A/N: welcome to Ma Donna! I'm very excited to post this chapter; I've been working on it for quite some time, and I hope you enjoy!
Unlike my other multichapter fic, "State of Illusion", I do actually have this story completely planned out, so updates should be regular and fairly quick.
All work is mine, and so are any language, grammatical, and spelling errors.
Please enjoy, and reviews with any feedback—constructive criticism, questions, your opinion, literally anything—would be so, so appreciated.
Thanks for reading!
Chapter One: An Accord
Florence, 1406
Sybil's fingers trembled as she adjusted the scarf covering her dark hair. The face staring back at her out of the mirror on the wall was the colour of cream; even her lips were as pale as a spirit's. Gwen's face, reflected next to Sybil's own, was so stark that every single one of her freckles could be counted. She was smoothing the sleeves of Sybil's shift, which already hung perfectly straight. The repeated motion made Sybil's stomach lurch.
"Check the window, please?" she whispered. When Gwen, now tugging at her own skirts, turned towards the window, she pushed the scarf back, just to allow a whisper of hair to graze her forehead. Her borrowed clothes had fit Gwen's scrawny form perfectly, but pulled and pushed her flesh in ways Father Luciano would call indecent. Sybil tugged the hem of her bodice, watching the shallow swells of her breasts enlarge under the pressure, straining against the confines of fabric. The creamy fabric of her shift peeked at the outside world beneath the lacings of the bodice, framing the skin that blushed under its newfound liberty.
"It's time." Gwen left the window with a rustle of skirts, snatching her own headscarf from the dressing table and tying it over her ginger plaits. Sybil turned her back on her reflection and they left the seemingly innocent bedchamber, pulling the door closed behind them.
The corridor was silent, smelling of shadows and perfumed with the barest traces of sunlight. Sunrise slipped its fingers beneath the curtains and streaked the rich tapestries on the walls with diamond shards of brilliance. Feet silent on the Persian carpet, the two women passed the first closed door, then the second. They were halfway past the third when Sybil paused. Gwen yanked her sleeve, but she tiptoed to the landing of the grand staircase and leaned over the banister.
Pink-tinged golden light spilled through the crystal panes set in the grand double front doors and reached to embrace the row of framed pictures hanging in the front hall. Two gold-edged frames sparkled; the third was ceremoniously draped over with royal blue velvet that shone. Sybil, eyes fixed on the blue drapes, sucked a deep breath through her mouth. Her ribs expanded, free for once of the confines of her bone-lined corset.
She left the landing, slipping back into the shadows, and tip-toed after Gwen down the shadowy corridor. At the end of it, Gwen lifted the tapestry with a border ferns and pushed open the door that led to the back stairs. The narrow, winding steps were almost completely dark—Sybil groped along with one hand on the bare stones of the wall and the other wrapped around Gwen's clinging fingers. At the bottom of the stairs, they stole through the silent kitchen and its bread-scented crannies, heaved open the tiny backdoor, and slipped into the refuse-strewn, shadow-wrapped back alleyway. The stench of human waste and rotting food was foul, but Sybil's grin widened with every step down the cobblestoned street. When they rounded a corner and burst into the blazingly sunlit Piazza del Duomo, already bustling with merchants unloading their wares from wagons and setting up stalls, she actually laughed aloud. Her eyes flew from side to side, trying to see every sight, from the sun hovering scarcely a palm's width above the Florentine horizon of red-roofed levels to the garbage piled on street corners, from the scaffolding of the magnificent Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore to the ragged cloak of a beggar asleep in a doorway, from the weary mules still hitched to their carts to the burly merchants, surly apprentices, loafing men-at-arms, harried delivery boys, and cheerful peasant boys filing the Piazza.
Her giggles bubbled up in her throat and escaped in a joyous cascade of sound. Gwen raised both eyebrows and shook her head.
"Perhaps I ought to take you to Bedlam instead?" she suggested.
"No, no!" Sybil clutched her friend's arm dramatically. "No, never take me from this place!"
"It's only a market!"
