Da Vinci's Cat Read online

  The boy leaped back, smacking his elbow on the closet. “Ow. Dumb wardrobe.”

  Federico stiffened. “What did you call me?”

  “I didn’t call you anything. I called that”—he gestured to the closet—“a wardrobe. You know, for fur coats? Haven’t you ever read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?”

  “That is a closet.”

  “No. A closet is built into a wall.” The page drew a wall in the air. “But a wardrobe is like a box—” The page drew a box. “A big box that holds things. A box you can go through sometimes, to get to interesting places like Narnia where it’s winter but then Lucy saves it and her brothers help—”

  “Just tell me where ’Erbert is,” Federico sighed.

  The page’s face fell.

  Federico steeled himself. “I know. His hair is white this time. That wicked closet always makes him so old—”

  “Herbert Bother is, um . . . dead.”

  Federico’s heart stopped. “No, he’s not.”

  “Yeah, he is. Like, fifty years ago? I’m sorry.”

  “That is impossible! He was here yesterday. He said he would see me this night—” Federico struggled to keep his voice from breaking. “And I saw Juno only moments ago—”

  “You mean his cat?”

  “She is my cat!” Federico did not want to sound so childish. “Not ’Erbert’s. My cat. Mine!”

  The page raised his hands. “Okay, okay. Whatever.”

  “She was here, just now.” Federico jabbed at the closet. “Bring her back.” He grabbed the page, pushing him forward. “It is special, this closet! It was made by Master Leonardo. So go get her—get them both—”

  “Hey, let go of me!”

  “Go to America Zhersey!” Dragging the page, he kicked open the door—

  “Mrow.”

  Juno stood in the closet, her tail curled in a long cursive S. “Mrow,” she greeted them both.

  “Juno!” Federico shoved the page aside to grab her. “You’re here! So ’Erbert must be alive, too.” He rocked, burying his face in Juno’s warm fur. “He has to be. He talks to me and brings me chocolate!” Juno gave his cheek a sympathetic lick. “He was here.”

  “I’m so sorry.” The page looked about to cry. “That’s really nice about the chocolate.”

  “And now I don’t have anyone,” Federico gulped. “I don’t have anyone at all.”

  The page patted Federico’s arm. “But you do. You have Miss Bother.”

  Abruptly Federico stopped rocking. “Who?”

  “Miss Bother. Herbert’s daughter. If Herbert means so much to you, then she’s kind of like your sister.”

  “’Erbert does not have children,” Federico declared in a voice of ice.

  The page nodded helpfully. “Yes, he does. She was really sick and he adopted her—”

  Federico dropped Juno, who stalked away in a huff. “He adopted her? That beggar girl?” He fell to his knees. “He adopted her?”

  “But now she’s really old and she’s hurt and she’s all by herself. It’s really sad.”

  Federico pressed his face in his hands. “He adopted her?”

  The page crouched beside him. Juno sat with her back to them both, angrily grooming her shoulder. “At least you don’t have any broken bones. And you’ve got a nice place here—well, it’ll be nice when it’s done. All Miss Bother has is a falling-down house and Herbert’s paintings, and a drawing she can’t even sell—” He froze.

  “What?” Federico snapped.

  “Do you—” The page gulped. “This is Rome, right? Like, old Rome?”

  “Yes, Rome.” Federico swiped his tears. “And it’s not old. It’s 1511.”

  “Do you maybe know a painter named, um . . . Raphael?”

  Federico snorted. “Of course I know Raphael! Why?”

  The page looked at the corridor, the closet, at Federico’s fine black cloak. “It’s just that . . . I think Raphael is supposed to draw me.”

  Chapter 16

  A Plan

  Bee was trying her best to take it all in, crouched next to this snobby boy in a version of Rome that was five hundred years gone. The smells were so strong she could taste them: cook smoke and horse poop and spices and bread. Her ears caught the faint sounds of prayers, barking, church bells, banging. And the stars! Even with the glow of the moon, a million stars shone through the unfinished roof; moonlight turned ladders and planks into a ghostly parade. The glass balls in the wardrobe glowed, and the pale decorations on the door . . . wow.

