Color Song (A Passion Blue Novel) Read online

  That’s one thing done. What next?

  The fence and the trees seemed as good a direction to choose as any. She began to walk, the dry grass rustling with her passage. The bindings on her feet felt lumpy and uneven, but cushioned her steps well enough, and the motion warmed her.

  The fence was made of woven willow boughs, higher than her head. She followed it till she found a stile that let her cross to the other side. In the wood beyond, the trees were going gold with autumn, the ground beneath them knotted with roots. The mist was thicker here, enclosing her in a damp, white world through which the trunks loomed like phantoms.

  The sound of water led her to a stream frothing over mossy rocks. She crouched down to drink and to bathe her hand. The cut was inflamed, the flesh swollen and hot to the touch. Since she could do nothing else, she wrapped it up again and moved on.

  The day was darkening toward dusk by the time she came out of the trees. Before her lay another meadow, the grass scythed to stubble and dotted with hay ricks. Nearby was a farmhouse; she could smell the smoke rising from its chimney. Mist lay across the scene, lending everything a misleading semblance of softness.

  She could hardly think of anything now but her hunger. She plunged into the meadow, the stubble sharp under her sore feet. A track began at the meadow’s edge, straggling toward the house. Its shutters were all drawn, but she could see the glint of candlelight through the cracks.

  She knocked. After a moment she heard someone approaching.

  “Who’s there?”

  “I’m a traveler,” Giulia called. “I’ve been robbed by bandits. I need help.”

  “And if I open the door, you’ll help yourself.” The man’s voice was hoarse. He spoke Veneto, as everyone in this part of the world did, but with an accent different from that of Padua. “We know that trick round these parts.”

  “It’s no trick. Please, I just want something to eat. A crust, anything you can spare.”

  “There’s nothing for you here. Get you gone.”

  “Can you at least tell me where I am?”

  The only answer was his footsteps, heading away. Giulia hit the door with her good hand. Silence.

  Beyond the muddy pigsty at the side of the house she found a well, and near it several ancient apple trees. All the apples had been harvested; but, scrabbling on the ground in the deepening dusk, she scavenged a few windfalls, mushy and spoiled smelling but edible. She slaked her thirst at the well, then returned to the meadow, devouring the apples as she went. The black sky showed through rents in the mist, shimmering with stars.

  She made a nest for herself in the side of one of the hay ricks and curled up in its springy, sweet-smelling softness, warm for the first time since she’d left Santa Marta. She thought perhaps she should pray as she was accustomed to doing before sleep, but no words would come. At last she simply crossed herself.

  God preserve me.

  Sleep sucked her down like quicksand.

  —

  She woke at first light. She lay a moment, feeling the ache of her abused body and the pain of her hunger, her wounded hand pulsing with heat. Yet, strangely, she felt better. She had faced her fear and forced herself to move on. If she could do it once, she could do it again—and again, and again, as many times as necessary until she reached Venice.

  She climbed from the warmth of the hay. The farmhouse was still closed up tight; she could see no sign of life except for the pigs rooting in their sty and a few chickens scratching in the dirt. She drank again from the well, then, her teeth chattering from the coldness of the water and the chill of early morning, turned toward the sun, just tipping up over the horizon. East, she thought. To Venice.

  The air warmed a little as the sun rose. The landscape was as flat as a tabletop, a patchwork of fields and vineyards and orchards, broken by occasional stands of uncultivated trees. Giulia followed meandering tracks where she could and tramped across the fields where she could not, her feet catching on stubble or sinking into raw earth, pushing through hedgerows and jumping drainage ditches.

  Flocks of blackbirds, gleaning the leavings of the harvest, rose like ebony curtains at her approach; and now and then she spotted cows, grazing in autumn-hued meadows. Otherwise, she saw no living soul. Except when she’d traveled to Santa Marta a year and a half ago, she’d never been outside city walls. She had never imagined the world could be so wide or so empty of people, or that the sky could be so huge, a vast blue helmet clapped down upon the Earth.

