“Do not tarry,” he went on, idly picking up a jar of pigment and then putting it aside. You have but a few hours before the plaster dries.” Before I could make a reply to that, he turned and strode out the chapel door, leaving me alone with the fresco.

I stood transfixed for several long moments, staring at the blank plaster and wondering again how I could possibly fill it. But as I gnawed at my lip in frustration, fearful lest I disappoint the Master in this final task, a familiar voice seemed to speak in my head.

It’s easy, Dino, I heard Constantin’s soothing words, sounding as real as if he were standing beside me. Just paint what you know… Paint from your heart.

And suddenly I knew what I was meant to depict upon that pristine square of plaster. Smiling, I pulled my tunic over my gown and reached for the bowl of egg yolks. Piercing each yellow globe, I poured their contents into the various shells. Carefully, I added water and pigment, until each new mixture of tempera was the shade and consistency that I sought. Then, taking up a soft brush, I began to paint.

It was well into the afternoon when I put down the brush a final time. Stripping off my tunic, I stepped back to survey my work. Though my hands and arms ached with the hours of effort, and my injured leg throbbed from standing upon the cold stone floor, I felt a swell of excited satisfaction. Surely the Master would be pleased, I told myself… but if not, somehow it mattered little. I had accomplished what I had set out to do, and I could point with no little pride to this small bit of fresco as being my finest work.

Still, I spared a final critical eye for my painting. I had taken care to blend my background to the surrounding fresco, so that it joined seamlessly with the rest of the scene. Each color had been applied with care, layered one atop another with painstaking precision. But most important was the trio of male figures I had painted within that small landscape. They had sprung from my brushes with a skill I’d not realized I possessed, glowing with life upon what had once been but a blank square of plaster.

Blinking back sudden tears, I studied the image of a young man-thin but wiry and possessed of a calm smile-who sat upon a grassy knoll. His hands casually wrapped around one knee, he watched with happy amazement the miraculous scene before him. Behind the youth stood a man old enough to be his father. Though his hair was gray and his features and body thicker, he bore a striking resemblance to the young man upon whose shoulder his strong hand rested. His air was respectful, in keeping with the wonders nearby, but his look of paternal pride was reserved for his son.

A short distance behind the pair, a second young man was poised in mid-run, as if rushing to see the miracle before it was too late. Indeed, such was his hurry that his cap had tumbled from his tangled mane of black hair. He did not look back, however, but kept single-mindedly to his pace. A smile danced upon his pockmarked face, and his expression was that of a true believer whose faith had at last been confirmed.

I was still studying my work when the chapel door creaked open behind me. I sensed the Master’s presence almost before I heard his soft footsteps upon the stone floor. Wordlessly, he paused beside me and for a long while studied the portion of fresco into which I had poured my heart. At last, he turned back to me.

“Well-done, young apprentice,” he said, the warmth of his smile soothing all of my aches. “I had expected much of you, and yet you surpassed those expectations. This is a work worthy of a master.”

Before I could reply, his smile broadened into a grin. “And I see you have taken a master’s liberty by putting yourself into the scene, as well, if perhaps symbolically.”

He pointed to the painted image of a hawk perched upon a tree behind the figures of Constantin and his father. Dark of feather and green of eye, the small raptor lifted a single wing, as if about to take flight.

I felt myself blush as I returned his grin. “I could not help myself… though, of course, I would never have dared to paint my face among the worshippers.”

“Ah, but that is half the fun,” the Master countered, his grin taking on a sly edge. “Surely you saw that I did not hesitate to give myself a most prominent role in the scene.”

Staring at the fresco, I frowned for a moment as I tried to pick him out from the painted crowd. It was then that I noticed what I had missed before, that the Christ figure bore more than a passing resemblance to the Master as he must have looked a decade earlier.

“But what if the duke notices?” I gasped out, torn between being scandalized and amused by this subtle bit of blasphemy.

Leonardo merely shrugged. “I suspect he will be more likely to believe that the resemblance is to himself, if he notices anything at all.”

The soft chime that was his wrist clock sounding the hour put a halt to that moment of amusement.

“It is finished,” he softly said, a shadow stealing over his handsome features. “You have done what you were meant to do here, and it is time for you to leave us. Your father is waiting outside the chapel gates to take you back to the city, so that you can start for your home on the morrow. And so, I fear that nothing more remains than to say good-bye to my dearest Dino.”

You cannot say good-bye, I wanted to cry out, for I cannot bear to leave the castle, to leave you! But a painful lump had lodged in my throat so that the words remained unspoken.

Swiping away a few errant tears that had slipped down my cheeks, I took a steadying breath and asked instead, “Will you make my farewells to Signor Luigi? He was a true friend to me, and I shall miss him despite his sharp tongue.”

“I will tell him,” he agreed with a hint of a smile, “no matter that the good tailor will be loud in his protests before he ever admits his fondness for you.”

“And Vittorio, do not let him pine too long for Novella,” I rushed on. “He thinks himself in love with her, you know.”

“I know, and I shall counsel him to patience, for I suspect the washerwoman and her daughter may one day return.”

“And don’t forget Pio. He must have his game of wrestling with a bit of blanket each day.”

“The hound will have his amusements, I assure you.”

Unable to think of any further excuses for delay, I lapsed into silent misery. I knew I should flee before I made a fool of myself, and yet I yearned to draw out this last moment for as long as I could. I cared not that each passing second deepened the wound in my heart, if it meant I could spend a few heartbeats longer in his presence.

Leonardo met my anguished gaze with a look of regret and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “Delfina,” he said softly, “you must leave now, no matter that it breaks my heart to see you go.”

“It breaks my heart, too,” I whispered so quietly that I wondered if he heard the words.

And then, choking back a sob, I fled the tiny chapel as if the devil himself were at my heels.