Da Vinci's Cat by Catherine Gilbert Murdock

Author:Catherine Gilbert Murdock [Murdock, Catherine Gilbert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Greenwillow Books
Published: 2021-03-30T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

Bedside View

Bee lay in the broad soft bed, absolutely twitching. How could Fred just go to sleep? This was the most exciting thing in the whole wide world. She, Beatrice Rosetti Bliss, was a time traveler—using a machine made by da Vinci himself! Wow. Wow. Wow.

No wonder Miss Bother had freaked when she saw Bee. No wonder she freaked about the cat. All her life, Miss Bother had been waiting for Juno and Bee. And then out of the blue, they showed up! You’ll make everything better, Miss Bother had said. Well, Bee absolutely would. One hundred percent. Raphael, drawing, done. Then she’d go back to her own time in New Jersey because NO TIME PASSES and Miss Bother would have the drawing and Fred would have Juno and Bee wouldn’t even have to explain to Mom and Moo!

She’d tell Nonna, though, when Nonna and Pepe got back from their cruise. Grandma Nonna loved stories. And she could keep a secret. She never even told Moo about that time Bee drove the car.

Fred made a snuffling sound. For a bossy kid, he was okay. It was really sad about his sister. Bee peered through the darkness, trying to see the guy in black armor. What a creepy painting. How could anyone sleep with that in their bedroom? Or with all that snoring in the next room? Or with the whole city of Rome right outside? She wasn’t going to sleep a wink—

She woke up to a kick in her ribs. “Get out!” a voice demanded.

“Wha . . . ?” Bee mumbled. Bright daylight shone in her eyes.

“Under the bed!” Another kick, and Bee tumbled to the floor. Luckily she fell onto carpet. “Quick,” the voice commanded, and without thinking Bee rolled under the bed. Not a moment too soon, for in scurried a woman who talked without taking a breath.

“Still asleep, my lord? Look at you abed with the day half done, and such a tangle of sheets. I’d like a word with His Holiness about the hours he keeps, for they do not suit a growing boy. Shall you wear your watered silk? Though I am not sure about dove gray for the hose. Perhaps saffron would be more suitable. . . .” On and on she went, her slippers shuffling back and forth.

“Yes, Celeste. No, Celeste,” a boy answered. Fred! Sir Federico Gonzaga. Bee shivered in glee. And she was lying under Fred’s bed, five hundred years ago in the middle of Rome!

The woman paused. “Did you hear a noise, my lord?” She stooped to peer under the bed.

Bee scrambled backward. Where to hide? There was nothing but dust.

“No, Celeste!” Fred yammered. “It’s the cat—the wind—my father’s portrait! Look: behold him. Is he not fearsome?”

A woman’s scarfed head came into view, blocked by Fred’s legs. “I cannot see—”

“Nothing is there, I vow it. Is not Papa’s portrait fine?”

The woman straightened with a grunt. “The portrait has always been fine,” she grumbled.

Dummy, Bee scolded herself. Don’t make noise. She just needed to relax and be quiet and wait until they could meet Raphael.

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