THE STOLEN LADY

1. Leonardo da Vinci’s portrait of the Mona Lisa stands at the center of this story. Before reading The Stolen Lady, what preconceptions did you have about this portrait? How has your appreciation of this painting changed since reading this story? What do you think is special about this portrait, and why do you think it’s so famous?

2. Anne begins with the belief that she’s “just a typist,” but she ends the story by playing a critical role in the fate of the Louvre’s works of art. At what point does Anne make a shift toward a more active role in saving the Louvre’s works of art? What other choices do you think she might have had? What choice do you think you would make in a similar situation?

3. Throughout the novel, Bellina walks a thin line between protecting her mistress and putting the family at risk. How do you think Bellina navigated the narrow set of choices a servant woman might have had in Renaissance Florence? How might things have turned out differently for her if her indiscretions had been discovered?

4. Bellina wrestles with how luxurious material goods might be considered sinful or a force for good. Can you think of other examples in our contemporary society where people must weigh a similar question?

5. How have Bellina’s, Lisa’s, and Anne’s upbringings prepared them—or not—for the trials and tribulations they face in this story?

6. Leonardo da Vinci spent much of his professional life striving to be a great inventor and engineer, while history remembers him first and foremost as a painter. Why do you think this is? Do you think he would be surprised to learn that his Mona Lisa is the most famous painting in the world?

7. Why do you think Bellina decides to hide Lisa’s portrait? What does she risk? Would you have done the same? Why or why not?

8. How do the themes of hiding and secrets weave throughout the story? What are each of the main characters—Anne, Bellina, Leonardo, and Lisa—hiding from others? What are they hiding from themselves?

9. How much freedom do Bellina and Anne have to make choices about their own futures? What are the constraints on their choices, and how do they navigate these barriers given the circumstances of the times in which they lived?

10. What parallels did you draw between characters in Renaissance Florence and those in World War II France?

11. In the Renaissance story line, the French are the invaders, while in the World War II story line, the French themselves are invaded. In the midst of war and political turmoil, what is the role of art? How does art retain its value when so many human lives are on the line?

12. In this story, what is “stolen” and who is the thief?

Part 1
Hidden

Leonardo

Florence, Italy
1472

My master tells me I’m no good at finishing what I start. It’s become a problem.

Through the high, narrow windows of Master Verrocchio’s workshop, I watch the summer evening sky turn its tawny shade of gold. Inside, the air is stifling and heavy with dust. The other apprentices have cleaned their brushes and arranged the day’s sketches into neat stacks before leaving for the taverns, their stomachs rumbling and their tunics stained with paint. Master and I are the only ones left. I feel his beady eyes on me as a single drop of sweat licks the small of my back.

In the silence, I watch the flecked glow brighten the dim corners of the workshop. Suddenly, a magical crepuscular light pours through the window, illuminating the crumbling stucco walls as if gilding them. The light streaks across our panel in progress. I hold my wet fox hair brush in midair and survey our work.

Many weeks ago, Master Verrocchio completed the figure of the Virgin Mary and the magnificent, winged archangel who has swooped down from the heavens to kneel before her with a lily in his hand. I focus on the distant background, where I’ve outlined trees, mountains, and valleys receding into the distance. My master relies on the same tempera pigments his grandfather used, but I have begun to mix oil into my colors. I squint and consider the slick, wet haze behind the figures. Master has made Our Lady’s arm too long, her hair disarrayed. But I don’t say this aloud.

The monks are waiting, my master has said; he’s said it more times than I can count. They’ve been waiting patiently for this promised altarpiece. Months have turned into a year.

My father is waiting, too. He’s waiting for me to make something of myself. As usual, I have fallen short.

From across the studio, I feel Master Verrocchio’s gaze burn into my back. I pretend to study the delicate flowers in the foreground—I painted them months ago—and judge whether I should add another layer of varnish over this flourishing enclosed garden, the hortus conclusus that symbolizes Our Lady’s purity.

This is the last time I finish a painting for Master Verrocchio. I am nearly twenty years old now. Old enough to establish a workshop of my own. Young enough for my life to stretch before me, full of chances for the contraptions in my sketchbooks to become real. Armored carriages. Portable trebuchets that collapse with the turn of a lever. A flying machine with wings like a bat’s. Beyond this workshop, beyond painting, perhaps even beyond Florence, opportunities lie yet untapped.

Suddenly, Master Verrocchio approaches me in the same way as the archangel, swooping in like a great bird of prey. Commanding. Full of important news. Just like Our Lady, for a moment I grasp the collar of my tunic and recoil. I cannot meet his eyes, so I set my gaze instead on the beautiful, serene face of Our Lady and wait for his words.

But my master says nothing. For a moment, the two of us stare at the panel.

Then he peers over my shoulder at my patch of wet paint and frowns. A reaction to my work or force of habit? I will never know.

Hmm. My master grunts finally, then turns away.

Yes. It’s better if I leave Florence.

Surely there is more to life than painting portraits of beautiful ladies. But I do not say this aloud, either.

In the end, we are all hiding something.