Free Da Vinci's Tiger by L. M. Elliott Page A

narrative poem about the event, spending stanza upon stanza on the beauty of Lucrezia Donati. Only in passing had he mentioned Clarice, who still resided in Rome at the time, portraying her as praying for her soon-to-be husband’s safety during the joust.
    Glorious for Lucrezia Donati to be such inspiration for the Magnifico, to be sure. But what was that like for his wife? I had never thought of that before.
    The question must have been etched all over my face.
    Clarice’s smile was cold. “Come, it is late. Your husband awaits you.” As we came to the staircase, she added pointedly, “When you return, I do hope Ambassador Bembo’s wife will join us. Such a shame she was indisposed tonight. I think she would like you, just as much as I do Lucrezia Donati.”
    I had spent enough time with my sisters and other boarders at the convent to spot a cat’s claws in Clarice’s tone of voice. Before that moment, I had been thrilled and aflutter that a man of letters seemed so interested in my writing and my thoughts. But Clarice’s remark about the ambassador’s wife made me recognize what everyone else had clearly already understood about tonight—that Ambassador Bembo’s interest in me might go beyond poetry.
    At the bottom of the steps stood Lorenzo de’ Medici, my uncle, my husband, and my new admirer, deep in conversation. As if sealing some deal, Lorenzo slapped Ambassador Bembo’s back and laughed. When they noticed us looking down on them, the men abruptly stopped their banter. They bowed low, Bernardo Bembo keeping his eyes upon me as hedid, his gaze so flattering, so inviting, Lord, so . . . so brazen.
    I felt dizzy. What did it all mean? Stumbling, I put my hand on the marble rail to steady my wobbly legs.
    As steeped as I was in ancient lore and biblical tales, there was so much to the world I did not know or understand yet. I was, after all, only a few years past childhood. I hadn’t even begun bleeding—the mark of womanhood—until the previous spring.
    Suddenly, I longed for the simplicity of my convent school years—prayers and psalms, giggles and gossip, innocent imaginings of what romance promised—and the wisdom of its Mother Superior. I wanted to nestle up against her and pour out my heart as I used to during my weekly confessionals. I needed her sage advice.
    Tomorrow I would flee to that sanctuary, as fast as my shaky legs would carry me.

8
    â€œG INEVRA, MY DEAR. W HAT A LOVELY SUR— OH! ”A BBESS Scolastica gasped as I hurled myself into her arms.
    â€œOh!” I cried out as well. I hadn’t waited for her to put aside her crewelwork before diving at her. Her long needle lodged in my dress, attaching her stitched canvas to me by a golden thread.
    â€œGoodness, child, hold still.” Scolastica plucked the needle out of my bodice. “How many times did I caution you to move gracefully, like the lady of good breeding you are? Were all our lessons in modest deportment and self-discipline for naught?” But she smiled fondly as she said it.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mother.”
    Scolastica put aside the exquisite piece she had been sewing—a colorful emblem of the Trinity surrounded by a garden of blossoms. How bent and crooked her fingers had become, how swollen the joints. “Mother, does it hurt you to sew with your fingers so . . .” Lord, she was right, I had learned nothing. I slapped my hand over my mouth, as if I could retrieve and lock in the rude question.
    She patted my face before answering. “Embroidery helps me meditate on God’s kindness in granting me the ability to paint in silk thread. I wish this piece to be part of my shroud when the Lord calls me, so that I may take some of this temporal world’s beauty with me to heaven. It is not really allowed, but the Holy Father has been lenient in many things for us.” Scolastica lowered her voice and said almost