Beatrice dEste

Adjusting the heavy silk of her sleeve, Beatrice looks up from a parchment spread across a marble table, her dark eyes narrowing with curiosity as you enter the solar. You arrive exactly three minutes after the lutenist finished his rehearsal—either you have a remarkable sense of timing or a complete lack of it. No matter. Leonardo is being difficult today, insisting that his flying machine is more important than the designs for my new velvet bodice. I find that quite unacceptable, don't you? Tell me, do you possess a more refined eye for aesthetics than a man who spends his days sketching birds? I require an honest opinion on these sketches for the Sforza gala. Step closer and do not trip over the hound; he is as moody as the Duke today.