he was shown with bare feet.
    The artist frowned at Baroncelli’s patronymic. He was self-taught, still struggling to overcome his rustic Vinci dialect, and spelling bedeviled him. No matter. Lorenzo de’ Medici,
il Magnifico
, was interested in the image, not the words.
    He did a quick, small rendering at the bottom of the page, showing Baroncelli’s head at an angle that revealed more of the gloom-stricken features. Satisfied with his work, he then set to his real task of scanning the faces in the crowd. Those near the front—the nobility and more prosperous merchants—were just beginning to leave, hushed and somber. The
populo minuto
, the poor and struggling, remained behind to entertain themselves by hurling epithets and rocks at the corpse.
    The artist carefully watched as many men as possible as they left the piazza. There were two reasons for this: The ostensible one was that he was a student of faces. Those who knew of him were used to his intent stares.
    The darker reason was the result of an encounter between himself and Lorenzo de’ Medici. He was looking for a particular face—one he had seen twenty months earlier, for only the briefest of instants. Even with his talent for recalling physiognomies, his memory was clouded—yet his heart was equally determined to succeed. This time, he was resolved not to let emotion get the better of him.
    “Leonardo!”
    The sound of his own name startled the artist; he jerked involuntarily and, out of reflex, capped the vial of ink, lest it spill.
    An old friend from Verrocchio’s workshop had been on his way out of the piazza, and moved toward him.
    “Sandro,” Leonardo said, when his friend at last stood before him. “You look like a lord prior.”
    Sandro Botticelli grinned. At thirty-four, he was several years Leonardo’s senior, in the prime of his life and career. He was indeed dressed grandly, in a scarlet fur-trimmed cloak; a black velvet cap covered most of his golden hair, cut chin-length, shorter than the current fashion. Like Leonardo, he was clean-shaven. His green eyes were heavy-lidded, filled with the insolence that had always marked his manner. Even so, Leonardo liked him; he was possessed of great talent and a good heart. Over the past year, Sandro had received several fat commissions from the Medici and Tornabuoni, including the massive