Jo nearly stopped mid-step just as they had begun walking again. His street, his home. She tried to imagine Nico wandering the stone pathways of Florence in a very different time. Even though she knew next to nothing of the Italian Renaissance, she had an easy time conjuring up notions of Nico bustling from place to place, struggling with canvases nearly as big as he was.
“In fact, that building—” He stopped at a cross-section, pointing down an alley. “The blue one, was to be our home. In my time, it was owned by the Medici family and was to be my atelier. We would’ve been comfortable there. A better life than most of our status, certainly.”
“We. . . You and Julia?” Jo clarified delicately. Even if she felt closer to the man now than ever, his past was still a topic Jo would tread on lightly.
“Just so.” Nico nodded, a faraway look overtaking his eyes. “She was my muse, my inspiration. A woman whose outer beauty could only be matched by her inner.”
Jo remembered the last time she’d been in Nico’s room, the portrait he’d been composing so carefully. She had no doubt that it was still out on the easel where he worked, waiting for its artist to return. “Your muse. You said we were going to see your muse.” She’d thought he’d meant the city. He must’ve, surely; there was no way Julia was still alive. Unless she had some modern-day descendant that Nico kept tabs on.
“Yes, in due time.” He began walking again. “I have two other stops first.”
“The art store, and—?”
“The Medici archives.”
That sounded familiar to her, and not because he’d just spoken about a Medici palace. But Jo stilled her questions for a while. Nico was patient, and had already displayed a tolerance for them, but she didn’t want to wear him out. Furthermore, there was something to be said for simply walking through a new place and letting her mind be distracted by all there was to take in. Even if the sounds were dulled and the smells were muted outside of time, there was still much to see.
“This is my favorite art shop in the city.”
They ducked into a small doorway that led into a narrow hall before quickly unfolding into the densest collection of art supplies—anythingsupplies—that Jo had ever seen. Every square inch of space was taken up by boxes in storage, some with the fronts ripped off to display tubes of paint within. There were cases and cases of brushes in every shape and size. Most of them looked identical to her, but the way Nico inspected them informed her that they were far from it.
“How did you become an artist?” Jo asked, running her fingers over a series of markers precariously perched, zero fear of actually knocking any over.
Nico paused, thinking a moment. “How much do you know about artists in the fifteenth century?”
“Assume I know nothing.” Jo grinned. “And even if I did, who’s to say it would be the same between your time and mine, with all the wishes separating us?”
“Fair point.” Nico chuckled, continuing along. “I find that modernity has idealized the notion of artist. In my time, we were seen as having little difference from any other craftsmen, like tailors or cobblers.”
“But art requires so much talent.”
Nico paused at this, bringing a knuckle to his chin. “Do you think so?”
“Of course,” Jo insisted. “And you must, too, otherwise you wouldn’t have laughed at the mere notion of my picking up painting.”
He laughed and something about the sound reminded her of a sun shower—an impossible delight. “Much of art can be learned, despite what one may say in jest. It’s a technique. Just like a musician learns their instrument, I learned the canvas.”
Jo remained skeptical that it’d be so simple, but she kept the thoughts to herself, allowing him to continue.
“Apprentices would work under the master, whose name usually went on the majority—if not all—of the work. He’d also oversee commissions, and tend to the shop duties. I was one such apprentice, until my work caught the eye of one of the Medici daughters and I earned a patron outright.”
“Apprentices working under a master, huh. . .” Jo looked at a wall of markers. She’d never imagined there could be so many colors. Her eyes were drawn to one on the upper right, a soft, gray-bluish white. On the colored cap were a number, letter, and the name of the color: SNOW.
Just like that, she was back to thinking of him, completely distracted from whatever else Nico was saying. Wayne’s warnings rang loudly in her head. Everything with Snow seemed confusing at best, agonizing at worst. How bad could it get if she pursued something and was rejected? Unless she already had been rejected, and was willfully ignoring the fact?
“Not unlike us,hmm?”
“I’m sorry, what?” Jo blurted, startled. Nico was suddenly at her side.
“Apprentices working for a master.”
“The Wish Granter’s Apprentices. . . sounds like a movie or something.”
“I suppose it does.” He started for the door. “Speaking of masters, on to our second stop.”
“Did you get what you needed?” Jo asked as they rounded the corner on the way out.
“I believe I did.” Nico beamed. “Some positively stunning new colors are being produced. Now, there’s something you may enjoy, the science of paint colors. . .”
