33The Chianti hills, July 1475
Around dusk, we draw close to the villa owned by the Vespucci family. We slow our horses down at the entrance to the tree-lined road leading up to the villa. Botticelli stops his cart, but gestures to me and Ginevra to continue, as he makes a deviation towards the forest to the side, as if he were trying to stay out of sight. I do not ask. The stifling heat and journey have exhausted me while Madonna Ginevra, accustomed to riding in the countryside around Florence, does not show any sign of fatigue.
I had not asked anything at our departure, when the Master had ordered his servants to prepare his cart. And I could not find the courage to ask why Ginevra and I had to ride on horses instead of climbing into the empty cart and riding more comfortably behind th
