Da Vinci's Cat Read online

  “Maybe.” Bee shrugged helplessly. “You make a trunk and, you know, you put it in.”

  “And hope ’Erbert finds it in four hundred years?”

  “I guess. You’re the boss of Mantua, right?”

  Fred looked at her. He nodded. He set the sketchbook under his arm, and straightened his shoulders, and raised his chin. He looked like a warrior, kind of. “Then I shall. I shall make it so. And in the meantime you may bring me peanuts.”

  “Very funny.” Oh. He wasn’t joking. “You’re not joking.”

  “About peanuts? Never.” Fred stood. He opened the wardrobe with a bow. “My lady?”

  “Why, thank you.” Bee bowed back. Not a bad bow, she thought. “See you at midnight?”

  “Naturally.” Fred smiled.

  Bee paused at the wardrobe door, snapping her fingers. “Wait—wasn’t there something else you needed? Some kind of animal? A goat, maybe?”

  Fred’s smile widened. “I think you know.” He held the sketchbook close. “And chocolate, please. Don’t forget.”

  “I won’t,” said Bee. “See you soon.” She stepped through.

  Chapter 31

  A Beginning and an End

  The closet door shut with a click.

  Federico eased it open, just to check. Empty, naturally. “Till midnight.” How many hours until Juno and chocolate and Bee! He missed them already. Yawning, he gave the sketchbook a pat. How nice it felt to help Miss Bother, five hundred years away. He’d need a trunk to get this drawing to Herbert; that was a puzzle. At the moment, however, he most needed sleep—

  The palace door crashed open, and His Holiness marched in. “Spies?” he roared over his shoulder.

  Bramante scurried after him, trailed by workmen. “Your Holiness, I can explain—”

  The pope spun toward Bramante, purple with rage. “You installed a machine built for spies in our palace?”

  Bramante smiled weakly, glancing at the closet. “But it did not work.” Anxiously he jangled his keys. “Even my dear friend Leonardo said as much. . . .” He beckoned to the workmen. “Come, men. Destroy this contraption, for His Holiness and the goodness of Rome.”

  “No!” Federico leaped forward. “You can’t! You must not!”

  “And burn it,” Bramante added, his eyes on the pope.

  “Please.” Federico threw himself in front of the closet. “Please, Your Holiness. It’s special to me.” He fell to his knees, tugging at the pope. “I’ll take it, I’ll keep it, I’ll make sure there’s no danger. I beg you.”

  The pope flicked back his robes. He would not look at Federico. “We won’t tolerate spies.”

  “Precisely,” Bramante declared. “Destroy it, men.”

  “No!” wailed Federico—too late, for already the workmen had ripped off the door. “No!”

  “He sounds like a child,” the pope said with distaste, backing away. “We don’t like children.” Hastily he retreated to the palace. “This caterwauling makes us quite ill. We must have lunch soon, to settle our stomach. . . .” He squeezed his way through the door.

  Piece by piece, the workmen broke up the closet.

  Federico watched, too filled with grief even to breathe.

  “I had no choice.” Bramante did his best to sound innocent. “’Twas my neck on the block—”

  Again the palace door slammed open. Michelangelo stomped down the corridor. “Ho there, toad!”

  “Finish the job,” Bramante ordered, ignoring this bellow.

  Federico grabbed Michelangelo’s arm. “Please, Master! You must stop them.”

  Michelangelo shrugged him away. “The peacock was in my scaffolding,” he announced. “I can smell him!”

  “Come, men.” Bramante clapped. “Now gather the pieces for the fire.”

  Numbly Federico stared at the boards. It might as well have been his heart on the floor.

  “Did you let him in, toad?” Michelangelo snarled. “Did you give him your key?”

  The key.

  Federico slipped his hand to his belt. The key.

  He set his hand around the cold metal and pulled the key from his knife sheath. Not far. Only enough for Bramante to see.

  Bramante slapped his hand to his key ring. Blood drained from his face as he stared at Michelangelo’s fists.

  “What’s wrong with you, toad?” Michelangelo thundered.

  “N-nothing.” Bramante tried to swallow.

  Federico smiled sweetly—his angel smile, his mother called it. Sometimes it worked even on her. “Master Bramante? Please don’t burn this closet.”

