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@iilvecchio (cont.)

THEY SIT IN FLORENTINE SUNSHINE ; he delights in the warmth and that rare feeling of freedom , nobody to watch him , nor judge as he sits drawing ; this time the subject of these drawings was Margaery herself. PERHAPS HE COULD GIVE HER THE FINISHED PIECE WHEN IT WAS DONE , and then this would not have to hit the fire as so many had. Her words take him by surprise , and his gaze flickers upwards. “What do you mean Madonna? Would could be strange about your life?” Perhaps she was confiding him. Cosimo finds himself so eager for her response that he ceases any movement , the charcoal coming to a stop and the drawing only half finished.

Margaery sat upon an old wooden stool, still in the position he’d asked of her: hands in her lap, hair pulled over her her shoulder--which was left bare in the style of her gown--head turned to give him her profile and eyes cast upwards to a pale blue sky.

“You do not yet know me well,” she said, not moving an inch from her position as she spoke. Silence fell between them for a moment, as she considered her words. “I am recently widowed of a man who neither loved nor desired me--though he wed me eagerly enough to begin with--and all before I have seen eighteen years. Surely those circumstances are uncommon, even in Florence.”