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

this invention of his. It is an unnatural thing, the prospect of a man soaring above the treetops like a bird. No good can come of it, I am certain. I fear that if your duke is given this power, he will use it most cruelly against both enemy and friend.”
    He paused and shot me a keen look. “I will, of course, keep my agreement with your master and continue work upon the flying machine. But once my part is done, I shall gather my tools and leave Milan so that I do not have to witness what will come next. And I think it best that I take you with me.”
    I leaped to my feet and stared at him in dismay.
    “Father, surely you would not make me abandon my apprenticeship! What happened to Constantin was a terrible thing, but the Master shall learn who killed him. There’s no need for me to leave.”
    “You don’t understand, my child,” he countered, his expression sterner than I recalled ever seeing. “This has nothing to do with your unfortunate friend’s murder. Signor Leonardo has already said that the duke intends to use this flying machine—should it prove successful—to go to war with his neighbors. One province or two falling victim to Il Moro’s newfound supremacy would not mean much. Such is the way it has always been, for the dukedoms cannot help but bicker like children. But I fear this time it will be different.”
    “I don’t understand, Father. What difference can it make?”
    “If Ludovico grows too powerful,” he replied, “he will eventually bring the wrath of Rome upon Milan. The Medicis of Florence will surely support the pope, as will any other dukes not under Ludovico’s control. The ensuing war will be bloody, and I shall not leave my daughter here to face such carnage!”
    His tone had an air of finality about it that struck me silent. And, truth be told, I suspected he could be right about what might happen should the callous Ludovico gain control of the very skies. But how could I abandon Leonardo and my fellows to such danger?
    Not willing to debate the subject with him, I merely nodded my assent; then, to change the subject, I began telling him about the new fresco that we’d begun preparation for in the chapel. I did, however, purposely neglect to mention the scenes depicting Christ’s travels in strange Eastern lands . . . most particularly the sketch that showed him levitating above a crowd. I knew my pious father would find it heretical, so much so that he might forget his promise to the Master and hurry me away from Milan this very night!
    A short time later, I kissed my father on the cheek and took my leave. Leonardo had not yet returned, and I wondered if he would wander the night until dawn, as was often his wont. For myself, I preferred the comfort of my bed. Thus, I slipped back into the workshop, dark save for the final flickers of the dying fire tucked deep within the hearth.
    I negotiated the shadows with care, making my way through the maze of worktables and benches until I reached the converted storeroom that served as the apprentices’ sleeping quarters. Running the length of the workshop and accessed by but a single entry, it was little more than a long hallway flanked on either side by a dozen shallow alcoves. While once those hollows would have held boxes and barrels, now each contained a narrow cot and a small wooden chest for storing personal items.
    While it might have seemed odd to house a score of young men as if they were but the aforementioned boxes and barrels, it had proved a fine arrangement. In truth, we enjoyed far more luxurious accommodations here than did most of the castle’s inhabitants. There were sufficient numbers of both alcoves and cots that we each had a bed to ourselves, while most of the castle’s other apprentices and servants slept two or three to a single bed . . . That was, assuming they had a bed and not merely a pallet of straw and blankets laid upon the stone floor.
    Of course, the foot of each of our beds protruded from the