  “You’re right—there’s no need—” Bramante flapped at the workmen. “We’re done here. How l-late it is. Off we go.” He herded them toward the palace, mopping his brow.

  Michelangelo peered around the empty corridor. “Something just happened.”

  Federico stared at the strewn scraps of wood. “Master?” he asked. “Can you build a closet?”

  “A closet?” Michelangelo scoffed. He marched to the niche in the wall. “I’m an artist—the greatest in the world! They speak of me in China. I don’t build closets.” Shaking his head, he unlocked the low door to his studio. “I know that peacock was snooping. I’ll prove it somehow.” He gave Federico a last frustrated glare and was gone.

  Alone in the corridor, Federico sagged to the floor. How would he ever see Juno again? Or Bee? His only two friends in the world. His true family. A gentleman should not sob, he knew. But at this moment he was only a boy. A heartbroken, friendless boy.

  Footsteps approached. Heavy, but with a light tread. “My lord.” A voice as deep as the sea.

  Federico wiped his eyes. With effort, he looked up.

  The Swiss Guard towered over him. “I am glad to find you at last.”

  Federico wiped his cheeks. “You found me? Were you looking?”

  “Yes. Your governess was quite upset.” The Swiss Guard leaned on his sword. “She thought you’d died in a duel or were kidnapped by pirates. Many words came out of her mouth.”

  A smile found its way to Federico’s lips. “Celeste? That’s a good way to describe her.”

  The guard squatted beside Federico, eying the jumble of lumber. “What is this?”

  “It used to be a closet.” Federico’s voice broke. “Now I don’t know what it is.”

  “What would you like it to be?” The guard lifted a board in his huge hands. He closed one eye to look down its edge. “I’m a carpenter, you know.”

  Federico stared at him. “A carpenter?”

  The guard gestured at his uniform. “This pays better. But yes, that’s my trade.”

  “You make things out of wood?”

  “That is, I believe, the definition of carpentry.”

  Like a shaft of sunlight breaking through the clouds, an idea seeped into Federico’s head. He gulped. “Could you make this wood into a box, say? A trunk?”

  The guard shrugged one massive shoulder. “I could build a trunk when I was younger than you. Is that all you need? Not a fancy lock? A secret compartment?”

  Federico straightened. “A secret compartment? You can do that?”

  “I am Swiss.”

  Slowly Federico held out the sketchbook. “Raphael gave me this. Could you hide it?”

  The guard nodded his great head. “The work of a moment.”

  Federico sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name. I’m Federico Gonzaga.”

  The guard took Federico’s hand in one massive paw. “Pleased to meet you. I am Franz Giovanni—”

  Beside them, the wood shifted. Federico jumped in surprise. Even Franz jumped.

  Faintly, as if from far away, came a plaintive cry: “Mrow.”

  “Juno!” Federico scrabbled at the pile. “Help me, please.”

  Franz leaned over, scooping up boards. A cat emerged—a lion-colored cat with amber eyes. “Mrow,” she complained, her tail lashing.

  “Juno!” Federico grabbed her in a great spinning hug.
>
  Franz frowned, his arms full of wood. “Where did she come from?”

  “This is Juno,” Federico explained, scratching her neck. Graciously Juno accepted, though she kept one eye on the guard. “Juno, this is Franz.”

  “Mrow.” She sounded pleased. Pleased enough.

  “And what is this?” Franz peered at a slim box on the floor.

  “Chocolate!” Federico set down Juno to snatch up the box. “Take some, please.”

  Doubtfully Franz tasted it. “We do not have this in Switzerland.”

  “You should.” Federico popped one into his mouth. “They’re quite delicious.”

  “Remarkable,” the guard observed, savoring his piece. “You know, my lord, you seem to have a fair number of adventures.”

  Federico nodded. He did.

  “Your page said it was a long story. I should like to hear it someday.”

  “My page? Oh, you mean Bee. She—he—had to return to his own country.” He gulped. “I thought he could come back, but now. . . .” He busied himself gathering the small mirrors that littered the floor, tucking them into his jerkin. It was easier than trying to speak.

  “I am sorry, young lord,” the guard said gravely. “It is hard to lose friends.” He set an armful of lumber against the wall, a neat stack next to the planks.

