The Secret Muse (#1)

Chapter 8

How should I begin the subject with him? The question has been in my mind since I woke up this morning. Too busy with my hair, Franzia barely noticed me spacing out. When I went inside the room, Botticelli welcomed me with a dashing smile.

"Good morning, Madonna." He said with a teasing voice.

When Franzia closed the door, I chuckled. "Good morning, Messer." He only replied with a smile. When I sat down and faced my now favorite vase, I suddenly realized something was different in the room. The empty vase has now an Iris.

"I figured you should look at something beautiful as I paint you." He said as he began to paint, earning a smile from me. "At least then, you have something to look at instead of just a plain empty vase."

"How kind of you, Messer," I said, looking at him with a smile. "I truly appreciate it."

We were silent for a while. Slowly, I am starting to get used to his eyes inspecting every curve and feature in my face and neck, every strand, and detail on my hair.

I would look at him occasionally. He would crease his brows in focus as he works or he'd bite on a paintbrush as he uses another one in his hand. I find those little things amusing.

Even as I smile at his undivided attention towards his work, the questions have suddenly seeped through my mind. Perhaps I can open up about it.

He has already talked about it with my Aunt and I don't see any difference in me bringing it up anymore. "Last night, you mentioned the name Constantine? Can you tell me more about him?"

"Well, I met him 2 years ago when I stumbled upon him in my workshop in the Medici's Palazzo."

"He's the Englishman you speak of, isn't he?"

"Yes, indeed he was."

"Did he also tell you about his daughter?" This time, I chose to look right at him to see his reaction. Caught in the act, he lowered his gaze from my eyes and nodded yes. "How long have you known that I'm his daughter?"

He set down his equipment on the table and leaned on it. "When Simona invited me here to commission a portrait of you."

"If you knew him, why didn't you say anything?"

"I'm still reeling from his sudden disappearance and the death of Simonetta. I didn't know how to begin talking about it. Also, for me, you were only a few days old. To see your adult self even after weeks of your birth is extremely odd."

Understanding how he felt at the moment, I fell quiet for a few seconds before speaking. "When I was a kid, he would tell me these autobiographical accounts about you as if he knows you or interacted with you." I stood up and took the Iris in my hand, appreciating the flower up close. "Little did I know that he truly did. Perhaps it was because I was too young to understand or because he still wants to go back." Remembering my father brings water to my eyes, the tears that I have suppressed for weeks to do what he's asked of me.

"Why are you speaking of him as if he's gone?" He said. When I looked back at him with tears falling off my cheeks his face turned serious and sullen. "H-how?"

"At 44 years old, my dad begins to feel weak and looks more mature than his age. He was depressed and alone in his house in York. I don't know much of what happened to him before then but he suddenly had a weak heart that ultimately became the reason for his death."

Despite his humorless face, I can somehow see through him. He didn't want to cry but the loss of his 2 friends overwhelmed him. "Did he know of Simonetta's..." He couldn't manage to continue but I nodded yes.