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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.”

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