  Sometime after noon she came upon a family tending a field of cabbages. She called to them, begging for something to eat. They were suspicious, like the farmer, but more charitable. The wife came forward to offer the heel of a loaf. Giulia crouched where she was to gulp it down, aware that she was tearing at the bread like an animal but too ravenous to care. The wife watched.

  “You’re a foreigner,” she said when Giulia had finished. Her accent was similar to that of the farmer, her face so weathered Giulia could not guess her age.

  “I’m from Padua. I was set upon by bandits. I escaped, but now I don’t know where I am.”

  “Near the town of Mestrino.”

  Giulia shook her head; the name meant nothing to her. “Is there a road anywhere near?”

  “North.” The woman pointed. “The Vicenza road.”

  “Vicenza?” Giulia said, dismayed. Vicenza lay north of Padua, but also west. How had she gotten so far off course? Had the brothers lied about traveling east?

  The woman nodded. “It isn’t far.”

  Giulia thanked her and moved on, charting her course as best she could by the path of the sun. She was aware that her pace was slowing—she’d never walked so much in her life, and pain flared in her clumsily bound feet at every step. At another farmhouse she asked directions again; the farmwife pointed her on and gave her a handful of small green pears to take with her.

  The sun had set and the stars were beginning to show by the time she came upon the road. She paused among the trees that bordered it, steadying herself against a trunk. Her exhaustion was like a weight of stone. A little distance away she could see a camp, five or six carts with several tents pitched alongside and mules and horses staked out to graze. Men moved about the space. There was a fire; she smelled roasting meat.

  Hunger stabbed her. She pushed away from the tree and limped toward the camp. One of the men, tending to a horse, spotted her and raised his lantern.

  “Who’s there?”

  “A traveler,” Giulia said, or tried to say. Her throat was as dry as dust, and the words came out as a croak. “Please, could you let me have something to eat?”

  “We’ve nothing to spare for beggars,” the man said, not unkindly. He was young, with dark hair to his shoulders. “There’s a farmstead not too far back. They may help you there.”

  “I’m not a beggar.” Giulia’s head seemed to be floating somewhere above her body. “I’m a painter. I met with—with bandits, they stole everything I had. Please, signor—I’m so hungry.”

  “What’s the matter here, Bernardo?”

  A woman had emerged from the nearest tent. She was clad in a flowing garment of some kind, her hair loose over her shoulders.

  “Another vagrant,” said the young man. “Begging for a meal. You needn’t trouble yourself.”

  “But he’s only a boy. Can we not spare a crust of bread? And did I hear him say he is a painter?”

  “He might as well have said he is a duke,” Bernardo replied. “There’d be as much chance it was true.”

  The woman came forward. In the light of Bernardo’s lantern, Giulia could see that she was beautiful and that her hair was coppery gold. The wrapper she wore, almost the same color, showed the unmistakable luster of silk.

  “Is it so, boy? Are you a painter?”

  “Yes, madonna,” Giulia said faintly. “There’s an apprenticeship waiting for me in Venice. If I had paper and charcoal, I could show you.”

  “I have paper and pen. Will that serve?”
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br />   “God’s bones!” Bernardo exclaimed. “What’s the point of this?”

  “Hush, Bernardo. It’s a dull journey. Don’t begrudge me a little diversion.”

  He shook his head, irritation clear on his face, but did not interfere as the woman rustled back to her tent. Giulia, not sure what would happen next, found that her legs no longer wanted to support her. She sank to her knees.

  The woman emerged after a few moments, carrying a portable writing desk. She set it down before Giulia. A sheet of paper lay ready on its wooden surface.

  “Give me the lantern, Bernardo.”

  He sighed and did so. The woman placed the lantern beside the desk. “Draw,” she said, holding out a quill.

  Numbly, Giulia took it. “What should I draw?”

  The woman tilted her head and smiled, keeping her lips closed. The skin around her eyes crinkled, and Giulia realized that she was quite a bit older than she had first appeared.

  “Whatever you like.”