  Juno trotted down the corridor toward the villa. “Mrow,” she called over her shoulder.

  “She has the correct idea,” Franz observed, still gathering boards. “You should return to your rooms before Celeste makes more words.”

  Carefully, slowly, Federico collected the glass balls and the water-filled globe. He had Juno, yes, and these bits of glass, miraculously intact. But he could not bear the thought of the villa, or Celeste, or the emptiness of the life before him. “Might you escort me?” A few moments of companionship before loneliness drowned him.

  Franz arranged the last of the closet on his tidy stack. “’Twould be my pleasure.”

  Off they set, Juno leading the way. Franz cleared his throat. “You raise an interesting subject, my lord.” He gestured to Federico’s bloodied sleeve. “I believe you might be in need of a bodyguard.”

  “A bodyguard?” Federico did not know what to make of this. “Do you know one?”

  “I might. I know a carpenter whose time as Swiss Guard soon comes to an end.”

  “I should talk to him, then.” Federico took care to keep his face smooth. But his heart tumbled like a jester. Could this wonderful man be offering to work for him? As Bee would say: Wow.

  I still have Bee, he realized with a happy smile. He had her in his soul.

  “I believe I could arrange a meeting between you and this Swiss Guard who is also a carpenter.” Franz’s arm swung next to Federico.

  “I would like that.” Casually, as if it were no matter, Federico took the guard’s hand—a massive hand, calloused from a lifetime of toil. A rush of happiness filled him. Never in his life had he felt safer.

  “How is the girl, by the way?”

  “Miss Bother, you mean?” Federico reflected on Bee. On Herbert, who cared. He looked down at the box of chocolates, hidden in the closet just for him. Life, it seemed, had worked out for Miss Bother. He smiled. “We saved her, I think.”

  Chapter 32

  The Auction

  Bee stepped out of the wardrobe. “Juno?” she whispered.

  Silence in Herbert’s office. No mrow. No padding of paws. No red fingernails breaking in. Just the wardrobe and the desk and the dull ceiling light.

  She took another step. Dust still covered the desk—dust and dead flies. The encyclopedia. The phone. Note cards with NO TIME PASSES and HOW DOES THE CAT MOVE? The calendar. An old-fashioned engraving of a guy in a puffy coat with a dog—

  Wait. The picture hadn’t been there last time. Bee squinted at the caption. A lot of cursive writing. The word TITIAN.

  Who was Titian?

  A sound drifted through the bookcase. She spun. “Juno?” she called.

  With a deep breath, she eased the bookcase open. The woman with the clipboard wasn’t there anymore! The woman or the man.

  Bee slumped, so relieved that for a moment she barely could stand.

  But wait—the bookcase wasn’t dusty. It had been dusty before. Now, though, the shelves were clean, and the floor. And those noises! The clink of glasses. Murmuring.

  Bee squeezed her eyes shut. She’d been so close. What was she going to do now?

  “Bee?”

  Her head came up.

  “Beatrice Rosetti Bliss, dov’è la mia amora?” Where is my love?

  “Moo!” Bee hurled herself down the stairs. Moo! Right there by the bedroom with her curly black hair and huge smile, a little box in her hands.

  “Cosa fai, Bombo?” What are you doing, Bumblebee? “You’ve been up here a while.”

  Bee threw herself into Moo’s arms. “You’re here!”

  “You think I’d miss Nana?” She rumpled Bee’s hair. “Attento, how’d you get dirty?”

  “You’re here.” Bee squeezed her, breathing in the smell of soap and books and Moo-ness. Moo was back. Moo, who knew everything— “Hey, who’s Titian?”

  Moo laughed. “He was an artist in the 1500s. Anyone important, he painted them.”

  “Wait—he’s an artist?” Bee had thought it was a picture of Titian.

  “Sì.” Moo plucked at Bee’s jerkin. “What is this?”

  Bee caught sight of the box. “Wait, is that—?”

  “To celebrate. What’s the face? It’s like you’ve never seen candy before.”

  “Thank you! Wait here, okay?” Bee leaped up the stairs, past the bookcase, and put the box on the wardrobe floor. Chocolate peanuts. “Enjoy,” she whispered. She’d explain it to Fred later.

