Passion Blue by Victoria Strauss Page B

his hair, they were light, an icy shade of blue. They moved from her face to her throat, a frankly appraising gaze. She felt herself beginning to blush.
Is he the one? Is he my heart’s desire?
She’d wondered if the talisman might give her a sign of some kind. But all she felt was the uncomfortable thumping of her heart.
    “You know,” he said, “I have the strangest feeling I’ve seen you before.”
    “You have. Twice.”
    He snapped his fingers. “I remember now. The corridor, a few days ago. You were with that pretty nun.”
    “Yes. You winked at us.”
    “That was wrong, I know it.” He grinned. “But I couldn’t resist, you were both staring at me so. And the other time?”
    “In the street, about a month ago. You were coming out of the church. I was just about to go in the convent door. There was a woman with me, and a big carriage—”
    “The carriage! I remember. That was you?” Giulia nodded. His eyebrows rose. “You didn’t seem pleased about it, if you don’t mind me saying.”
    “I wasn’t.” Giulia took a deep breath. “I’m not atSanta Marta by choice. I was forced.”
    “By your family?”
    “Not exactly. But I don’t plan on staying. I don’t intend to become a nun.”
    “Well.” His eyes moved over her again, more slowly this time. “If I’d been wondering why a novice would climb a ladder to flirt with a man who winked at her in a corridor, I suppose that would be my answer.”
    Giulia felt her blush deepen.
    “So,” he said. “The fresco.” Turning, he stepped toward the scaffold’s far end. “You can see over here how the plaster has begun to crack. And there are stains, see? Mostly mineral deposits, but some black mold as well. So over here”—he moved in the other direction, forcing her to retreat before him—“I’ve used bronze tacks to fix the plaster to the wall. I have to be careful where I place them, for I don’t want to spoil the images or create further cracking. With the mineral deposits, you can’t remove them completely without damaging the plaster, so I’ve been scraping away as much as I dare and then trying to make them less visible.”
    The teasing manner was gone. He was a professional now, a man engaged with, and proud of, his work. For the first time, Giulia turned her attention to the fresco. In this part of it, three disciples leaned toward one another behind the table, and a fourth sat at the table’s front, his back to the viewer, his hand outstretched to take a fig from a platter. The figures were bigger than she’d realized, several times life-size, rendered with an astonishing wealth of detail.Close to, she could see what was not apparent from a distance: the grainy texture of the plaster, the slight unevennesses of hue where color was spread over a large area. To the left, beyond the scaffold, Jesus’ face was beautiful and sad, His cloak a breathtaking sweep of Passion blue.
    “How will you make them less visible?” she asked.
    “I’m rubbing them with a mix of oil, tallow, a little chalk, and a few other things.”
    “Won’t the tallow darken over time?”
    “I’m hoping not. This is my own formula—better than my master’s, though he’d never admit it. The mold I’m washing away, though I can’t get it completely clean. Some of the stains may need to be overpainted.”
    “What a shame, that so much has been spoiled.”
    “Not spoiled. I’m very good at what I do. By the time I’m finished, only Maestra Humilità and I will know where the repairs were.” He looked at her, his icy eyes—which really weren’t icy at all, but bright, like stars—appraising her again, though not quite as before. “You’re really interested, aren’t you. Not just pretending.”
    “Why should I pretend?”
    He shrugged. “Most girls would. To be polite, or”—he smiled—“to flirt.”
    “Well, I’m not most girls. I’m interested in everything about painting. In fact, I’m Maestra Humilità’s…well, I’m her