  Giulia dipped the quill into the inkwell set into the top of the desk, holding the paper still with her bandaged hand. The incident had taken on the feeling of a dream—surely she could not really be kneeling on the cold ground, preparing to make a drawing for the entertainment of a woman she’d encountered in a camp by the roadside. She was shivering, and her hand was shaky, and she did not try for fine detail as an impression of the woman’s face emerged upon the paper—hatched with shadows, mysteriously smiling, with those telltale creases at the outer corners of her eyes.

  “It’s finished.”

  The woman took the drawing, holding it to the lantern. For a moment she was silent.

  “I have been told,” she said at last, “that in candlelight I appear no more than twenty-five. I am well aware that this is flattery. There are few who are willing to give an aging woman the truth—except of course for Bernardo, who never flatters anyone.” Her eyes flicked up. “You are not a flatterer either, young man.”

  Giulia knew then that she was about to be sent back into the night. “I’m sorry. I draw . . . what I see.”

  The woman rose to her feet. “If you are to make a career as a painter, you must learn to draw what others wish you to see.” She regarded Giulia. “I am Sofia Gentileschi. This frowning beast is my son, Bernardo. What is your name?”

  Her son? Giulia had guessed the woman was not as young as she looked, but she hardly seemed old enough to have a grown son.

  “Your name,” the woman—Sofia—repeated.

  “Giu—” Giulia caught herself. “Girolamo. Girolamo Landriani.”

  “And you say there is an apprenticeship waiting for you in Venice, Girolamo Landriani?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am Venetian, born and bred. What is your master’s name? I may have heard of him.”

  Giulia drew a breath. “Gianfranco Ferraldi.”

  Sofia regarded her, a clear, assessing look that seemed to reach beneath the skin. Giulia was certain her deception must be written on her face, but she was too exhausted to care.

  “Come,” Sofia said. “I will give you something to eat, and a new dressing for your hand.”

  “Mother.” Bernardo caught his mother’s arm. “This is folly. Give him some bread if you must, but then send him on his way.”

  “Where is your charity, Bernardo? He is alone and injured. It would be cruel to banish him into the dark.”

  “You know nothing about this boy. You cannot assume he is what he claims.”

  “Then you will have to keep watch, will you not, my beast?” Sofia smiled into his frowning face, then turned and beckoned to Giulia as she might have to a child or a pet. “Come, Girolamo.”

  Giulia climbed to her feet. The image of the brothers flitted through her mind, and she wondered if she were walking into some new danger. But she was at the end of her strength. She had nothing for anyone to take anyway—she truly was a vagrant. A beggar, as Bernardo had named her.

  “Come,” Sofia repeated. She was holding aside the flap of her tent. The interior glowed gold, a promise of warmth Giulia could almost feel. “Don’t be frightened.”

  On wobbly legs, Giulia moved toward the light, leaving the night behind.

  CHAPTER 10

  SOFIA GENTILESCHI

  The opulence of Sofia’s tent made Giulia wonder if she were dreaming. Straw mats hid the ground. A patterned rug lay atop them. A cot heaped with crimson covers stood against one wall, a pair of painted chests along the other. Candles glimmered inside glass globes strung from the roof frame, filling the space with trembling light.

  “Maria,” Sofia said to the woman who sat sewing on one of the chests, close by a glowing brazier. “Fetch a bowl of water.”

  The woman rose. Her skin was the color of burnt sienna, her hair a night-black cloud. Giulia could not help staring. From Maestro Bruni she’d learned about the dark-skinned inhabitants of Africa, but Maria was the first she had ever seen.

  Sofia pushed Giulia down on the chest and began unwinding the bandage. When Maria returned with the water, Sofia plunged Giulia’s hand into the bowl and started to clean the wound, a process that made Giulia go cold and faint.

  “Put your head between your knees,” Sofia ordered.

  By the time Giulia felt strong enough to raise her head, Sofia had finished with the water and was applying some kind of stinging unguent. “It only burns for a moment,” she said, tearing a strip of linen for a clean bandage. And it was true. The stinging faded, leaving Giulia’s palm feeling cool and soothed.

