Immortal by Traci L. Slatton

my relatives; they adhere to me like tempera on wood, especially when they’re broke.”
    “I have nothing to give you in return,” I said, bewildered by his generosity.
    “Your admiration is enough,” he said, turning toward the large frescoes that graced the chapel. “They are valuable. See that you take care of them.”
    “I will!” I vowed. Slowly I stood and clutched the two panels to my chest. I was too dazed to say anything, even to stammer out the gratitude that rushed over me in waves as powerful as the Arno when it turns silvery gray and sweeps out of its banks.
    “So what was not for yourself?” Giotto asked, his tone mild.
    I was holding the panels in trembling hands, taking in every line, every color, every curve. The Madonna’s radiant face was so delicately limned as to show both a real woman and a celestial being who could truly be the Mother of Christ. Her eyes were wells of compassion and love. I thought I could fall into them forever. I would have to hide these treasures from Silvano and his all-seeing eyes, find some safe spot in the palazzo to store them. I would have to search hard to find even a tiny inviolate zone in that place.
    “Well?” Giotto’s curious voice roused me from my reverie. I looked up.
    “Freedom.”
    “You’re asking the Evangelist for freedom for someone else? Because you’re so free?”
    I shook my head. “I have no freedom. But I have a friend who needs, well, freedom and kindness. A great kindness I don’t know how to give.”
    “So you were praying.” He nodded. “I see.” He fell silent and I went back to the panels, devouring them with my eyes. Giotto said, “My friend Dante would have said that the greatest freedom is love, particularly the love of God. It’s what moves the orbs in their spheres. We don’t find it in this body. We find it when we surrender the things of the flesh for the will of God.”
    I thought about the men who came to my room and of Silvano, who did anything they wanted, even committing murder with impunity. I myself had killed a friend, and the only consequence of that act was my own guilt and sadness. God’s will appeared to have nothing to do with love, only with pain. I doubted Giotto’s words, but he was Giotto, so I took him seriously. I said, “Someone told me that death would give him freedom.”
    “That’s an extreme case,” Giotto said, in a somber tone. “Sometimes it’s the only way, I suppose. This life on earth can be cruel like that, full of forces beyond our control and our understanding, until death releases us into heaven. I like to think my old friend is free now. But there are other ways to achieve freedom. Devotion, for one.”
    “What if devotion isn’t the answer?” I asked, shuddering. It was the cardinal’s devotions that were going to torment Ingrid.
    “Then you’re right, there’s always death.” Voices called out and a pair of men beckoned to him from the nave of the church. Giotto turned, sighing, and lifted his hand to acknowledge them. “Duty pursues me. I take leave of you, pup, you and your weighty questions.”
    “Will I see you again?” I whispered.
    “I make my way back to Florence, despite the rich nobles who would have me always painting their portraits and tombs,” he said dryly. He trudged toward the men, calling out hearty greetings and embracing them. I turned back to the two incredible paintings that had been so generously gifted to me. My gaze fell on the little dog staring up at St. John. I raced after Giotto.
    “Master! Master!” I called. Then I noticed how richly dressed his friends were, and I was overcome with shame. I could not imagine what impression I made on them.
    Giotto was unconcerned. “Excuse me, I must speak with my young friend,” he said, clapping his companions on their backs. He stepped back toward me and raised an eyebrow.
    I swallowed. “The dog…”
    A sly, pleased smile spread over Giotto’s face. “Yes?”
    “It’s, ah, blond. Like