He stepped out; Isabetta began to follow.
“Stay,” he compelled her.
She nodded, retreated from a man she barely recognized. Their Leonardo had been painted with strokes of fear, but much worse, anger. Their Leonardo rarely showed anger. Though she knew he felt it; who wouldn’t when forced to defend one’s honor as Leonardo had?
With a swiftness they did not know he possessed, the tall, lanky artist rushed across the nave, into the opposite transept, and back again.
He stood as rigid as the rock he held before him. But it wasn’t just a rock. Wrapped round it was a tattered and grimy piece of parchment secured to the rock with a piece of twine.
“Well open it, for the love of God,” Fiammetta blustered, blaspheming in fear.
“Mother!” the fair Patrizia gasped, pale hazel eyes agape.
A fli