  “There.” Sofia knotted the ends of the bandage. “Better?”

  Giulia nodded.

  Sofia replaced the pot of ointment in a wooden case that held other medical supplies and shook back her coppery hair. Even in the candlelight, with the lines around her eyes and the slight looseness beneath her chin clearly visible, she was one of the most beautiful women Giulia had ever seen, with smooth milky skin, a bow-curved mouth, and eyes the shape and tawny color of roasted almonds. The silk of her wrapper glistened, shadow pooling in its folds. Despite her exhaustion Giulia could not help imagining how she might paint it . . . She could almost hear the rich, slow voice of the raw umber she’d apply first, the sour, metallic resonance of the orange realgar she’d layer on top.

  “How old are you, Girolamo?”

  “Fifteen.” Giulia had decided on this lie before setting out, to explain her high voice and lack of beard.

  “I have heard of your master, you know.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes.” Sofia’s lips lifted in the enigmatic, closed-lipped smile Giulia had drawn outside in the dark. “It is one of the reasons I do not share Bernardo’s suspicions of you. A mere thief might have the skill to draw a portrait, but how would he know the name of a true Venetian painter? Where is your home, Girolamo?”

  “I was born in Milan, clarissima.” This, Giulia knew from Maestro Bruni, was how the nobility of Venice preferred to be addressed—and this beautiful woman, with her silk garments and rich furnishings, was surely noble, or at least very wealthy.

  “I would not have guessed it. You speak Veneto like a Paduan.”

  “I learned from my tutor.” That much was true. “He studied at the university in Padua.”

  “Your family has means, then.”

  “Yes,” Giulia said, thinking of her childhood, divided between the servants’ quarters in the basement, where her noble blood had made her an outcast, and Maestro Bruni’s study on the piano nobile above, where her common blood had barred her from nearly all the benefits of her father’s wealth.

  “How did you meet with bandits?”

  “I was foolish, clarissima. I accepted a ride on a cart. I fell asleep, and when I woke they were robbing me. I had my artwork and some money—they took everything, even my boots.”

  “You were traveling alone, then? A dangerous thing for a boy like you.”

  “There was no one to accompany me, clarissima.”

  “What of your family?”
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br />   “My parents are dead. I have no brothers or sisters.”

  “Or cousins? Or guardians? Or friends?”

  Giulia shook her head, uneasy under Sofia’s cool, assessing gaze.

  “It seems a long way to travel for an apprenticeship. Could you find no painting master in Milan to teach you?”

  “I had a master. But . . . he . . . died.” Giulia was horrified to feel her eyes filling with tears. She ducked her head, letting her tangled hair fall forward to hide her face.

  “Poor boy,” Sofia said gently. “You are weary, and I am pressing you with questions. I’ll have Maria fetch you some food and find something for your feet.” She gestured to the maidservant, who got up again. “She’ll mend your hose as well, if you’ll leave them with her tonight.”

  “No!” Instinctively Giulia drew up her legs. “That is, thank you, but if I can borrow a needle I can mend them myself.”

  Sofia raised perfectly plucked brows. “I’ve not met many males in my life willing to do their own sewing when there’s a woman to do it for them. But very well.”

  Giulia hung her head again, cursing herself. Of course a boy wouldn’t darn the knees of his own hose.

  “You’ve had a hard time of it, haven’t you. And not just at the hands of bandits, I think. I believe . . . yes. I believe I will bring you with me.”

  “With you, clarissima?”

  “To Venice. Bernardo will not approve. But he knows me well, so he also will not be surprised.”

  Giulia was scarcely able to believe it. “I don’t want to cause trouble, clarissima.”

  “I do not wish that either.” Sofia’s expression had sharpened. She seemed older suddenly, closer to what Giulia knew must be her true age. “Let me be plain, Girolamo. For pity, and also for the skill you showed tonight, it pleases me to help you. But you must not mistake my kindness for weakness. I know more of the world than you might think, and I am not a fool. Do you understand?”