The Secret Muse (#1)

Chapter 14

I don't know how I can go on after this. I'm scared. I'm terrified of what I would feel whenever I look at him and remembers that he's in love with my mother. To be honest, I'm not quite sure if he still loves her. I don't know anything at all.

From what I gather, Botticelli is not one to share anything personal with anyone. Now that I think about it, he's never mentioned anything to me about his feelings, nor did I.

What we shared was a single kiss that I couldn't forget followed by continuous clandestine flirtations. What if these feelings are just one-sided?

I only saw three possibilities that may confirm his feelings for her: one was the sketch of her with an endearing label; the second was the way he looked at me the first time I met him; the third was from Marco Vespucci.

I do not know Marco long enough to trust him but the fact of him being my mother's widow makes him more credible with his statements, especially with men that seem to be attracted to his late wife.

I am aware that courtly love is still practised in this century where men admire married women and only use them as a muse but never acted upon their desires. If it were just courtly love, Marco wouldn't have come to that conclusion.

It could also be that he is a very jealous man after all his late wife was hailed as the most beautiful woman in Florence.

Botticelli arrived a little later than usual as I wait by the stool where I was designated to pose. Reading a book, I could no longer keep the focus on the words nor try to read at all.

Hearing him enter the room, my heart simply stopped and for the first time, my heart feels as if it was breaking already. He was setting up his equipment when he began to speak. "Good morning, Madonna." He said with a chirpy voice. Amused by something I have yet to know.

"Good morning, Messer," I replied rather stoic than I prefer, immediately regretting being unable to control my thoughts and feelings.

Knowing he was studying me, I forced myself to look up and flash him a genuine grin I could muster. "Are you alright, Antonia?" He asks, seeing through my fake smile.

"Yes, I'm terrific, Messer."

If he noticed anything odd, which I highly think he did, he didn't say anything. Today, he didn't bring any flowers for me nor decided to make small talk. The silence made my thoughts worse. Did he even like me at all? Why did he kiss me? Did he try to give it a go just to see how it would feel like to kiss perhaps the second version of his love?

It's started to be overwhelming that I could no longer contain it. In my frustration, I closed the book rather hard and loud, surprising not only Botticelli but also myself.

"Are you sure that everything is alright?" He asks, his voice a little more demanding now and curious.

I lay the book on my lap debating whether or not I should confront him. If I don't, I know it will eventually eat the best of me but if I do, would I dare listen or accept the words he'll come to say? "I wasn't able to sleep well last night."

"May I ask what has kept you up?"

Still looking at the book on my lap, I spoke. "I believe, if my memory serves me right, you're friends with my parents, yes?" Relying on my peripheral view, he nods. "We're you close with my mother?" That's when he started to be quiet. Suspicious, I decided to continue. "Immersing myself in a feast has given me the liberties to be acquainted with the Florentine society. It's not something I have expected but it happened anyway."

Fidgeting, I started trembling and I'm not sure why. Anger? Anxiety? I couldn't identify myself. "Sharing a few conversations with my late mother's widow is the last thing I expected myself to do and yet I did. At first, I thought he'd call me a witch or something but he didn't." I paused and laugh bitterly. "I have to admit, I was terrified to talk to him. Knowing that I am the product of the misdeeds of my parents carried a huge weight in my conscience. With everything he could have told me, one thing stood out." Looking at him, I see his eyes intently on me as he patiently listens but the way that he clutches his paintbrush gives his anxiety away.