The warm air brushed against her face, and under the gentle sunlight, her body slowly began to heat up. That comforting warmth was the kind that made people drowsy.
At this moment, Baobhan Sith, who was staying at Da Vinci's house together with Favia, was feeling exactly that way.
The red-haired fairy girl's head kept bobbing forward—nodding off without meaning to—only to jerk herself awake in fright every few seconds. When she saw that Da Vinci, who was sketching her as a model, didn't seem to notice, she let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Then, under that soothing sunlight, the sleepiness crept back in again...
Not that you could really blame Baobhan Sith. She had been sitting there for five straight hours.
Earlier in the day, Favia had mentioned that he had to go out for a while. Baobhan Sith, naturally, wanted to tag along—but he'd refused. When Da Vinci noticed the girl looking downcast, she suggested painting her portrait instead.
Of course, the fairy girl agreed right away, happy for the distraction. That's how she ended up like this—half-dozing under the afternoon sun.
"Favia… when is he coming back?"
Even though she was supposed to stay perfectly still, she figured moving just a little wouldn't hurt. Resting her chin against the back of the chair, Baobhan Sith murmured in a sleepy, muffled voice.
"Probably soon," Da Vinci replied, her pen gliding across a slightly wrinkled page as she drew elegant lines. "Hans and Rosso's homes aren't that far from here."
"Hans? Rosso?"
"You don't know?" Da Vinci chuckled softly. "A while ago, Favia asked me to help him find someone to make a rather interesting outfit—and a pair of shoes to go with it. You'd think he'd ask me, the all-capable Da Vinci, to handle it, but no! He said someone my age should be resting instead."
She paused, smiling wryly.
"Anyway, his design sketch was a bit rough, so I refined it myself and passed it to a few friends of mine to make. I assume he went out to pick them up."
The "Hans" Da Vinci mentioned was Hans Sachs, a 16th-century German poet, playwright, and shoemaker—known for transforming medieval religious dramas into witty satires of everyday life, and for supporting Martin Luther's Reformation.
Back then in Nuremberg, craftspeople aspiring to become masters were required not only to prove their technical skills but also their musical ability. The master singers believed that true artistry came from the mastery of seven liberal arts—grammar, rhetoric, logic, arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy. Only someone of such cultivated mind could be called a true master.
Their ranks rose from apprentice, to journeyman, to poet, and finally, to master.
Centuries later, Richard Wagner immortalized Hans Sachs in his opera The Mastersingers of Nuremberg.
As for Rosso Fiorentino, he was an Italian painter and architect—also an artisan of decorative arts and fashion design. His fiery red hair earned him the nickname Rosso Fiorentino—literally "The Red One of Florence." He was a close friend of Michelangelo and Raphael.
"Clothes and shoes, huh…" Baobhan Sith murmured as she toyed with a lock of her crimson hair. "Who's he making those for, I wonder..."
"Well, isn't it obvious?" Da Vinci teased, glancing up from her sketch with a grin. "For you, of course. Who else would he give them to, Baobhan Sith? You're his girl, aren't you?"
The black-haired genius's face was lit by the warm breeze, her expression soft but her eyes gleaming with mischief.
"M–me?!"
At those words, the fairy girl's frog-like pout turned into a full-blown blush. Her mouth opened and closed, but not a sound came out.
Ten minutes passed before the red faded—whether from embarrassment or the sunlight, who could tell?—and then she suddenly burst out:
"Y-you—Da Vinci, will you stop saying weird things already?! When did I ever become Favia's... girl?!"
"Isn't it obvious?" Da Vinci replied with mock innocence, her dark eyes glimmering playfully. "Anyone with half a brain can see how much Favia cares about you. He's very fond of you—extremely fond of you~."
"N–no, that's not what I meant! I just meant… what if he's not giving them only to me..."
"But judging by that little reaction just now, you seemed really happy to hear it."
"I was just—just wondering what the clothes and shoes look like! That's all! Yes, that's it!"
"Uh-huh. Sounds suspicious to me~."
Da Vinci's grin widened to the point she could barely hold back her laughter.
"R–really, that's all it is!" Baobhan Sith's cheeks burned bright again. "We're just… friends!"
"Of course, of course," Da Vinci said, drawing out her words with a knowing smile.
"The outfit he picked," she added after a beat, "will suit you perfectly, Baobhan Sith."
"R–really?"
"Absolutely. It's practically tailor-made for you. And besides," Da Vinci smirked, setting down her pen, "you are quite the beauty, you know."
"I told you, I don't really care, okay? N–No, but... still, thank you, Da Vinci, for the compliment."
The fairy girl's face flushed red as she turned her head away, staring out the window.
The air in Rome was fresh, carrying the fragrance of flowers everywhere.
Flowers from all across Europe bloomed brilliantly in their pots, radiant as though it were the peak of spring. Crowds bustled through the streets under the sunlight, their movements merging seamlessly with the city's lively yet tranquil atmosphere.
The dazzling metropolis gleamed faintly with gold—prosperous, extravagant, and yet tinged with a quiet loneliness.
The theological debates between the Pope of Rome and the Reformation's scholars had drawn the eyes of all Europe—even the Ottoman Empire watched closely. Ever since their retreat from the Italian Peninsula in 1481, the Ottomans had long dreamed of crossing the sea to conquer Rome.
After Constantinople's fall, the Sultans and their occult circles had seized control of the city's Patriarchate, decreeing death to any who failed to prove loyalty to the Sultan. For the Holy Church, it was a devastating blow.
But now, the Ottomans seemed to have realized how rapidly Martin Luther's ideas could spread. The current Sultan swiftly issued a decree:
"Anyone engaging in the printing sciences shall be put to death."
