What Remains of the Fair Simonetta by Laura T. Emery

Author:Laura T. Emery [Emery, Laura T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B0164U6D1Y
Published: 2015-11-20T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 26

I ran my fingers through Sandro’s hair as he slept, harboring an intense desire to linger in that moment forever. But I knew I couldn’t. Antonella was responsible for my timely return to the palazzo, and in our short duration together I had developed a sense of responsibility for her as well. Sandro stirred as if he sensed my urgency, and his eyes quickly opened and fixed upon me.

“Simonetta?” He sat up and rubbed a soft hand across my face. “I am sorry I fell asleep. I was awake late last eve working on the banner.”

“It’s all right. I dozed off too.”

“I have had the strangest dream.” He scratched his head through his tousled hair.

“What was it about?” I yawned and stretched.

“I was in the Ognissanti, working on the Saint Augustine… and my father was expressing his disapproval.”

“Are you sure it was a dream?” I joked.

“His disapproval of my feelings for you.”

“Oh, I see.”

I can’t imagine why his father would disapprove of his son having feelings for a married woman who is also promised to a royal member of the Medici family.

“Does that bother you?”

“Only because I know his disapproval would be warranted if he were able to know my feelings first hand,” he sighed and stood up, quickly gathering his supplies. “I must get back to my studiolo and complete my work. Giuliano is to visit in the morn and expects to see his banner nearly finished.”

I wanted to press my lips against his one last time before we left the fairy tale meadow; to have one more small memory to cling on to—but he wasn’t on the same page. During my first life I’d developed a fear of letting any moment go without fully experiencing it; that any one could be my last. It was a fear that I’d never have that same moment again, and my life would be over before I did and said all the things I wanted. No one else could really understand my foreboding, and I had to accept the fact that everyone else fully expected to have a tomorrow. I didn’t have that luxury.

Sandro was right back to business. Instead of kissing me, he methodically helped me dress, then surprisingly re-braided and pinned my hair.

“There is something about your hair,” he mused. “It is such a miraculous hue. Do all the women of Genoa have hair the color of straw?”

“No.” I chuckled, having no idea, except an entire city of blondes seemed unlikely.

“Alberti, who designed the facades of the Palazzo Rucellai and the Santa Maria Novella, also wrote a Treatise on Painting in which he described seven movements of hair. He was especially pleased when a lock of it turned in spirals, as if wishing to knot itself, waving in the air like flames, twining around itself like a serpent, while part rises here, part there.”

“Antonella would disagree,” I laughed.

“Are you aware that many Florentines have the notion you were not born as an infant, but rather walked out of the

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