  Now Bee understood. The NO TIME PASSES note card, and Miss Bother saying how her father went back to Rome . . . No wonder Herbert Bother had a Michelangelo drawing and a Raphael. All he had to do was stroll into the wardrobe and get them. You’ll make everything better, Miss Bother had said to Bee as she was being wheeled into the ambulance. That wasn’t a compliment. It was an order. The girl from the drawing had finally shown up. Now the girl from the drawing had to fix things. “It’s just that . . . I think Raphael is supposed to draw me,” she said.

  Sir Federico climbed to his feet, swiping the tears from his face. “You?” He was the same size as Bee but he acted like he was a king.

  “I think so.”

  Juno looked up at her. “Mrow.”

  Juno—Herbert’s cat! Just like Miss Bother said. All those clues . . . “That’s why I’m here, I think.”

  Federico lifted the lantern to study her face. “I’ve seen you before! In a drawing ’Erbert has—” His voice caught. “A drawing he had. He wanted Raphael to sign it—”

  “But Raphael didn’t.” Bee’s mind was spinning. “Not yet, anyway. That drawing? I’m pretty sure it’s of me today.” She touched the scratch on her neck. “Age eleven. Miss Bother has the drawing but she still needs his signature. So we need to find Raphael and get him to draw me—”

  Federico frowned. “No, we don’t. If your Botter person has the drawing, then Raphael already drew you.”

  “Yeah, but she has it in the future. It hasn’t happened yet.” Bee flapped her hands. “Just listen to me. This is what happens in time travel. He needs to draw me and sign it, then Miss Bother can sell it and her house won’t be a wreck and she’ll have the life she’s supposed to.” Bee could hug herself for figuring this out. “See?”

  Federico pulled himself to his full height, adjusting his grip on the lantern. “It makes no difference to me.”

  “But everything fits together! The wardrobe, the drawing, ‘age eleven,’ Juno showing up the same time that I do . . . This is Herbert’s daughter! She sleeps in her dining room and has envelopes that say URGENT. We have to help her—”

  “You have to help her. I have to return to my room. I have a death to mourn. Come, girl.” He snapped his fingers at Juno lounging in a moonbeam.

  Bee couldn’t believe it. What would persuade him? “That drawing is worth a lot of money, you know.”

  Federico flipped back his cloak. “I have more than enough wealth.”

  “What about chocolate?”

  Federico paused. “And peanuts?” He turned away, setting his jaw. “No.”

  “What, then?” Bee stomped around to face him. “What can I do to get you to help me?”

  “You can get me my friend!” he snarled. “Juno? Now!”

  With a yawn and a stretch, Juno rose to her feet, rubbing the edge of the wardrobe.

  Frantically Federico waved at her. “Juno! Get away from that evil contraption!”

  Huh, Bee thought. Fancy-pants is scared of the wardrobe. Grandpa Pepe said to find your enemy’s weakness. “Fine,” she declared, marching to the wardrobe door.

  “Fine,” Federico mimicked. “And good riddance. You’ve no need to ever return.”

  “Oh, I’m not leaving.” Bee wiggled the door latch. “Here, kitty.” She snapped her fingers.

  Juno’s ears pricked up. “Mrow?” She sauntered over.

  Federico froze. “What are you doing?”

  “I can’t get Herbert, bu
t we can save his daughter.” Bee eased the wardrobe door open. “I told you: that’s why I’m here.”

  “Mrow?” Juno sniffed at the air.

  “No!” Federico shrieked. “Don’t do that—”

  A shadow of movement—and like that, Juno was gone.

  “You monster!” Federico shouted, reaching for his knife.

  Bee leaped back just in time, scrambling onto a stack of lumber, and from there to the top of the wardrobe. “I’ll bring Juno back I promise I swear it!” she cried. Wow, did he look mad. And he had a knife!

  “How?” he spat. “She’ll die, too—”

  “No, she won’t. No time passes. She’ll be fine. All we need is to get Raphael to draw me and make sure he signs it. It’s that simple.”

  Federico glowered up at her. “I don’t need you, you know. I could simply go get her myself.”

  Bee gestured grandly to the door at her feet. “Go for it. Be my guest.”