Sybil laughed and tucked her arm through the shorter girl's. It would be fruitless to describe the freedom she felt to someone long accustomed to it, so she decided merely relish it in silence. The morning air, already dry and hot, pressed close around the skin bared for the first time: her forearms below the ruffles of her shift sleeves, her hands, breastbone, and neck and face, all finally free. Highborn noblewomen only went to town in gowns with ruffs tight around their throats and wrists, with gloved hands and veiled faces, perspiration soaking their lily-fair skin. They glided from foot to foot, hovering as though never touching the ground, silently demanding reverence by their elegance alone. They were miniature carvings of the Virgin: pure, pious, untouchable, and precious, to be shrouded from the world since birth. To scurry and hop and stride the gait of a commoner—to be pressed and squashed by merchants who cursed her for getting in their way—to breathe without a nosegay of flowers choking her—to smell sweat, unwashed bodies, grime, salted fish, raw meat, hot bread, spilt ale, mouldy cheese, dark wine, rich perfume, dung, hay, garlic, and onions so strongly that their scents seemed physical—these were pleasures she had always longed for, but never imagined having.
She inhaled, mouth open, trying to swallow the scene and taste the butter-yellow light kissing her skin. Every sight was sharper, every scent stronger, every sensation fresher. Her feet meandered as she gaped, trying to feel everything. When a scrawny boy dropped a basket of apples, she fell to her knees to scoop up the fruit, savouring the feeling of the grimy peels on her skin. Her pores seemed to be breathing for the first time.
When she rose and brushed off her skirts, Gwen stared at her with the utmost pity in her eyes. "Look at you." she murmured. "Like a sparrow from a cage."
Sybil, her throat tight, could barely smile.
Once across the Piazza, they wove through a tangled web of alleyways and back streets, arms swinging, Sybil marvelling at the novelty of striding along with only a shift and a skirt against her legs. The night's shadows were slinking away before the sun when they arrived at the Ponte Alla Carria, and Sybil's stomach began to jump once more.
"Are you sure that this is wise?" Gwen asked as they paused on the bank of the Arno River.
"Most definitely not." Sybil admitted. Her fingers tangled in the folds of her skirt once more. Gwen bit her thumbnail.
"And you're going anyway."
It wasn't a question. Sybil nodded all the same.
"You know I must." Her throat was dry. "I wish you wouldn't endanger yourself like this. If you're recognized down here—"
"Hush." Gwen ordered, squeezing Sybil's hand. Her cheeks were still pale, but her back was straight and her gaze steady. "I would never let you do this alone. We're friends, you fool; I'll always come when you need me."
Sybil smiled. "And I for you." She inhaled and forced her tone to lighten. "I—I thank you, Gwen. From the bottom of my heart."
"You helped me. It's little enough to return the favour." The redhead squeezed Sybil's fingers. "You're shivering."
Sybil nodded. She couldn't speak.
"Come. Let's go and get it over with, then."
Turning, fingers laced tightly through Gwen's, Sybil strode down the Via Bellini. She could feel Gwen's eyes on her, but refused to meet them. Resolve was an all-too-fragile crumb in her mouth.
The building with the number fourteen carved into its door was a tavern—the Lucky Fish, as the faded sign of a grinning fish over the doorway proclaimed. A small quay was across the street from it; three little fisherman's boats bobbed in the sparkling waters. The river was dotted with a few other crafts, but the street was quiet. Inside the tavern, a woman of perhaps thirty years was arranging tankards on a shelf behind the smattering of empty tables, humming softly. Dust motes caught in the web of light filtering through the well-scrubbed windows twisted in time to the tune, borne aloft by the smells of fish and ale and river water.
Sybil cleared her throat. "Buon giorno." she called in her best imitation of a Florentine accent. The woman glanced over her shoulder.
"Buon giorno."
"I'm looking for Signor Branson, the artist?" Sybil continued in Italian. "I was told he lodges here."
The woman plunked the tankard in her hand onto the countertop and set her fist on her hip. "Why?"
"I was hoping to model for him."
"Why?"
"To-to earn some money." Why, Sybil wondered vaguely, was it harder to lie to a stranger than it had been to lie to her own parents?
"Hmph." Narrow-eyed, the woman looked her up and down. Sybil unconsciously straightened her shoulders, trying to appear calm and relaxed when her legs were trembling under her skirts.
The dark gaze darted at Gwen. "And you? Are you a model too?"
Gwen's cheeks seemed to catch fire, and no sound emerged when she opened her mouth. She shook her head furiously."
"Mmm." The woman's eyes darted back to Sybil. Finally, she seemed to come to some sort of decision, for she jerked her chin towards a dark staircase in the corner. "You'll find him upstairs. Third door on the left."
