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"His teacher?"
"Yes, Da Vinci studied with him for a long time when he was younger. They worked together on many paintings, like The Baptism of Christ." Botticelli chuckled, remembering something. "In that painting, Verrocchio’s dove looks like it’s been hammered flat. It was Da Vinci’s angel that saved the painting."
Since Da Vinci revealed his skill, painting the faces of angels and children, the faces of the figures in the workshop were always completed by him.
"Did he learn all his painting techniques from his teacher?"
"I’m not sure about that," Botticelli thought seriously for a moment. "But the two of them certainly have a similar style."
Verrocchio, his teacher, was famously slow with his submissions and easily distracted. He would often abandon a painting halfway through.
In that respect, Da Vinci definitely took it to the next level—he had perfected his teacher's talent for procrastination.
Hedy remembered the way Da Vinci had rolled his eyes and felt a little embarrassed, so she didn’t linger much longer and simply exchanged a few more words before saying goodbye to Botticelli.
As she walked back, she couldn’t help but feel a tinge of regret, which led her, almost unconsciously, toward the apothecary again.
From what Botticelli had said, Da Vinci’s frescoes were also stunning, his use of color quite remarkable.
But back then, he had been an apprentice in his teacher's workshop, and it was through the workshop’s resources that he had access to those paints.
Now that he had opened his own studio, Da Vinci couldn’t afford the expensive pigments, like ultramarine.
His constant procrastination and tendency to get distracted meant he had yet to finish the frescoes for the Medici family, let alone complete other works to support himself. The sketches and practice pieces he painted at home were mostly in dull, dark tones.
Ultimately, it came down to one thing—he was poor.
Hedy sighed to herself and even thought about taking out some of the silver coins she had secretly exchanged, wondering if she could do something for him.
Hedy walked into the apothecary, aimlessly browsing through the shelves.
Today, the glass jars were filled with crickets and earthworms, and there was a basket of lichen moss, still covered with damp soil, in the general goods section.
What exactly did people in this time drink when they took medicine?
Her gaze wandered around until it landed on a rather beautiful small box.
Inside the box was a purple powder that sparkled under the candlelight, almost hypnotic.
Purple—such a rich and unique color.
It was deep, elegant, and it reminded her of beautiful flowers like violets.
She instinctively took a step closer, admiring how the purple powder shimmered in the light.
Though it was behind the glass cabinet, she could swear she smelled something strange, though everything in this shop had an odd smell, so it was probably unrelated to the pigment itself.
"Do you like this?" the apothecary owner, Alejo, leaned in, trying to make a sale. "This is a new pigment I bought from a Persian merchant—would you like some?"
It almost felt like when she used to go shopping for clothes, picking out skirts.
Hedy made an effort to resist the temptation but found herself thinking of an English expression.
Born in purple—meaning a person born to nobility.
She thought to herself that perhaps it was worth giving up one fish for this. She turned to the shopkeeper and asked, "How much is it?"
"One spoonful, one hundred twenty-five soldi. Would you like some?"