  Federico scowled at the wardrobe. He didn’t move. “I have no concern for that beggar girl.”

  “Miss Bother isn’t a girl anymore—” But it didn’t matter how old Miss Bother was. She still needed help. “Herbert would want this. You know he would.”

  “’Erbert,” Federico whispered. Slowly he returned the knife to his belt. “’Erbert . . .”

  Bee crept to the front edge of the wardrobe. “He couldn’t come back, you know.”

  Federico’s head came up. “What?”

  “Miss Bother told me. She said Herbert always wanted to come back here but he couldn’t, and that it made him really sad.”

  Federico brightened. “He wanted to see me again?”

  “Well, yeah. Who wouldn’t?” Cautiously she climbed down.

  Federico stared at the wardrobe as if willing Herbert to walk through it. “He loved that drawing. It was like a quest for him, getting the signature.”

  “Yeah.” Bee liked that: a quest.

  Federico smoothed his doublet. “I helped save the beggar child, you know. I held this door. I prayed. I, too, care for the drawing.”

  “That’s good.” Was he agreeing?

  Federico sighed. “As my mother always says, it is cunning and diplomacy that preserve the smaller states.” He held out the lantern.

  “Wait—what?” And then, more politely, “Excuse me?”

  “Carry this.” He shook the lantern impatiently.

  Confused, Bee took it. “Wow, this is heavy—”

  Federico flipped his cloak over his shoulder. “It shall be your task henceforth to bear my possessions.” He set off down the corridor, not looking back. “We shall suffer as allies till Juno is mine.”

  Part III

  Plans Fail

  Chapter 17

  Fred

  Federico strode down the dark corridor toward the villa. The page lumbered behind, swinging the lantern as if he’d never carried a light. Now that Federico was in charge, he felt much better. It was a dreadful situation, to be sure; the news about Herbert had broken his heart. But he must not dwell. However he felt about that beggar girl, he needed his cat. He must focus like a warrior on the battle at hand. “We shall spend tonight in my villa,” he declared. He’d secure the page in the storeroom. “Tomorrow we meet Raphael.” God willing, he’d have Juno home by dusk.

  “Tomorrow? That’s so far away—” The page relaxed. “Wait. No time passes.” He peered out a window. “I have time to look around.”

  “That is His Holiness’s private garden,” Federico explained. “He has a magnificent collection of sculptures.” The moonlight caught the marble quite prettily.

  “There are so many stars!”

  Federico sighed. “In order to see statues, one needs to look down.”

  The page trotted across the corridor to lean out the window on the opposite side. “That’s Rome, right? It’s so dark.”

  “Yes. Because it is nighttime.” Would Federico have to explain everything? The moon illuminated the towers and rooftops, the distant mountains, the slow-moving river. The streets, however, would be dark enough. He shivered at the memory of his perilous trip with Herbert.

  “There aren’t any lights. That’s crazy.”

  “It is sane,” Federico corrected. “Candles are dangerous and very expensive.” He nodded at the crude crown on the boy’s jerkin. “Does your master waste candles at midnight?”

  “My master?” The page peered down at the insignia. “Oh, the crown is because of my nickname. Queen Bee—because of Beatrice? The joke works better in English.”

  That made sense. The page was quite like a bee: annoying. But—

  “Your name is Beatrice?” He stared at the page. “You’re a girl? But the drawing . . .”

  The page scowled. “What’s wrong with girls?”

  “Well, nothing,” Federico lied. “But girls don’t look like you. They stay out of the sun, and wear their hair long, and practice sewing.”

  “Not me.”

  Heavens, but he—she—had a fierce glare.

  “They have chaperones, and do not wear hose.”

  “They’re called leggings.”

  He pointed at the girl’s feet. “They wear slippers, not . . .”

  “High-tops. It’s a kind of sneaker. For basketball and running around.”

  “Girls do not ‘run around.’” Federico studied the jerkin and dirty black leggings. “You’re not even a page, are you?”

  Beatrice scowled at him. “What’s a page?”

  “Ah.” That explained the incompetence. “A page is a servant, a personal attendant who’s well trained. . . . Anyway, let us continue.” Federico walked, pondering this revelation, as the girl gaped at every ladder and nail. “How much is your dowry?” A girl so filthy and uneducated wouldn’t have much, but he should be polite.

