A Bolt from the Blue

My heart began a frantic rhythm in my chest as I tried to assure myself that his absence meant nothing. Perhaps he had fallen asleep over his notes and never made it to bed. And perhaps he had risen earlier than I and stepped out into the cool morning air to clear his head, and he would be returning any moment. Or maybe he had forgotten his request that I walk with him and was waiting for me at the shed, wondering at my delay.

Or maybe, a frightened inner voice suggested, he was lying somewhere with a bolt through his chest, his lifeblood long since seeped into the ground beneath him.

I gave my head an angry shake to dismiss that last gruesome thought. “Don’t be foolish… He’s here somewhere,” I muttered, my clipped words drawing an answering snore from the sleeping hound.

At least I need have no worries on Pio’s account. Vittorio would stop by to make certain that he had food and water, after which he’d allow the hound out to lift his leg upon the nearby wall before following the apprentices to their work site. And, soon enough, I told myself, I would be listening to my father laughing softly as I confessed my moment of folly in thinking him vanished like a mist.

Assuming an air of confidence I did not truly feel, I closed the door behind me and set off across the quadrangle in search of my father.

9

*

Excess of wind puts out flame, moderate wind nourishes it.

– Leonardo da Vinci, Codex Atlanticus

After a thorough search of seemingly every place but Il Moro’s own bedchamber, I came to the alarming conclusion that Angelo della Fazia was missing from the castle grounds.

My first stop had been the shed where the half-built flying machine was stored like a prize bull. The hasp and lock that held the oversized doors shut still were secure, so I could not guess if anything was amiss. And as those twin doors were the sole entry, the only way my father could have been within was if someone had locked him inside the shed.

Feeling foolish, I called his name through a gap in the sturdy planks. I heard no reply, nor, when I put my eye to that same crack, could I see anything other than shadows, for the lanterns that had brightened the place the day before were unlit.

Afterward, I’d tried the kitchen, and the privies, and even climbed the wall of the ill-fated garden to see if perhaps he’d had some excuse to return there. He’d been in none of those places nor any other in which I had looked. And when I’d questioned a few passing servants regarding his whereabouts-my father was a recognizable figure, thanks to his association with Leonardo-none recalled seeing him this particular morning.

Wild explanations for his absence began to tumble through my mind, and it was all I could do to make it back to the workshop without giving way to panic. I imagined my father lying in a far corner of the castle ground-ill, or perhaps injured-and unable to call for help. I pictured him encountering a crossbow-wielding assailant and chasing him past the castle gates, to lose him in the maze of streets and canals that was the city of Milan. Or, worse, I saw him catching up to the assassin in some shady back lane, with no witnesses to what happened next!

I gave my head a rough shake to clear it of such frightening visions. The simplest reason for my father’s disappearance was that he had purposely departed the castle grounds, perhaps intent on purchasing some new tool for his project. Maybe he had left behind a note of explanation for me, which I had overlooked in my haste. Certainly, that made more sense than any other scenario my frantic mind had conjured.

But how to explain why he would have left the door to Leonardo’s quarters open for anyone to walk inside?

If the Master were here, he would know what to do, I thought in despair. But he was riding about the duchy-who knew exactly where?-and might not be back for days. Worse, I was beginning to suspect that my father’s disappearance must somehow be tied to Leonardo’s absence.

I had retraced my footsteps to Leonardo’s private quarters, the door of which still was securely latched. I peered past the single window and saw that Pio no longer lounged upon the bed, meaning that Vittorio must have already collected him. I turned to head back to the main workshop, intent on seeing if any of the other apprentices was still there, when for the second time in as many days, I all but tripped over Tito.

“There you are!” I cried in mingled surprise and relief, having all but forgotten him in my worry. At least he also had not vanished strangely in the night.

Then I frowned.

“Why are you here?” I demanded, suspicion sweeping me as I took in his startled expression. “Shouldn’t you be at the shed awaiting my father?”