A Bolt from the Blue

9

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?”

Just as quickly, it occurred to me that perhaps Tito had been to the shed and had concluded that Master Angelo had gone missing. Perhaps he, like I, was searching fruitlessly for him. Before I could say more, however, the youth’s surprised expression transformed into a look of outright guilt that sent renewed suspicion through me.

Eyes wide, I grabbed his arm and gave it a rough shake. “Tell me what’s going on, Tito. I can see by your face that you know something!”

“It’s not what you think,” he protested as he pulled away, his cheeks red and his gaze unable to meet mine.

When I made no reply to that, he took a deep breath and rushed on. “Very well, I shall confess. The Master told me he did not need me today, and that I should go help work on the fresco, instead. But since Davide and the others didn’t know I was supposed to be with them, I thought to sneak away and spend the day wandering about the city. I just wanted a bit of fun.”

He ran a thin brown hand through his unruly black hair and slumped onto the bench perched beneath the workshop window.

“It was a perfect day. The sun had risen, and the sky looked like one of the Master’s frescoes. But I barely made it past the castle gates when I started feeling ashamed at the way that I was trying to deceive the Master. So I came back as fast as I could.”

He paused and raised miserable dark eyes to mine. “Truly, Dino, I was on my way to the duke’s quarters to join the others. I beg you, don’t tell anyone about my transgression.”

He must have mistaken my moment of stunned silence for censure, for he dropped his gaze again. But what had stopped me was not his attempt at deceit but his claim that the Master had instructed him not to join my father this day.

How could that be, when Leonardo had left Milan the afternoon before?

“And what of my father?” I demanded, trying to keep my voice from trembling while I waded through the youth’s story. “Did he agree that you were not needed this day?”

Tito shrugged. “I assumed that the Master told him.”

Then he frowned and looked back up at me again, a hint of resentment coloring his expression. “Why are you asking me all these questions? I already told you that I was in the wrong and that I’m sorry. What’s this about?”

I struggled to find some clever way to phrase what I must say next, hoping to trick the youth into an admission. . if, indeed, he were guilty of something more than shirking his labors. But in the end, I simply blurted, “Tito, he’s gone. He’s vanished from the castle!”

“What?”

Tito blinked a moment in confusion before breaking into a smile. “Dino, why do you fret? The Master has a habit of leaving when it suits him. Perhaps he went to the city to the workshop he shares with another master. I’m sure he will be back soon, and-”

“No, not Leonardo,” I cut him short. “He was already gone and will be absent for several days. It’s my father who is missing!”

“Master Angelo?” Tito’s smile vanished like a dove taking flight. “You’re certain of this?”

“Of course! Do you think I would make up such a tale for your amusement? Tell me, when did you see him last?”

“Yesterday, before I joined you at the evening meal. Master Angelo and I finished our work for the day and locked the shed, and then we walked back to the workshop together. That was when we parted ways. . he, to the Master’s quarters, and I, to eat.”

Hands on hips, I shot him a suspicious look.

“And I saw him later that night, while the rest of you were playing dice,” I retorted. “That was when my father told me that Leonardo had left Milan for a few days, and that he’d agreed I should help once more with the flying machine. I was to meet my father here at the Master’s workshop. But he was gone when I arrived, and the door was partly open. I’ve looked all over the castle grounds for him, but no one has seen him.”

Those last words trembled suspiciously upon a sob, which I struggled to swallow back. Tito did not notice this slip in my boyish facade, however, for he had leaped from the bench and was peering in the workshop window as if to confirm that what I said was the truth. Then he swung about, jutting his face angrily toward mine.

“You said the Master was gone. What did you mean by that?” he demanded, his pockmarked face flushing darker still.

I hesitated, recalling that my father had sworn me to secrecy regarding Leonardo’s abrupt departure. But surely under these circumstances, it could do no harm to reveal to Tito what little I knew.

“He’s ridden off to find Il Moro and tell him that Constantin died trying to prevent a plot against all of Milan,” I cried most dramatically. “And what of you? You said the Master told you last night that you would not be needed this day. . and yet how can that be, when the Master had already left the castle when you claimed he spoke to you?”

The question hung between us for a few tense moments before something shifted in Tito’s expression. I realized that alarm and not anger now suffused his features.

“It-it wasn’t the Master who told me,” he admitted in a tight little voice. “It was one of the castle pages who said he had a message for me from Master Leonardo.”

I swallowed back the cold bile of fear that rose in my throat at his words.

“That makes no sense, Tito. Why would the Master go to the castle in the middle of the night to rouse a page when he could have wakened you himself? Quickly, tell me all that happened and spare no detail, for it might have some bearing on my father’s fate.”