"Grazie." Sybil bobbed a curtsy, and the woman turned back to her shelves.
"Let's go." Gwen whispered.
"No." Turning, Sybil forced her gaze to remain steady and not betray the tumbling of her stomach. "Wait here, please? I should be back within the hour."
"Are you—"
"I'm sure." She held her breath as Gwen, narrow-eyed, searched her face for a change in expression. The other girl nodded, slowly.
"Fine. But I don't like it."
"I know, and that's why you're a darling." Sybil squeezed Gwen's hand and turned towards the staircase. Bravery.
"Call if you need me!" Gwen ordered her back, and Sybil nodded without turning around. Only once around the curve of the staircase did she allow a gasp to escape as she fought for air. Her belly was rolling with terror.
With every step, her nerves increased tenfold, until her legs were trembling and her throat refused to swallow. When she reached the right door, she stood in the corner for a long moment, struggling to calm her breathing. Finally, thinking of the velvet-draped frame in her father's front hall, she knocked.
The door opened almost immediately, and she threw up a hand to shield her eyes from the abrupt flood of dazzling sunlight into the shadowy corridor before a tall shape blocked the light. Her stomach flip-flopped again.
A loose white shirt hung on a pair of broad shoulders. The light behind him shone through the thin fabric and outlined the shape of a broad chest and narrow hips. Half a shoulder, a wide triangle of his chest, and his neck lay bare in the open neckline. A strange concoction of unfamiliar scents rose in the sun-warmed air, perfuming the warm, softly golden skin and the fine hairs scattered across his chest…
At the sound of his throat clearing, she yanked her gaze up, flushing, and toppled headfirst into a pair of eyes the colour of lapis lazuli.
"Can I be of some assistance, signorina?" He spoke Italian poisoned with a powerful Irish accent.
"Signore Branson?" Her voice squeaked. The saints must hate her.
"Si."
"I—I heard that you were looking for models."
"Ah—entrare, per favore." He stepped back, holding the door wide.
"Grazie." She slipped past, trying her utmost not to brush his sleeve. The room was small, but rich in the sunlight pouring through the two large windows in the opposite wall. It was so magnificent as to be physical, shedding brilliance over the rough floorboards, the tangle of sheets on the bed in one corner, the table strewn with bowls of paint, bottles of ink, rolls of vellum, stacks of parchment, a few books, quills, sticks of charcoal, and paintbrushes, and a three-legged stool.
"Parla inglese?" The young man inquired.
"Yes, I do."
His eyebrows rocketed upwards at the sound of her accent, crisp and clear as a bell. "You are English?"
"Oh…" Behind her back, her fingers twisted into knots. "No—my mistress is. I learnt both the language and the accent from her."
"Oh." He pocketed his hands. "Well, you want to model."
"A friend told me you are in need of such services."
"I am indeed. I am a student of Maestro Ferrani."
"I saw his Acteon in Signore Grey's villa two weeks ago." Her voice was calm and steady, though her mouth was perfectly dry. It seemed impossible that she could sound so calm when her very bones seemed to be quaking. "I heard that you painted Diana. You're very good."
He inclined his head in a bow, lips tugging upwards. "Thank you. Maestro Ferrani has given me three months of liberty to work on my own project. I'm planning a scene with the women of Troy, to be rendered in oil paints."
"So you need female models."
He nodded. "I'll make a deal with you: if you pose for me, here and now, and I sketch you, I'll tell you whether I can use you. Then we'll negotiate a price."
"Very well. Shall I—?" To Sybil's horror, her throat abruptly closed and she gulped for air. Sweet Virgin, I'm actually—!
"—disrobe?" Branson supplied, nodding. "If you would." Stepping past her, he gathered a piece of vellum sketchpad and charcoal stylus from the table, and settled himself on the stool, facing her.
It was time. Gulping for air, Sybil turned her back, incapable of facing his gaze. Achingly conscious of every muscle in her body, she held her back straight and head erect as she reached to untie the knot at the nape of her neck and pull the scarf away. Crumpling it in her left hand, she used the right to grope for the wooden pins poking her scalp. The long thick plait uncoiled onto her shoulder, and she combed the wild curls loose with her fingers. Moving as carefully and deliberately as if performing a complicated dance, she stuffed scarf and pins into the purse at her hip, then untied the purse from her hips and placed it on the ground. She turned and met his steady gaze. His eyes dropped to her fingers, which fumbled with the knots of her bodice for a moment until she was able to unlace and discard it. She watched him watch her hands unlace her skirt and drop it to the floor, her feet kick her shoes away, her fingers untie her garters and peel off her stockings. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, and her right knee was buckling. She untied the laces at the neck of her chemise, bunched the fabric in her hands, and whipped the garment over her head. It fluttered unheeded to the floor, and she fought the urge to wrap both arms around herself.
