The next year went by in an unsettling way. Leonardo was aware of it more than Fee; the way men glared at each other in the streets, how the guards warned off people in need for fear they would be reprimanded. Florence, though firm on the surface, was rotting from the inside out.
The artist even saw his local clientele diminishing and was forced to take commissions from further away, such as Venice and Rome, or the odd passing nobleman who stumbled on his work. It seemed the good people of Firenze simply didn't have enough time or energy to spend on fine art.
Despite this, Leonardo found joy. Fiorentino was growing stronger every day, reaching the tender age of two on unsteady feet and becoming more curious about his surroundings. He would ask questions in a little voice, though he rarely ever understood the answers. His adoptive father would watch, proud, as the boy admired the works of art around him, the gentle portraits and harsh, bold colours of a broken city – their broken city.
"Maestro?"
Leonardo looked down to see familiar brown eyes staring up at him, two plump hands clutching a homemade leather-bound book. His smile came out of its own accord. Whenever he looked at his growing son, it felt as though he couldn't hold back his grins.
"What is it, Fee?" he asked as he turned from his delicate work. The commission was for a Venetian Lady from a wealthy standing, who wanted to have a truly unique piece for display in her home. So far, Leonardo had toyed with painting his birthplace from memory, or even the Florentine back streets that were uncommon for visitors to see. Nothing seemed to fit what she was asking for.
Fiorentino flipped the book open, his neatly cropped black hair catching the sunlight that poured in from the window. It was a picture book the artist had made himself for his son's second birthday, complete with drawn animals and their names underneath, and since giving it to him Fee had seldom put it down.
He showed him a picture – a beautiful dove with ruffled feathers, its graceful neck turned until it felt like its black eyes were staring straight at the reader. In its beak it held a small branch of holly, the berries a sharp red, which added to the elegance Leonardo felt this creature deserved.
At the bottom of its clawed feet, in curly writing (Fillipa's best,) there read the word 'uccello.'
"Un uccello, Fee," the artist pointed to the word, dragging his finger along the black ink; "Uccello."
The boy turned the page towards him and copied his father's motion; "Oo-chell-o."
"That's right, Fee. Quite simple, no?"
A grin stretched across the child's face before he stood on tiptoes to peek at what Leonardo was doing. He had no unique love for art that burned within an artist's veins, no special interest in it other than it was his father's profession, but no matter his childish opinion he took the time to inspect whatever was being made. He did, after all, see the various customers come to the door, which would insight curiosity in any young mind.
"Come here," the artist lifted him until he was on his lap, where he realised how much larger Fiorentino had become. Black hair had replaced the downy fluff of infancy, he had lost a small amount of baby fat and, though Leonardo preferred to keep them indoors due to unrest, he had a thirst to see what lay beyond them, what the workshop's walls kept out on the sun-baked Firenze streets.
The skeletal outline of what looked to be the countryside lay in front of them. Though small and rudimentary, Fee could make out a cluster of sheep that grazed on a hillside, the peasant girls' silhouettes that splashed in a meandering river running through the valley.
His fingers ghosted along the sketch. Somewhere in the corner there stood a tiny house, supposedly made of brick and mortar, with a woman's undefined shape – a woman who clutched a smaller undefined shape's hand, and stared out at the peasant girls at play.
Leonardo sensed his melancholy mood, and diverted Fee's attention to something else; "What's say we take to the markets? I'm sure there are some more strange trinkets to find!"
The boy and artist got some things together for the trip; his basket had become somewhat of a handy tool in recent months, since Fee insisted on taking his book and special blue blanket with them. Leonardo took it from him as they entered the busy streets, where lords and ladies brushed shoulders with labourers and the like.
"Hold my hand, Fee," he instructed, feeling a tiny hand slip into his own, "Remember what I said last time – even if you see something interesting, you never walk away from me, yes? We've no idea who might be out today."
