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The boy didn’t look as though he believed him. He also didn’t look as though he’d wander off on his own anytime soon.
Fiore, not knowing the proper court etiquette for telling a lordling to go back from whence he’d come, tried to steer the conversation into another current. “Do you like to draw?”
The boy nodded vigorously.
That was something at least, Fiore thought. “Have you a zibaldone and pencils?”
“I have pencils!” the boy blurted.
But not paper, Fiore concluded. At least not here. He looked back at his zibaldone, turned to a blank page, and feathered its corner between his fingertips as he thought over the problem. There really was only one thing for it. He looked down at the boy again and forced a friendly smile. “Would you like to borrow mine?”
Another vigorous nod—with even wider eyes, if possible.
Fiore steadied himself with a deep breath and tore out the blank page in a single swift decisive gesture. After a moment’s hesitation, he tore out two more for good measure.
The boy accepted them with reverence.
“Why don’t you pick out your favorite animal to draw?” Fiore suggested.
Keeping the child occupied would forestall further awkward questions. Or so he hoped.
The boy considered all the creatures in the hall before sitting down in front of a snarling wolf. Fiore turned to a fresh page and began to draw the same. As he’d hoped, drawing kept the boy quiet. At least, until—
“I’ve finished!” the boy declared.
“May I see?” Fiore said when he’d recovered his composure. Art required audience, after all.
The boy handed over his work.
Fiore didn’t have any experience judging the ventures of children. Even so, he thought the boy had some skill. The wolf had turned out recognizable at the very least. “Well done.”
Silence met the compliment.
Fiore glanced down. The boy didn’t look happy to hear it. A deep furrow had appeared between his brows and his lip trembled. His gaze fixed on his drawing in Fiore’s hand—and Fiore’s own sketch beside it.
Fiore’s heart plummeted as he realized his error. Still he forced his tone to remain light. “What’s wrong?”
The boy drew a courageous breath and replied, “It doesn’t look how it did in my head.”
“Oh.” Fiore smiled—a real smile, at last. Drawing, as it so oft did, had quieted his nerves somewhat. “Mine neither.”
The boy stared in frank disbelief at Fiore, then at his zibaldone, then at the wolf, and back to Fiore.
“All artists feel that way,” Fiore assured him, for it was true. “Nothing we draw ever quite matches up to our vision. But,” he hastened to add, as the boy had begun to look even more discouraged than before, “it does come closer to your vision with practice. And your audience will never know the difference. They don’t know what it looks like in your head. All they see is what’s on the page. They don’t have the vision of perfection to compare it to. They can appreciate it for what it is. Which is delightful,” he concluded, gesturing to the boy’s valiant effort as he returned it to him.
The boy furrowed his brow at his drawing but kept silent. Fiore wondered if he’d spoken rather over the child’s head. At least he wasn’t crying. His lip had even stopped trembling.
“Andrea?”
Fiore whirled towards the strange voice.
A gentleman not far older than Fiore himself approached them. He wore garb as rich as Enzo’s, though with a touch more color—midnight blue rather than black, with saffron embroidery throughout. His beatific gaze fixed on the boy. “There you are! What have you been up to?”
“Drawing,” said the boy.
The gentleman halted before them and addressed Fiore. “Forgive me—I haven’t introduced myself. Lord Antonio Scaevola, Duke Consort, at your service.”
Fiore suppressed the jolt of alarm that ran up his spine into a single startled blink. He’d accounted for a confrontation with a nurse or some other servant; had in fact rather counted on them being too relieved not to be scolded for losing their charge to question his own conduct in introducing his unworthy self to a lordling.
