Free A Bolt From the Blue by Diane A. S. Stuckart Page B

what secrets they held.
    I needed but a glimpse to realize that the papers belonged to Leonardo. The tightly scribed writing in the familiar mirrored hand that ran from right to left could belong to no one else. As for the sketches that illustrated that text, they showed sections of the very flying machine that we had spent the afternoon testing. I noticed, as well, that one edge of each page was uneven, and I guessed that they must have been cut with haste from one of the Master’s many notebooks.
    I ventured as much aloud, earning his approving nod.
    “The volume that once held these pages is even now sitting on the table in my private workshop.”
    He paused and shrugged.
    “When they were removed from their binding, I cannot say, though these particular sketches were completed perhaps a month ago. And I am not in the habit of reviewing my work once it has been committed to paper. Thus, if not for this day’s tragic incident, another few weeks might have passed before I ever discovered the theft.”
    “And you believe that these drawings of your flying machine are the reason for the young man’s murder?” my father asked, his frown deepening.
    Leonardo nodded. “As I told you on your arrival, the duke is most anxious for a demonstration of the flying craft. He has fears regarding his treaty with France, which is in jeopardy.”
    He paused to lower his voice, though there was no one about save my father and me to hear him.
    “It is not commonly known, but as we speak Il Moro and a contingent of his men are on their way to a secret rendezvous with the French king’s representatives,” he went on. “But his greater concern is his alliances within the province . . . particularly the treaty with his newest ally, the Duke of Pontalba. Ludovico’s military might on the ground, while adequate, is insufficient to give him free rein in this region.”
    He raised a cautioning finger skyward. “Should Il Moro prove to these nobles that he holds domination in the sky—a feat that no one in history has ever before accomplished!—his problem is solved. They will have no choice but to submit to him. But if someone else manages to conquer the clouds before he does, both he and Milan will find themselves subject to another man’s rule.”
    While we considered that state of affairs, Leonardo managed what was, for him, a humble expression.
    “Certainly, we must allow for the possibility that another man in the region has the intellect to conceive of a similar design on his own,” he conceded. “But word of such a genius would surely have come to my ears by now, just as my own reputation spread beyond Florence. And as I have heard tell of no comparable man, I deem it unlikely. But should a person gain access to my design, my notes . . .”
    The Master trailed off with a shrug. Returning the pages to him, my father stroked his beard thoughtfully.
    “Your drawings that I have seen thus far are detailed. With them, a man with an apt hand and sharp mind might manage to build his own flying machine,” he agreed. “But if that had been the intent, who of the duke’s allies—or enemies—would be bold enough to set a spy out to steal your design? And why was your apprentice murdered, and yet these pages left behind?”
    “Those are the questions that plague me, and the reason I am loath to let word of Constantin’s murder spread until I have a chance to speak with Il Moro.”
    As he spoke, Leonardo started toward the spot where Constantin lay. Reluctantly, I followed after him, my father at my side with his hand again resting upon my shoulder.
    I was reassured to see that the apprentice’s face and upper body were covered by the same cloth in which the small flying machine had earlier been wrapped. But barely had I registered that relief when Leonardo knelt beside the still figure and drew back the fabric, exposing the youth’s pale, still features.
    “Now, we must connect these stolen drawings to Constantin,” he coolly