Page 46 of A Dangerous Bargain

Instead of sitting before the half-finished Medici wedding painting, he collapses on a stool by the workbench. He balances his elbows on the rainbow-stained table behind him, long legs crossed and stretched out to take up half the workshop.

“We’re going to try something new tonight.”

“We are?” Why has the air gone thin? Has he taken up half of that, too? I glance at Lupa’s corner to see if she’s noticed anything amiss, but she’s already sleeping.

“You’re going to paint.”

“I won’t! The whole point of working at night is to hide how I can’t do it.”

“I thought it was to discuss the very illegal murder and state secret we know about without anyone overhearing.”

“That too, but—”

“No, Virgil. I’m getting tired of doing all the work myself. I know you can do it.”

I shake my head. My morning exercises look like they were done by an untalented toddler. The paints run on my palette and smear into a color that could charitably be described as shit brown.

“It’s faster if you do it alone.”

“Just try.”

Heaving a sigh, I uncover the paints and add a darker shade of green to a fold in the bride’s skirt, only to realize too late that the existing color is purple and I’ve fucked it up again. I throw down my brush. “We don’t have time for this.”

His eyes snag on the part I’ve just ruined. “We do.” He stands and draws closer. Even though we’ve worked alone in the dark dozens of times before, a spark crackles along my ribs. “You know how to do art without magic. I remember your stuff when I first started here. It was good. Really good.”

“Great to hear I reached my creative zenith at fifteen.”

His laugh is closer to a sigh. “You are incorrigible.”

“I thought you liked this about me?”

“I said I liked your prickly personality. Not your aversion to anyone being nice to you.” His voice grows softer. “That gets old.”

I press my lips together and look away. The half-finished portraits and statues all seem to lean closer, listening. The magicked paintings actually are, nubile Aphrodite nearest, with her face in her hands and her ankles crossed behind her. She gives me a tiny glare when our eyes meet. Be nice to him.

All right, fine. I’m certainly in the wrong if even the paintings have noticed.

I gesture to the canvas. “Tell me how you paint without magic. Unless…?” My gaze drops to the lone bargain mark on his wrist.

He smiles, the expression a slow, spreading slick. He swipes his fingertip through yellow paint and covers over the mark. “If someone had told me last year that Virgil Pitti would be so curious about me, I would’ve asked if they’d hit their head.”

The slide of paint across his jumping pulse makes me swallow. I wish I could come up with a witty retort—he certainly would—but my tongue feels thick and clumsy.

He presses his yellow-coated fingers to Lorenzo’s cheekbone. A smoky hollow takes shape, making his face feel alive in a way it wasn’t before. “I like using my hands to paint. Ditching the brush makes me more aware of what I’m doing.”

Without asking, he takes my hand and hovers it over the paints. “Which color calls to you?”

I fist my hand before he can tell how sweaty it is. “No. I’ll make it worse.”

“And if you do, I’ll fix it. So I’ll ask again: Which color?”

Cristo santo, he won’t let me weasel out of this, will he? I don’t know why he cares so much but… part of me also doesn’t want him to give up on me. My eyes keep going to a purple so dark, it verges on black. “That one.”

Leonardo nods to the bride’s unfinished sleeve. “See how it feels.”

I hesitate, the paint beading on my fingertip. “Maybe I should try on a different painting.” I couldn’t bear messing this one up any more. It needs to be perfect. Our plan hinges on getting close to the Medici.

Leonardo shakes his head, catching my wrist. “Try. It’s just us.”