By the third hour, Leonardo knew the storm was going to last. Its winds stilled hammered away at his window, its rain now a hard rapping against the glass, and as it grew in intensity so did it grow in volume.
"Now, now," he soothed the frightened Fiorentino; "A storm is nothing to get upset about. Quite the opposite, in fact. The city is so beautiful when wet, and if the sound is anything to go by I'd say everything will be soaked by tomorrow. You'll adore it when we look for your mother. So much to see."
He was making conversation out of habit, since usually his guests were older and had a predilection for small talk. Fiorentino seemed to calm at his voice, though. His agitated hands stilled enough to fall on the blanket, denting the coarse blue material that Leonardo assumed was fairly low-quality, and his brown eyes, enhanced by the candlelight, looked at the artist as though willing him to talk more, willing him to divert his attention from the tempest outside.
"Perhaps a storm is just what this city needs. Too often I find guards standing idle in the shade, while good people in the marketplace are being robbed. It's a sad time to live in when we can no longer count on the law to see things right."
Leonardo smiled at the boy, sketching out his round cheeks with an almost unnatural care. Fiorentino kept his gaze fixed on the artist's face, and even when lightning lit up the whole workshop his eyes were firm.
Strange, Leo thought as he began to shade, I thought babies never focused? Or am I thinking of newborns? I doubt he's much older, though. Whatever the case, it feels…peculiar.
"You remind me of someone I know."
Fiorentino made a little gurgling noise. In the back of his mind the artist wondered if he somehow understood, but decided it was just a coincidence.
"I haven't seen him in a long time, though. A year, I think. He was troubled – family executed, and the few that survived went into hiding. He came to me with an odd little design."
The artist paused. In the dim light and cosy surroundings of the workspace, it was easy to let his mouth run away with him. As the flame beside him flickered, his eyes were drawn to the wick, watching as liquefied wax ran down its sides and were collected in the simple brass holder. Had he allowed himself to go on, he'd no doubt he would have revealed his part in Ezio's escape, how he slotted in to the life of a fugitive he hadn't seen in a year.
Then he realised how foolish he was being. Fiorentino couldn't understand him, had no idea who Ezio even was. If there was anyone he could talk to about that young rogue, anyone he could speak with who would never run to the guards, it was that abandoned basket-child; the gift he had never expected.
How much harm could a baby do?
So as he laid his head into his palm, elbow resting on the table, Leonardo let himself speak without trepidation; "His mother and I were close, you see. She bought all of my painters when I was just starting out. A lover of the fine arts, and with such a refined palette; she and Giovanni were two of the most respected citizens in all of Florence. Giovanni was her husband."
Fiorentino watched him as he rambled over the smaller details of the Auditore's lives – where they lived, who their friends were, how many children they had – before the artist forced himself back onto the topic. It felt good, he realised, to talk about his strange allegiance.
"Upon Giovanni and his sons being executed, Ezio – the troubled man I told you about – came to me, toting a blade he needed repairing. But the design was much too old and sophisticated for me to do anything. I was only able to help him when he gave me a codex page, like a manual of sorts, and since then I haven't heard from him. I do hope he's alright. I wouldn't want for him to come to any harm."
Leonardo paused his rambling, rubbing his thumb and index finger together as he twiddled the lead rod in his other hand. It had been a while since he had heard anything from Ezio; as it stood, what the artist knew was that the assassin had removed himself from Florence, and if he still lingered on their familiar streets he had done so without revealing himself. Not that any wanted man would willing do that, anyway.
"Nevertheless, I'm sure he will visit when he can." Leonardo's eyes went back to his work. The silver point sketch was almost complete; it just lacked that flare; that little something he could never quite identify but always managed to capture. His master had often told him a visionary never understood how he was able to see or replicate beauty, but merely learnt to accept it as the gift it was.
"Ah, bastardo, what am I missing?" he asked himself, tapping the rod against the sketch. His eyes went back to little Fiorentino who, under the intensity of the gaze, squirmed and flailed his tiny hands in the air.
It was the movement that caught Leonardo's attention. A flash of candlelight entered those big brown eyes and set them aglow. It hinted at themes the artist had never toyed with; the beginning of life, the hidden potential that resided in every baby's first breath, first steps, first look into the world beyond them. It was unfamiliar ground. It was exciting.
"Hold still for a moment, Fiorentino," he urged the child while his hands went back to work; "You've given me an excellent idea."
And even though the storm still raged outside, and the shadows hid secrets and assassins roamed free, Fiorentino and Leonardo were safe in that little workshop, in the cosy light of the candle, with a gentle foreboding that peace would never last.