  The girl poked at a tub of sand. “What are you talking about?”

  “A dowry is the money a woman brings to her marriage. My mother brought three thousand ducats and three chests of silver and—”

  “We don’t do that anymore.” She brushed off her hands, sending the lantern swinging. “That’s, like, medieval.”

  “It is supremely important! How else will people know your family’s worth? How will you live when your husband dies?”

  The girl barked a laugh. “Um, I’m not married? So it doesn’t matter?”

  How brave she acted. Every woman needed a dowry. Even peasants. To pretend it didn’t matter . . . “Ah, Beatrice,” he sighed.

  “Just say Bee. No one calls me Beatrice except Miss Bother. And I’ll call you . . . Fred.”

  “My father,” Federico said coldly, “is Francesco the Second, the foremost knight in Italy, ruler of Mantua and head of the family Gonzaga. My mother is the daughter of the Duke of Ferrara and a renowned collector of art. Her sister was the Duchess of Milan. My father’s brother is a cardinal, and my aunts have all married dukes.”

  “Where does that go?” Bee held the lantern up to a small door in a niche.

  “You are missing my point,” Federico snapped. “I am not ‘Fred,’ I am—”

  “Is that, like, a secret portal?” Bee interrupted.

  Federico snorted. “Hardly. It leads to the studio of a sculptor named Michelangelo.”

  “Michelangelo?” Bee stared at him, wide-eyed.

  “Ah.” Federico had impressed her at last. “In fact, I know him well.”

  “Wow,” she breathed. “I know someone who knows Michelangelo.”

  This girl was like Herbert, then: awed by art. “You don’t happen to know an artist named Leonardo da Vinci, do you?” he asked, as casually as he could. “The genius who designed the closet?”

  “Of course I know da Vinci—wait, he designed the wardrobe?” Her eyes got even wider. “That makes so much sense.”

  “Yes, well, he lived in my family’s castle.”

  “No way, really? What’s he like?” She blinked. “Wait—your family has a castle?”

  “Of course.” Federico flicke
d a bit of dust from his cuff. “To be honest, Master Leonardo lived there before I was born. But my mother still speaks of a pink cloak that he wore.”

  Bee shook her head. “That’s amazing. You must be so famous.”

  Federico smoothed his doublet. How fine it felt to be well regarded.

  On they walked. Bee held the lantern with a bit more skill so that the shadows no longer lurched. She inhaled, smiling, and Federico could smell it, too: orange blossoms. They were nearly at the villa. “You’ll have to come with me to my room,” he conceded. He could not lock this girl in a storeroom.

  “Okay. But won’t your mother be mad?”

  “My mother lives hundreds of miles away. I am a hostage of His Holiness while my father commands the pope’s army.”

  “You’re a hostage?” Bee raised the lantern, almost smacking him. “You must be really brave.”

  Well. He’d been wise indeed to keep her out of the storeroom. “Shh. We are here.” Taking the lantern, he eased open the villa door. Silently he led her to his bedroom, listening for Celeste’s sleeping wheeze. “This is the bedroom His Holiness gave me,” he whispered, turning the lantern so Bee could see his father’s portrait, the antiques he’d collected, his finely carved travel chest.

  “Wow.” Bee brushed her fingertips across a tapestry with a golden-threaded unicorn. “I love this.”

  “Me, too.” He talked to the unicorn sometimes, though he’d never admit it.

  Bee stroked the tassels on the bed. “It’s so soft.”

  Federico opened his travel chest. “Of course. I picked out the fabric myself.” Checking that the Sistine Chapel key was secure in the secret pocket, he packed the cloak away.

  “Um, excuse me. Where should I sleep?”

  “The bed, naturally. I would not make a girl use the floor.” Blowing out the lantern, he climbed under the covers. “We must be sure to wake before Celeste. She’s my governess.” How fine it felt to whisper in the dark. How he’d missed it. “When I was a child in Mantua, I would sleep with my little sisters. Three peas in a pod, Celeste called us. Livia always held my hand till she fell asleep.”