He resumed his seat upon the bench, his feet shuffling at the sandy ground beneath them. “It was just after midnight when someone woke me up. At first, I thought it was the Master-you know his habit of summoning us in the night-but it was one of the castle pages. He bade me be silent and follow him outside. He said he had an urgent message from Master Leonardo.”

His tone took on a sound of desperation as he went on. “It sounds foolish, in the light of day, but I was still half asleep and I didn’t think to question why the Master did not come to me himself. And so I went with the boy.”

“What happened afterward?” I prompted him when he hesitated once more.

Tito dropped his face into his hands, so that his words were muffled as he continued. “The page said that Leonardo had told him that some important men-diplomats, perhaps-were to examine the flying machine, but that it must be done under cover of darkness. Since I had one of the keys, I was to meet them there and unlock the door. The page said that the Master would join them later and would relock the shed when they were finished. He also said he was to tell me that Leonardo would not require my assistance the next day.”

I stifled a groan at this confession. “Was my father at the shed, or the Master?”

“No, but I did see three men there. They must have been the diplomats.”

“These men. . did you see their faces?”

“Not their faces,” he replied in a sorrowful tone, “for they were wrapped in fine cloaks and kept carefully to the shadows. They said nothing, but they gestured me away once I’d unfastened the lock. I–I was a bit nervous by then, so I hurried back to the workshop and took to my bed again.”

He lapsed into silence while I took a moment to consider his words. I was certain that these three mysterious men were no more diplomats than were Tito and I. But could one of them be the mysterious robed figure that had spied upon me, or even be the man who had cruelly murdered Constantin? And if none was guilty of those crimes, who had sent them here? And did my father’s disappearance have something to do with their arrival?

The cold knot in my stomach tightened as the questions flooded my brain, and I was certain that Constantin’s death and my father’s disappearance were connected.

“The shed was locked when I tried the door earlier,” I recalled, “and I saw nothing amiss, so those three shadow men were careful to leave no sign they’d been there. Had I not gone there searching for my father, I would have had no cause to set foot near the place, at all.”

I paused and frowned. “And with the Master gone-and you, Tito, sent to work once more with the other apprentices-it might have been days before anyone looked in the shed again.”

The import of what I’d said struck me at the very instant that Tito leaped from the bench again, eyes wide.

“The shed!” he cried. “Quickly, we must check it!”

I made no reply but joined his frantic race across the quadrangle. I dared not give voice to what I dreaded to find behind its locked doors, lest speaking the words make it so.

And yet that was the most logical explanation for my father’s strange absence. Perhaps he had awakened in the middle of the night with an idea for the flying machine, and so had gone to the shed to take measurements or carve a bit of wood. And perhaps he had arrived there to find these three mysterious men examining the craft and had confronted them, only to be overcome by their greater number.

I choked on a sob of denial at that last thought, even though I had to admit that this was the most likely scenario. Having overpowered him, it made sense that the men would have left him locked in the shed so that he would not be found for some time, rather than leave him somewhere on the grounds to be discovered at dawn.

The question was, had they abandoned him injured and unconscious, or had he suffered Constantin’s same brutal fate?

With a shudder, I quickened my steps in hopes of outrunning the gruesome images that filled my mind. Thus, though Tito’s legs were longer than mine, I readily kept apace of him as we neared the secluded spot behind the stables where the shed lay.

We both were gasping for breath by the time we reached the splintered shed and its barred doors.

The heavy lock that dangled from its hasp, once merely a bit of metal, now represented an ominous portent of the secrets that might well be contained within. Tito fumbled in the pouch at his belt to find the key, to my anxious mind taking far too long to extract it from the small bag. But when he finally reached the key toward the lock, I impulsively stayed his hand.

His black eyes met mine in understanding. So long as the doors to the shed remained locked, we could pretend that whatever might lie behind them had not yet come to pass.

“Don’t worry, Dino,” he softly assured me. “I’m certain that Master Angelo has come to no harm.”

I bit my lip, praying he was right and wondering how I could ever bring such grievous tidings to my mother if he were not. Reminding myself that no amount of wishing could change the outcome, I brusquely nodded.

“Open it, Tito.”

He hurried to fit the key and in a single swift move twisted it so that the lock fell open. Removing the lock from the hasp, he pulled open one door, and the other, until they were spread wide enough so that he and I could walk abreast as we stepped inside the dark structure.

For the first few moments, the contrast between the sunlight and shadow was such that the shed appeared to be but a yawning black mouth. I squinted into the darkness, not daring to call out my father’s name while I anxiously scanned the shadows for a huddled shape. . a sprawled form.

And as our eyes adjusted to the dimness, we saw what it was that those doors had been hiding.

“The flying machine,” Tito cried. “It’s gone!”