Leonardo da Vinci: Renaissance Master by Ann Hood

honesty. “But, I mean, isn’t Piero della Francesca kind of famous?”
    â€œSomeday, I hope,” Lorenzo said ruefully. “As his benefactor, I believe that someday the world will know who he is.”
    He glanced at Sandro, who was sulking beside him.
    â€œAnd Sandro Botticelli, too, of course,” Lorenzo added.
    â€œOf course,” Sandro said.
    They walked through the doors and into a large courtyard. The smell of the oil burning in the lamps mixed with the smells of food cooking, which made for a heavy, unpleasant aroma filling the air. Lorenzo left them to meet more guests, squeezing Sandro’s shoulder as he walked past.
    Although Maisie’s stomach rolled at the smells, she hardly noticed. She was standing in perhaps the most beautiful courtyard ever built, which was decorated with gold and fine marble, carvings and sculptures, and even the benches and the floor itself were made of inlaid jewels and stones. A long table was set for a feast, reminding Maisie of the Dining Room at Elm Medona, with its heavy silver and candelabras and gold plates.
    Four thick marble columns supported three soaring arches that were lined with twelve oval medallions alternating a coat of arms—the Medicis’, Maisie assumed—with mythological figures that she recognized from paintings and murals at Elm Medona.
    â€œThis reminds me of home,” she whispered.
    Sandro looked surprised.
    â€œDoes home have something like this?” he asked, pointing to a marble bust.
    Maisie shrugged.
    â€œThat is an antique bust of the emperor Hadrian, restored by none other than Filippo Lippi.”
    â€œAt Elm Medona,” Maisie said, “we have so many sculptures and tapestries and—”
    â€œFollow me,” Sandro said, already walking ahead of her toward a small door.
    Almost casually he pointed at a sculpture. “That bronze David is by Donatello,” he said, sounding like a stern teacher.
    As she hurried to follow, Maisie looked up at the medallions that lined the walls. One of them was very familiar.
    â€œI’ve seen that before,” she said, pointing.
    Sandro did not even slow down. “Not unless you’ve been at the Palazzo Medici before,” he said dismissively.
    Sandro opened the small door and beckoned her inside.
    She took a step in and had to stop. Maisie was standing in what appeared to be a gorgeous, lush painting. There were more busts like the one of the emperor that Sandro had pointed out. But it was the plants, all so different from each other and so exotic-looking, that took her breath away.
    â€œIt doesn’t seem real, does it?” Sandro asked, his voice hushed with wonder.
    â€œI feel like—”
    â€œâ€”like you’ve walked into a painting, yes?”
    He didn’t wait for her to reply.
    â€œThat’s the effect Lorenzo wanted,” he said.
    The sounds of voices and laughter floated in the air around them.
    â€œEveryone must be here,” Sandro said. “It’s time for the
berlingaccio
.”
    â€œWhat exactly is the
berlingaccio
?” Maisie asked.
    â€œThe eating and drinking that begins Carnival,” Sandro said. He smiled. “It will be a very long night.”
    Reluctantly, Maisie left the garden, walking back through the small door into the courtyard behind Sandro.
    There, Lorenzo stood as if holding court, surrounded by many men. Maisie searched the crowd, but Felix and Leonardo were not among them.
    â€œPiero della Francesca,” Sandro whispered in her ear, “in whom you took so much interest.”
    She followed his gaze to a man who looked as ordinary as any of them in the circle.
    â€œThe Pollaiuolo brothers,” Sandro said, moving around the circle. “Andrea del Verrocchio—”
    â€œYes!” Maisie said, recognizing the man who had come into the room during the thunderstorm last night.
    â€œDomenico Ghirlandaio . . . Marsilio