  She leaned over the desk, studying the guy with the puffy coat. An engraving of Duke Federico II Gonzaga of Mantua, it said in cursive. From the original portrait by TITIAN.

  “Fred,” she whispered, hand to her mouth. He was a grown-up now, with a beard. He had a coat with lots of embroidery, and rings on his fingers, and a little white dog. His eyes twinkled.

  “Bombo?” Moo called. “Where have you gone to?”

  “I’m here!” She dashed back down the stairs.

  “What is wrong?” Moo wiped Bee’s cheek. “Are you crying?”

  “Nothing.” She stiffened—there was that sound again. Like oooh, kind of. “What’s that?”

  Moo chuckled, hugging Bee as they went down the stairs. “You’re so funny.” She ran her fingers over Bee’s collar. “Bombo? This is hand-stitched.”

  “Oh, no,” Bee moaned. The house was clean! And there were people here, too. A whole crowd in the front hall in fancy clothes. And—

  “Mom!” Bee leaped down the last step to hug her. “I love you I love you I love you—”

  “I love you, too, Queen Bee.” Mom laughed. “Now hush.”

  And the dining room! Now it had white curtains and freshly painted walls. Twenty people stood staring at the table, at a cell phone. A man in a bow tie gave Bee a shocked look.

  Mom grinned at him, hugging Bee. “Isn’t the resemblance amazing?”

  He nodded, gaping at Bee, and slowly turned back to the phone. “. . . from Dubai,” a British voice was saying. “That takes the bidding to four point eight.”

  Mom gave Bee a squeeze. “I can’t believe you wandered off. You almost missed it.”

  A woman in a blue dress stared at Bee. “You’re right,” she told Mom. “It’s quite a resemblance.”

  The man beside her shook his head. “It’s like Raphael actually saw her. How does it feel to be headed for a museum?” he asked Bee.

  What was going on?

  “May I remind the audience”—the cell phone again—“that this is the first signed Raphael drawing in many years. . . .”

  Bee glanced at the wall above the fireplace. It was empty. She gulped.

  Something had hung there, though, once. A nail still stuck out from
the wall. A light shone down from the ceiling. An old lady stood in front of the fireplace—a really old lady with a cane. She wore a nubby skirt with a matching pink jacket, the kind of outfit Fred would love.

  “Please hold your applause,” the cell phone said.

  The old lady had lipstick on, and shiny black shoes with pink bows.

  “And from the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” said the cell phone, “a bid of five million dollars.” Everyone in the dining room gasped. The man in the bow tie covered his face.

  A noise from the kitchen: “Mrow!”

  All around Bee, people jumped. But not her. She knew Juno by now. “Hey there.” Bee smiled. “Welcome back.” Juno must have come in through the cat door.

  Juno curled round Bee’s legs, blinking up at her with black-lined eyes. Her tail drew smiles in the air. “Mrow,” she answered. Good to see you again.

  “What’s that cat doing here?” the bow tie man hissed. “I’m allergic!”

  The old lady put a hand on his arm. Her skin was so thin that blue veins showed through. “Don’t worry. She belongs here.”

  “Mrow,” Juno agreed, ambling up the stairs. Bee turned to watch her.

  “How do you know that cat?” Mom asked, her arm around Bee.

  “I just do.” Bee grinned. “How does the cat move,” she whispered to herself. Juno knew where she was going.

  “. . . and the Getty Museum has raised the bidding to six.”

  “Mrow,” Juno announced from the landing. Goodbye.

  The old lady leaned over her cane, trying to see. “Goodbye, Juno,” she called.

  Moo smoothed Bee’s jerkin. “Seriously, Bombo. Where did you find this?”

  “Long story. Is that really Miss Bother?”

  Mom chuckled. “You still call Nana by that name after all these years?”

  The old lady looked at Bee. Her eyes drifted down Bee’s dirty white shirt—an old-fashioned shirt. Bee’s belt with its little knife sheath. Her quilted gray jerkin. Her hose with their built-in shoes. “Beatrice,” the old lady whispered. Bee could hear her even through the crowd.

  The cell phone voice rose. “Going once, going twice. . . .”