A/N: Long time, no see, readers! It's been an age and a half and I honestly have no excuse as to why I haven't posted anything in nearly a year. Things haven't been entirely too stressful in these parts. Hell, my drive didn't even disappear. My patience, however, is completely and utterly GONE. No idea where it went until recently, when it came floating back to me. Fate? I think so! So here you go. My newest work. And I'm actually dozing off as I write this, so please take that into consideration!

For nearly a week, Desideria spotted a man across the street from her father’s shop. She always sat near the window facing the entrance, if only to catch a glimpse of the grand men who often visited to buy their ladies a gift. She loved watching them, loved breathing in the air around them so densely perfumed she could almost taste the flowers on her tongue. Those men had beauty she could only dream of, and she could only imagine what their wives must look like.

So, needless to say, she nearly overlooked the modestly dressed man sitting on a bench directly across the street from her. He wore no jewelry. His cioppa was black, as were his hose. Only the stark white linen poking through the split sleeves of his farsetto gave his clothing any light. The black hat atop his head slouched downward as he tilted his head to concentrate on his lap, nearly disappearing into a mass of thick black curls that fell to his shoulders. So dark was his person that he nearly disappeared into the side of the building, his sleeves, long white hands, and pale face all that stood out from the dark blacksmith’s shop.

As usual, as she sat by the window, she sat sketching. Her talent was passable at best and she could manage a portrait without offending the person being drawn, but her specialty was designing the jewelry her father and his workers would then set about to create. She and her mother often boasted in private that they were the reason the shop was prosperous, though her father was always quick to defend himself by saying that he did all the real work.

At the present time, Desideria was designing a piece for the neck of a bride, a task that she often found herself pouring endlessly over. In design, she strove for perfection and often achieved it, surprising even her mother, who helped put together piece after piece long before she was even born.

There was a happiness that came over Desideria while she was drawing. The girl who was so often serious in nature took on a completely different air when she held a piece of charcoal in her hand, and Agostino first laid eyes upon her while she was bent over her work, dark hair pouring over her slender shoulders and falling nearly to her waist. From a distance, the only striking thing about her was her hair. He soon found himself imagining what surprises he would find up close.

Every day without fail, as Desideria settled onto her seat, the darkly clothed man returned to his post across the street. Even one afternoon as the sky threatened to crack and ruin whatever he was working on, he strayed, seemingly unable to leave that very spot.

And every day her suspicion grew. She did not have an imagination of noteworthy proportions, but she did wonder what he was like, this mysterious man who so often visited the blacksmith, yet never bought a blade.

Soon her speculations were corrected, or, better yet, proved correct. After such lengthy contemplation, Agostino decided that he had indeed found his Madonna. He was certain that his patron would be pleased with his choice. The young lady was both beautiful and unassuming. She was tranquil, and there was something distinctly wise about her person despite her obvious youth.

Desideria looked up from her sketch when she saw the man stir out of the corer of her eye. It was not yet late enough for him to leave. Then she noticed it - he was walking towards the shop. Finally able to see his face clearer, she could see that his lips were pressed together in a very determined line. His strides were long and confident, his shoulders pulled back for once.

Her eyes fell to the drawings in her lap to find that she had not been sketching necklaces at all. On her page there was a man, legs bent at the knee and shoulders squared as he bent over the wide strip of wood in his lap. She let out a quiet gasp, sliding the drawing off of her lap and into the darkness beside her chair just as the door in front of her opened. The man stepped into the shop without making a sound, but the activity warranted the attention of her father, who glanced up from his idle polishing to eye the guest.

“Benvenuto, signore,” Martino Rossi began, his voice filling the large space as if it were an entity of its own. He stood from his chair, lifting himself in all his height a good half a foot taller than the man standing before him. Placing his tools on the table at his side, he smoothed his hands over the towel hanging at his waist. “The Cozzi piece is finished if you have come to -”

“No,” the man interrupted. Martino was silenced, something that did not happen all that often. “No, signore, that is not why I’m here.” Suddenly, with Martino staring blankly at him, the man tensed, grasping for words that would not come. “This may seem impudent, but I have come to inquire after your daughter.”

At that, both Martino and the man turned to Desideria, who stood quickly from her chair, hands gripping the pale green fabric of her dress at her sides. She did not know what to say. Was it even her turn to speak? Did they expect an explanation? She hoped not.

Martino gave a low, hearty chuckle. Despite the attempt at gaiety, there was an underlying threat, a threat that scared off every man who entered the shop not looking to purchase a ring for his wife. “My daughter? What business have you with my daughter?”

“I wish to paint her, sir.”

Her father’s hearty chuckle turned into outright laughter; loud laughter that nearly shook the table beside him and caused the man to shrink into himself. All confidence previously exhibited in his person was gone. Martino did that to most men. “You seem to have my daughter confused with someone else,” he said, his shoulders still quivering with the remnants of his laughter. “She is not a model.”

The man glanced back in Desidera’s direction, his eyes wide as if she would take his side. She did not. Instead, she looked to her father, who was idly fiddling with the rag at his waist as he waited for a response. Tearing his gaze from her face, he turned back to her father, taking a daring step forward. “Perhaps not, but I wish to make her one.” He paused, reconsidering his words. “I am a most devout Catholic, signore. Most devout. I have been commissioned by a local to paint a fresco in the chapel of Mary and the Christ Child. I believe that your daughter would make an excellent Madonna.”

Desideria could hardly feel her cheeks they were so flushed, and she lifted a hand to touch one of them, biting her lip to keep from smiling at the warm sensation pressed against her fingertips. She could see her father’s opinion slowly deviating between kicking the man out of the shop and asking him to dine with them.

Thankfully - for herself and for the artist, who introduced himself as Agostino Pacelli - Martino found himself in such a mood as to fall to the latter. “Please, please, dine with us later this week. It is not every day an artist happens upon my shop. I will get Desideria to show you some of her sketches.”

“Papa!” she gasped, eyes wide. Her sketches were not as good as the ones this man would no doubt create. She would be shamed.

Agostino turned at her outburst, a small smile curling at the corner of his mouth for just a moment before he looked to Martino. “I cannot imagine another home I would rather visit, signore.” After dipping his head in a respectful bow, he disappeared from the shop, leaving Martino grinning like a fool and Desideria hurrying back to her stool to watch out of the window as Agostino made his way down the street. His steps were higher now, almost jaunty.

A/N: So! Tell me what you think. I'm intensely curious.