In truth, the Ottomans had already banned the printing of Arabic books as early as 1485. By 1508, they extended the law—allowing movable type printing only in non-Muslim communities. Clearly, they had foreseen how dangerous the spread of ideas could be. Restricting printing to handwritten manuscripts drastically slowed communication, a policy that later affected much of Central and South Asia.
The Ottomans' move was, in essence, the same kind of intellectual suppression that the later Qing Dynasty would attempt. Yet the Ottomans' methods were far more refined—they cut off the threat at its root, while the Qing merely tried to suppress it after the damage was done. The Qing tried to ban books like Tales of Ming Heroes, only for them to reappear under new titles.
In the end, the Ottomans treated the disease at its source; the Qing only treated the symptoms. And both ended up as relics of history.
"All right, it's finished."
Da Vinci lowered his pen, spreading his arms wide like wings before handing his freshly drawn sketch to Baobhan Sith.
"W–Wow! Da Vinci, this is incredible! You're amazing—it was totally worth all the time you spent!"
"If you hadn't fallen asleep the moment you sat down, maybe it wouldn't have taken five hours."
"I–I only dozed off for a little while..." Baobhan Sith said weakly.
"Mm-hm. I'll take your word for it," Da Vinci said with a knowing smile.
For the Universal Genius, painting Baobhan Sith should've been easy—but she had managed to nap through four and a half of the five hours, swaying and fidgeting the rest of the time. Still, in the end, it was all rather amusing.
"By the way, Da Vinci, can I draw something in this notebook?" she suddenly asked, holding up the sketchbook he'd just handed her, her eyes sparkling.
"Of course," he said, standing up to give her space and tools to draw. Then he settled into a nearby chair, closing his eyes to enjoy the warmth of the afternoon sun.
To Da Vinci, there was really only one subject he could never quite capture—Favia. It frustrated him slightly.
Was it that his "universal genius" had no effect on that boy? Or was there something about Favia that defied all observation?
During Favia's stay in Rome, Da Vinci's friends—Michelangelo, Raphael, and others—had naturally come by to meet the youth who had so captured the master's fascination.
Michelangelo, upon seeing him, had lunged forward with shining eyes, begging to use Favia as a model for a sculpture.
Under normal circumstances, Favia might have agreed—but Michelangelo wanted to sculpt him nude, which he promptly refused.
Raphael, on the other hand, was courteous and refined, making no such requests. Known for his genial nature and willingness to paint anyone who asked, he shocked everyone by vowing celibacy after meeting Favia just once.
Even Da Vinci couldn't help but click his tongue in amazement.
"Looks like I have no talent for drawing..."
A few minutes later, Baobhan Sith came running back, clutching the sketchbook apologetically. On the page was her "art"—simple, chaotic lines, like something a three-year-old might scribble. It was barely recognizable as a group of people.
"Ha... This is your serious effort? You didn't slack off, really?"
"W–What? What's with that sad, pitying look, Da Vinci? That's so mean!"
"I'm just being honest. And what is this supposed to be—"
Da Vinci suddenly froze. His pupils contracted as he realized she'd drawn on the first page—the one he'd reserved for Favia.
That irked him more than he expected.
"This is a family portrait!" Baobhan Sith hurriedly explained, pointing to each scribbled figure. "This is Favia, this one's me, that's Serapassus, and that's Makiri... And here's you, Da Vinci—oh, and Michelangelo, and Raphael too..."
Seeing her cautious little smile, Da Vinci exhaled softly and smiled back.
"I see... well, that's not bad at all," he said warmly. "Sometimes, it's best to draw what's in your heart, not what your hands can perfect. That sincerity—that's where art begins."
Taking the notebook gently, Da Vinci walked into the inner room—his private workshop—leaving the fairy girl alone in the sunlight.
Baobhan Sith clasped her hands together, praying he truly wasn't angry.
Just then—
"What's wrong?"
Favia entered, fully dressed, his silver hair catching the light. Seeing Baobhan Sith's flustered face, he tilted his head.
"Ah, um, nothing! W–Welcome back!"
"Sorry to keep you waiting. Da Vinci still holed up in his research?"
"N–No, he just went inside."
"He didn't run off because he saw me coming, did he?"
Favia's calm, matter-of-fact tone made her blush even deeper.
"M–Maybe..." she stammered, stepping back nervously. Her whole body was sweating.
"I went for a walk. The artists here are fascinating—one wants to teach me to sing, another invited me to visit his hometown, Florence."
"Y–Yeah... artists really are interesting," she mumbled, trying to force a smile despite her trembling lips and burning cheeks.
Ever since Da Vinci had teased her with "You're Favia's girl," Baobhan Sith could barely speak to him without stuttering. Her nerves tangled, her face flushed, her heart pounded.
Ah, those clothes... so pretty... red, too... Is it really okay for me to wear something like this? If he's really giving them to me...
"So, do you like them?" Favia asked.
"Mm... mhm."
"I'm glad. Go ahead, try them on."
"Mm... okay."
Clutching the dress and shoes, Baobhan Sith retreated to her room, moving like someone in a daze.
Out of embarrassment, she changed as slowly as possible.
When she finally looked down at the long red dress and matching shoes, her face turned scarlet.
It was beautiful—but so tight she could feel every curve of her small frame.
"W–What do I do..."
Her heart thumped violently. Overwhelmed by heat and emotion, she threw herself onto the bed, hugging the clothes close to her chest.
Everything had been so flustering, so nerve-wracking—she'd nearly screamed, nearly cried—but this was Favia's gift to her.
And that thought alone filled her with joy.
Favia's gentle face appeared in her mind. Her cheeks reddened further as she whispered softly—
"...I love it. I love it so much."
And with that—
Exhausted, flushed, and surrounded by warmth, the fairy girl drifted into sleep.