A Bolt From the Blue by Diane A. S. Stuckart

unduly harsh. We all realized, however, that he sought to keep both our hands and our heads occupied while we attempted to reconcile ourselves to the tragedy that had happened in our midst.
    Once the last paint pot was cleaned and the final broom tucked away, we gathered a bit uncertainly near the hearth, where the fire lay dying. It was usually Constantin who lit the night’s ration of candle stubs so that we might spend an hour of amusement before taking to our cots. No one appeared inclined to take on his role, just as none of us was disposed to indulge in merriment. Thus, it was with unspoken if mutual agreement that we put aside our usual ritual and retired early to bed.
    Or, rather, the others did. I slipped out of the workshop and, shivering in the cool night air, made my way to Leonardo’s quarters in search of my father.

7

    . . . such an instrument constructed by man is lacking in nothing except the life of the bird . . .
    —Leonardo da Vinci, Codex Atlanticus
     
     
     
     
     
    F or once, I was relieved to find that the Master was not within when I knocked upon his door. Where he would have gone, I could not guess, though I suspected his absence had something to do with the day’s events.
    Instead, it was my father who ushered me inside. He’d been working at the Master’s table, for several candle stubs burned bright upon it. The model of the flying machine sat amid scattered papers where my father had recorded notes and measurements from the test flights he and the Master had carried out. Glancing at the pages, I noted in some surprise that his sheets bore a striking similarity to those in Leonardo’s notebooks . . . save, of course, for the mirrored handwriting that was the Master’s alone.
    My father gestured me toward the bench and took a seat beside me. I leaned against his shoulder, recalling Constantin’s mention of his father, and how he would have given ten years of his life to sit with his parent one more time.
    Your wish has been granted, I thought, smiling mistily as I pictured the pair seated at some heavenly table and eagerly speaking of all that had happened since they last had seen each other in life.
    My father must have heard my reflexive sigh, for he put a comforting arm around me.
    “Your friend Constantin was a fine young man,” he remarked, “and a talented painter, as well. I am sorry that I did not have a chance to know him better, but I can tell you that your master spoke highly of him.”
    He hesitated and then shifted about so that he held my gaze. “And I can also assure you that this cruel charade of carrying the boy’s dead body about pained Signor Leonardo greatly. Do not worry, Delfina. I see now that he did what he thought must be done.”
    “But does he believe that Constantin betrayed him?”
    “Your master is a man of the world. He is not naive enough to dismiss the possibility that even the best of us can be tempted. For some, that temptation may be coin; for others, perhaps the prospect of a more prestigious post.”
    When I made a sound of protest, he added, “But, no, I do not think he suspects the boy of any wrongdoing.”
    He stood abruptly and paced the small room, stroking his neat beard. Again, I was struck by the resemblance between him and Leonardo. Perhaps had I allowed myself a more critical eye, I might have conceded that my father’s features were more pleasant than handsome, and his bearing rather more sturdy than graceful. Side by side, they could not be confused with each other; still, the two men might have passed for older and younger brother, with the Master the fairer of the pair.
    As those idle thoughts fl ittered through my mind, my father halted in his pacing, as if he’d come to a decision. He proved me right, when he began to speak.
    “I have given this matter much thought since this afternoon,” he began in a tone befitting the day’s solemn mood. “I fear that Signor Leonardo has inadvertently opened the gates to evil with