From Fiorentino's view, all the people were towering giants, their outfits both grand and terrifying. The child clung to his father's hand as though it were a lifeline in a contained sort of chaos, and not once did the thought to abscond cross his mind. Curious though he was, he was easily frightened by all the noise, the conversations that flew back and forth to overwhelm him, and even the kind ladies who gave him adoring waves.
The marketplace was rife with shouts and screams, but that was to be expected. Merchants called out what they had on offer – fine silks, satchels, a purse or two of something strange, even the odd poison stolen from a dottore's stall – but Fee did as he was told. Not swayed by the glinting necklaces or shining toys, he clutched Leonardo's hand until the artist stopped dead, and turned his head to see what had caused the standstill.
In a shaded area of the marketplace, where some of the ladies chose to sit by a large tree and fan themselves, there stood a new stall filled with exotic wares; a special sword from the plains of England; a shiny golden jewellery box with five different sized keyholes, apparently from France; an interesting teapot with white-faced ladies on the china, black hair in a bun hairstyle as they poured what looked to be green tea into little flecks of blue, from China; but it was none of these that had caught Leonardo's gaze.
Beside the heavy bearded seller, an arched, golden cage was placed. Inside was an almost exact replica of the bird in Fee's book; a dove, locked away from flying with its white feathered brothers.
"Che tristezza," the artist sighed; "We keep something so beautiful incarcerated for our own benefit."
Fiorentino felt the sadness rolling off his father in waves. With trepidation he moved towards the stall, tugging at Leonardo's hand to follow, and despite giving the boy an odd look he acquiesced.
They approached the stall slowly. The merchant laughed and gestured to his wares, apparently recognising Leonardo's face, and asked what they would like to buy from him.
"Uccello," Fiorentino pulled the book from his basket and showed the bird; "Uccello."
"Ah, you'd like Abri?"
"Yes," the boy had taken the reins from his father, who stood there without saying a word. His voice was small and childish, but seemed to amuse the merchant – he beamed at them through the white scruff around his face.
"Well, he's not for sale, but I think I can be persuaded to part ways."
Leonardo sighed, but saw the determined look that coloured Fee's features, and found himself handing over the money anyway. An extortionate amount for one bird, no matter how beautiful it may have been. The man was a grinning con-artist.
"Fee, what are you doing?"
The artist, now laboured with a cage and the basket, tried his best to keep up with the boy, who for some reason had started taking them through a specific route. He recognised the green park's direction before Fiorentino even walked it; it was the only real place he had gone to, the only place he knew apart from the market and the cosy, cool workshop.
"Uccello!"
That was all he would reply.
When they finally reached the park – a small patch of grassland that had survived the construction, dotted with bright-haired children and their suitably bright mothers – Fee went straight to the centre, where there was situated a large tree blooming with blossoms.
Leonardo finally understood as he placed the cage beside his son. Smiling, Fiorentino knelt beside him and the artist, watched by the mothers, began to untie the cage's door.
"They are designed to fly," he said to Fee, who listened as he watched what Leonardo was doing; "Sometimes in flocks, sometimes alone. It seems a pity to stop something from doing what it's supposed to, no? Why don't we give it back its freedom?"
And with a flick of the wrist, that's what Leonardo did.
The moment the cage door sprung open, the dove hopped out and shook off the dredges of imprisonment. Stretching two glorious white wings, it raised its neck up to the sky, shook once more, and took off.
Fiorentino ran to the edge of the high wall bordering the park so he could watch the bird sweep past the rooftops, its song loud and harmonious. His intrigued face caught sight of the sun eclipsing from its wings, and with a glance back at Leonardo his smile became even wider.
The artist only watched how his son reacted to the sight. His small frame, the way his neck craned outside as he climbed on a bench and followed the bird's flight – it was inspiration, and he suddenly knew that Fee's black silhouette against the harsh sunlight, rigid with astonishment and somehow still in motion, would be what he sent to that wealthy Venetian, perhaps with the dove flying through the clear blue skies.
It was a glimpse into the gentle nature that would shape Fee's character.