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As for Hedy, she was there more out of concern for Michelangelo’s mental state—
After all, he was still quite young.
Boys in this era might marry and have children as early as thirteen or fourteen, but to her, they were still children.
From the moment Michelangelo got on the carriage to the time they reached the basement, he was continuously repenting, even preparing himself mentally for a flogging.
But over the past couple of days, he had found himself flipping through Da Vinci’s manuscript over and over again, so much so that he was too excited to sleep until dawn.
Even just a single page of analysis of bones and textures was enough to multiply his understanding of art and the human body by many times.
Had he only relied on the mechanical repetition of work in his studio, or tried to figure things out on his own over time, it might have taken him thirty or forty years to understand such details and problems.
This felt like a divine blessing, and when he held the manuscript, he almost wanted to stand outside Da Vinci’s door and sing hymns of praise all night long.
The gentleman, though somewhat overdressed and seemingly a bit arrogant in his manner of speaking, was undoubtedly a master—unparalleled!
Da Vinci didn’t notice the addition of a small, ever-admiring follower by his side, still lost in his thoughts and various disconnected questions.
“So, where should we start?” Botticelli asked, having donned his mask, with his pale gold shoulder-length hair tied back with a ribbon.
He had accompanied Da Vinci a few times before, gradually becoming accustomed to the dim lighting and the sharp odor of the room.
“From the thigh root?” Da Vinci opened the tool kit and, turning to Michelangelo, explained, “We’ll begin by slicing the epidermis, removing some of the fat, and then observing the muscles and bones underneath.”
The young man quickly nodded, avoiding looking at the body but clearly excited.
“This is your first time, so you might not be familiar with the tools. Just observe from the side for now,” Da Vinci said, pausing midway and noticing Hedy standing by his side. He instinctively emphasized, “—And make sure to wash your hands. Three times.”
At first glance, the thigh appeared to be a solid mass of flesh, but once the epidermis was peeled back and the structure inside was revealed, it became clear that it was as complex as a honeycomb.
Multiple thick arteries were quite fragile under the blade, but once separated, they resembled the branches of a tree.
The transverse and longitudinal muscles were intricately positioned, and the placement of the pelvis and femur also seemed to hold great significance.
At first, there were light conversations and banter, but eventually, the entire basement was filled only with the whistling sound of the wind.
Hedy had a moment where she felt like she was sitting in on a surgical operation with a few doctors. When she came back to her senses, she was holding an oil lamp, helping them see more clearly.
Michelangelo, who had initially felt fear and disgust, was fully immersed in the task after two or three hours, analyzing the expression of the vastus lateralis and vastus medialis muscles with Da Vinci, focusing on how they could be represented in painting.
Painting, after all, was a remarkably intricate art.
The painters memorized the shapes of the bones, studied the distribution of muscles, and in the end, they concealed them with skin and clothing, rendering them into blurred outlines.
It was as if someone mastered multiple languages and hundreds of rhetorical devices, only to express a poem with a prolonged nasal tone.
During the dissection, each of them had a different style.
Botticelli was calm and meticulous, perhaps even studying the direction of veins with great care.
Da Vinci, on the other hand, was more natural and focused on the big picture. His hand moved decisively with no hesitation, and he was willing to make bold mistakes.
As for Michelangelo, although he was often quiet and reserved in front of others, at times like this, he would eagerly ask numerous questions, his attitude more proactive than anyone else’s.
Hedy stood silently by their side, holding the lamp for them, occasionally reminding Leonardo not to sever that artery again.
As she listened to their low murmurs, she would occasionally wonder when Raphael would come by.