He rose. With infinitely deliberate steps, he circled her, staring, staring. His gaze felt like a touch, like the featherlight ghosting of the wind across her shoulders, around her breasts, down each arm, over her stomach, winding about her legs, tickling her feet, up from her heels to her buttocks, through the tangled masses of her hair. She turned her head and the touch traced the lines of her lips, the angles of her cheekbones, the sweep of her eyelashes. When he met her eyes once more, the heat of her cheeks could have lit a candle a foot away, and she dropped her eyes to the floorboards.
Silently, he resumed his seat and took up his vellum. He scrutinized her for another minute, chin in hand. She waited. From outside the window came the sound of waves lapping the banks.
"Turn your back to the windows." he said at last, his voice a shiver-inducing husk. "Bend your left knee…a little more…good. Now wrap your arms around yourself—left arm higher, right hand on left hip, and spread your fingers…drop your chin. Lower your eyelids. Perfect."
The sound of charcoal scratching on vellum filled the room. Sybil stood unmoving, hardly daring to breathe. Church bells rang for mass, eight echoing choruses resounding off the rooftops. Her lips twitched at the sound: at home, her family would be in the chapel for mass. Edith would be fanning herself furiously, miserable in the morning heat, ginger curls clinging to her forehead. Mary would be as unflappingly cool as humanely possible, face piously constructed while thinking about her morning ride, wondering which path to wander today. Papa was undoubtedly concentrating on not fidgeting, Mama privately planning which eligible bachelors to introduce to her daughters at the Fellini's ball this evening…and all convinced that Sybil was attending Mass at the Chapel of the Virgin, accompanied by her faithful chambermaid for the sake of propriety. I've lied to them, to my family, may Heaven forgive me! Sybil bit her lip. I don't have a choice, and it will be worth it. Come June, it will be worth it.
A soft, musical note startled her—she flinched, and his eyes darted from her shoulder to her face.
"Apologies." she whispered, though his soft humming never faltered, as though she had not moved at all. She resumed her pose, trying to breathe. A hundred thousand lessons, drilled into her mind since childhood, were burning in the wake of his gaze—modesty. Propriety. Humility. Silence. Obedience. Do not return a man's gaze directly. Do not touch your own skin, not even your cheek, in his presence. To do so is to invite sinful thoughts. Never lick your lips when speaking to a man. Never offer your own opinions. Be silent and listen to his.
She gritted her teeth. "Sybil, why must you plague Mama with your churlishness? These lessons are not so very difficult!"
"Sybil, can you never learn to behave like a young lady? You are a nobleman's daughter, and your countenance remains as unseemly as a mule's!"
"Sybil, stop climbing trees."
"Sybil, stop running."
"Sybil, stop looking people in the eyes."
"Sybil, stop laughing so loudly."
"Sybil, it is not for you to question Papa."
"Sybil, you should not daydream in church!"
"Sybil, you must confess your sins…come now, you are a woman, you are mortal, you are made of sin…"
"Sybil, you should not read so much."
"Sybil, you should obey without question."
Forever and without end were the reprimands. She was too brash, too bold, too opinionated, too proud, too haughty, too wild. She had been ordered into the confessional more times in a week than she could count, to atone for her sins and to learn her place as a woman: she was a lesser being than man. Her sex was to blame for all the sin in the world, for it was Eve who had enticed Adam to sin. She must atone for the sins of every woman by being quiet, humble, obedient—not, as Mama reminded her almost daily, by emulating a wild sprite of some pagan faerie world!
She suppressed a sigh. In her youth, she had wondered whether there was something wrong with her, that she could not fall into line as easily as both her sisters, or any of the dozens of young noblewomen with whom they associated. It seemed that they were all born with quiet obedience sewn into their bones, while she was born with a question mark constantly on her tongue, and no one to answer her questions.
