"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - St Germain 2 - The Palace" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

without stains or grime. If anyone had suggested to her at that moment that she was
the most attractive woman in il Palazzo de' Medici, she would have laughed. Her
amber-colored eyes were wistful as she watched the light fade.
"Oh, don't move," said a voice behind her as she started at last to turn away from
the window.
The familiar sound of Sandro Filipepi brought a rueful smile to Demetrice's firm
mouth and she turned to him, her arms extended. "Botticelli, admit it: if you could
order the sun to stop in the heavens you would do it, so that you could make a color
study."
He shrugged, but did not deny it. "It was color that brought me here this
afternoon. That alchemist, Ragoczy, the one who's building the big new palazzo?
You know him?" He waited a moment.
"I have met him once or twice." She remembered liking his wit and his gentleness,
and the enigmatic expression in his dark eyes. "Was he here, too?"
"Briefly. It seems he has some new formulae for colors. Of course Laurenzo is
interested, and he asked me and a few of the others to use the colors and tell him
what we think of them." He paused. "I wish I knew what to make of him."
 It would not do for Sandro to see her interest, so she smiled and said, "You
know alchemists. They are always mysterious. Confess it, amico, you would be
disappointed if he were like everyone else."
Sandro nodded. "True. And he is foreign. But his affectations. Always dressed in
black, never eating with us, forever curious about metals and earths! Ah, well, he is
entertaining, and he does know something about pigments and tinctures. I will give
him that."
Demetrice had come around the table and touched cheeks with him. "How
generous. Will you try his colors?"
"Of course." He peered around the darkened room. "Cataloging?"
"Yes. Pico is home for a while and Agnolo is in Bologna, so the task falls to me. I
am afraid that today I haven't done it very well. These old manuscripts, you know,
are very difficult to read."
Sandro's face had clouded at the mention of Agnolo Poliziano. "I don't know
why Laurenzo tolerates his impudence." He held up his hand to forestall the answer.
"Loyalty is one thing, Donna mia, but this is foolishness. Poliziano trades on
Laurenzo's tolerance shamelessly. You know he does."
Demetrice had gone back to the table and busied herself with gathering her
papers. "I don't understand it, Sandro. But it is what Laurenzo wants, and I will
respect his wishes."
Disbelief filled Sandro's next question. "Do you like Agnolo? How could you like
him?"
"No, I don't like him. He's waspish, he's ugly-minded and for all his erudition,
he's unpredictable. But he is talented, and truly a scholar." Very gently she said, "I
need not tell you, Sandro, that every gift has a price."
"And sometimes more price than gift." He walked across the room and put his
long painter's hands on her shoulders. "If there is any justice in this world, Donna
mia, you will not have to bear your poverty forever. If your uncle had been a citizen
of Fiorenza, Laurenzo would long since have restored your fortunes."
Demetrice felt absurd tears in her eyes and she wiped them away impatiently.
"Well, even Laurenzo cannot restore what no longer exists, so perhaps it is as well
that Lione lived in Rimini." She tried to smile, but could not. "Laurenzo has been
more than generous. He has housed me and fed me and clothed me for almost ten