Free Lady of Asolo by Siobhan Daiko Page B

cries out to learn more as the desire to paint surges through me. The artist clambers down the ladder and we make our reverences to each other. How I long to throw aside this politeness between us. Instead, I keep my gaze averted and say, pointing to the fresco, ‘How do you do that? Can you show me?’
    ‘You?’ he says in an astonished tone.
    ‘I draw, but I would like to learn the techniques of painting. There is no one here to teach me. If I had been born a boy, I would have been apprenticed to a master just as you were to the great Bellini.’
    ‘Oh, so you know all about me, do you?’ His voice is soft and a smile crinkles his eyes.
    I stamp my foot. ‘Only that you are conceited, and arrogant, and laugh at me for wanting to be something I can never be.’
    ‘Ha! To be a true artist you need a burning in your soul. If you burn with the desire to paint, Signorina Cecilia, you will do so whatever hindrances are put in your way.’
    ‘Please, teach me. I can be your pupil in secret.’
    He bends to gather up his paintbrushes, saying nothing. How dare he ignore me! ‘Let me show you my work,’ I plead.
    ‘Only if you will pose for me, signorina. I have longed to paint you ever since I first set eyes on you.’
    ‘When?’ I ask, unable to keep the eagerness from my voice. Finally, someone will show me how to develop my skills.
    He glances through the arches. ‘There’s time to make a start before the court wakes up. The light is good this afternoon. Follow me.’
    Slinging a bag over his shoulder with one hand, he takes my hand with the other and leads me outside. I look around, checking for Signor Lodovico, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Honeysuckle scents the air and the call of a cuckoo echoes from the lime trees beyond the rose bower. My lady has planned this garden for enjoyment and there are stone benches on the other side of the bushes, hidden from the sight of anyone who might be gazing from a window. ’Tis the perfect place for us.
    Signor Zorzo pulls a wooden frame from his carrier and leans a small canvas against it. He picks up his brush and dips it into the pot of paint he has also taken from his bag. I long to have colours to work with; I’m so fed up with black chalk. Will the painter be true to his word and transmit some of his knowledge to me?
    He grasps his brush and, with deft strokes, brings forth the outline of my face. Within minutes, it seems, although it must have taken longer, he has finished. ‘I can complete it in my studio in Venice,’ he says.
    ‘Might I visit you there? I go with my lady next week.’
    Signor Zorzo appears thoughtful for a moment. ‘Arrange for quarters overlooking the canal. I’ll fetch you at night in my boat. You’ll be my muse.’
    A bubble of happiness forms in my chest. I go to him and put my arms around his waist, caring not if I’m being forward. My gesture comes from the heart. Our lips meet, and I rejoice at the softness of his mouth, the sweetness of his scent. He lets out a moan and our tongues entwine. The feeling is delicious at first, then becomes more intense as my body starts to burn. He pulls away. ‘We must stop. For the hour of siesta is over.’
     
     
    Fern took in a deep, shuddering breath. She could feel desire pulsing through her, fighting with her guilt. How could she betray Harry like that? She touched her lips, still moist from the artist’s kiss. What the heck? She rested her hands on the balustrade and rubbed her palms on the rough, lichen-encrusted stone. Crickets and sparrows chirped in the undergrowth and the breeze blew a tendril of hair into her mouth. She tucked it behind her ear.
    Her body throbbed and she thought not of Harry, but of Luca. Something about his mouth reminded her of Zorzo, but he was different in every other way. Their height was the same, granted, except Luca was thin and the artist could only be described as a bear of a man. In spite of their differences, there was a likeness there somewhere, a