"I swear 'twas a black day you were conceived, for no human child could plague me as severely as you, a sprite, an unholy demon!" her father had thundered on the eve of her seventeenth birthday, when she had refused to attend the ball thrown in her honour, or speak with any of the suitors he had hand-picked for her. "You are an abomination, a plague upon this household!"
That was the only time he had ever struck her, as hard as if he could slap the wilfulness, so charming to him when she was a child on his knee, so irritating and unbecoming in her newfound womanhood, from her head and mould her into the perfect daughter. When she'd raised her head and refused to weep with pain or shame, she'd been locked in her room for three weeks, then forced to spend the next week on her knees in the family chapel. He had never apologized to her in words; fresh flowers in her bedchamber, books left by her favourite chair, new silks for a gown, fresh peaches on her breakfast plate—thus had he paid his penance for her hurt. He could never apologise to her, sorry as he was, for she remained wilful. From the moment his hand struck her cheek, she had foresworn all the efforts she had ever made to adhere to the rules, to please him, to be good and gracious and obedient. She found solace in her books, hidden alone in her room, soothing her soul from the hurt of being such an obvious outcast from her sisters and from the very girls who had called her friend when she tried to fit in with them, and who now scorned her company.
He had announced her engagement like a consolation prize, as though he didn't understand that he was dooming her to a life of pain and misery, struggling to follow the rules while knowing in her heart that she was born to pursue a different path, a path made not with neat stitches in a sampler or rosary beads and incense, but lined instead with words and wisdom and wit. He wouldn't listen when she sobbed and screamed and begged for mercy—"Don't make me, Papa, please, I beg you!"—and only instructed her to begin preparing her trousseau.
Her eyes smarted as the image of his face, kind and soft, with the same eyes that stared at her out of her mirror, swam into her mind's eye. How he had pampered her this past month! An engagement and rich supplies of jewels for the thrice-bedamned wedding gown being pinned into existence by her mother and sisters went hand-in-hand, all deaf to her pleas.
Now is the time. she thought silently. Prove to him what you have said for so long. You can show him now what you've said for so long, then you can escape this trap. Be brave—the cost of freedom is merely a bit of courage here, before this stranger. That is not so much to pay!
And still she could not bear to think of the artist's eyes on her. However much she prided herself on her own self, there was enough Church-induced modesty in her to send the blood rushing to her cheeks every time she remembered anew that she stood, entirely naked, before a strange man, and her heart thudded like the hooves of a galloping horse.
For all her discomfort, though, she was forced to admit that Signore Branson was most gracious; his eyes flickered between her and his page, but never approached her face. His humming had never ceased—it was a low, coaxing, lilting, sweet tune, unlike any dance she'd ever learnt before, and it soothed her quaking muscles to hear it. She would wager he had a good voice, for the sound was clear and pleasant.
"Very well." he said, startling her again. "You may dress."
He kept his eyes on the page as she fumbled with her shift, pulling the cool fabric over her burning flesh and scrabbling with the laces of her bodice.
"Can you come at this time every morning? For two hours?" he asked, propping his chin in his hand. She nodded. "Good. Come every day but Sundays."
"Very well."
"I shall need your services for the whole of these next three months."
She nodded again. Fine—the wedding was set for the beginning of September, and her birthday was not until the end of August. That was plenty of time.
"Now there is the matter of payment." He rubbed his chin with his fingers, smearing charcoal into the delicate hairs smattering his jawline. "I fear I cannot pay you in full until the end of the three months—"
"I don't want money."
"Beg pardon?"
She cleared her throat. "Signore, you will not need to use every picture of me that you make, will you?"
"No…"
"Then, at the end of my employment to you, I wish to be paid with my choice of one picture of me from your collection." She swallowed. "Please."
He frowned. "At the end of July, you wish to choose one picture of you, my magnum opus excluded, in exchange of your services as a model from today, the third of May, until the thirty-first of July?"
"Yes."
"Well, it's an unusual method of payment, but I see no reason why not." He smiled. "Very well. Welcome to the world of art, signorina…?"
"Sybil." Her throat closed over halfway through the word and she coughed. "My name is Sybil."
"Tom Branson, at your service." He rose from his chair and offered his hand. She placed her own in his, timidly. "We have an accord."
She forced herself to smile back at him. Three months. She could do that.
A/N: reviews are chocolate Easter eggs—aka, desperately desired by yours truly. Thanks again for reading!