The new model that Giovanni unearthed for Camilla was a boy in every sense of the word; slender and willowy, he moved with a forced stiffness that suggested the concealment of natural grace.  His jaw, angular and elegant, held no shadow of scruffiness, and his manners were few and often bizarre.  However, despite her initial disdain for his effeminate tendencies, Camilla could not help but admire his appearance.  He was, after all, an ideal model for the concept she had in mind.

Figures were her current interest, though in what form, it hardly mattered – she had moved from watercolor to engravings, and from there to sculpture, and still remained unsatisfied.  After a long bought of stifling humidity that prevented the plasters from drying, she grew frustrated, and just the previous week determined to give an attempt at oils.  This necessitated a new model; Giovanni’s cook, while valuable in her own way, was dumpy and not suitable for portraits.

The request had been brought to Giovanni for a ‘young gentleman, intriguing, with a vibrant spark of personality and a simple yet sophisticated figure.’  Well accustomed to his young protégé’s demands, Giovanni had obeyed her wishes dutifully and scoured the city slums for inspiration.  Thus Camilla found herself in the presence of a young man who certainly fit the bill, though not in the sense she had intended.

Despite being in the presence of a woman, the youth had so far sneezed loudly without apology, neglected to remove his hat, and declined the offer of a chair in favor of standing awkwardly on the carpet.  The last he had done politely, but Camilla was not convinced that he was entirely aware of what appearing as a guest in a fine house entailed.  She silently admitted slight disappointment with Giovanni’s choice; the boy’s eyes were certainly expressive, and his face was handsome enough, but his overall appearance didn’t wholly fit the picture she had envisioned.  She had been hoping for something unique and masculine.

“You are of merchant blood, no?” she questioned at last, having thoroughly scrutinized his form.  The boy nodded in affirmation; his eyes seemed to brighten.  They were startling in hue - a radiant sapphire that was almost ethereal. 

“Sì, signorina.  My father is of merchant class.”  Camilla did not miss the way his features lifted with the mention of his father, shoulders straightening with pride.  It was a flattering touch; perhaps he would fit the role more naturally than she had anticipated.

However, she nearly laughed at his voice, a failed attempt at pitching his voice low.  He was not manly in the slightest.
It mattered not.  She had a portrait to paint, and Giovanni wasn’t keeping her around to criticize patrons.  She was fortunate that he endured her fastidiousness at all. 

“If you could step over here please . . .” she gestured offhandedly to the stool she had set up for modeling purposes, turning to examine her tools.  She felt the boy’s gaze on her as she rummaged through the haphazard assortment of artistic paraphernalia.  Something similar to shame crept up her neck with the realization that he was watching her movements closely, and she made a subtle effort to conceal her meager materials.  Being of little money did not bother her; in fact, she took it as a blessing, but she did not want him to be under the impression that she was an unworthy artist.  He was of odd character for a man, and she wasn’t certain how harshly her abilities were being judged.

At the same time, she didn’t quite understand why she minded.  He was but a boy, a merchant’s babe.  His opinion should have mattered not, and yet she found herself at a loss to comprehend why her cheeks flared with embarrassment as she stepped up shyly to her easel.  The judgment of a boy – a child – should not have concerned her so.

She would have considered it longer, but with the dawning late hour and the focus of the afternoon sun on the boyish face, she found herself slipping into the stupor of concentration that her work never failed to bring about.  As she analyzed the angles and shadows the arrangement presented, she was aware of his vivid eyes following her every movement.

“If you could just move a little to the left,” she murmured, keeping her eyes firmly fastened on the canvas.  Obediently, the boy rearranged his limbs into a more suitable posture.  His trim waist and slim shoulders created a flattening effect against the draperies behind him.  Camilla bit her lip in contemplation; the sunrays were falling directly across his face now, illuminating youthful features and bright, playful eyes.

She raised the brush to the canvas, but paused a moment later with the thick paint hardly making contact.

“Scuzi,” she began hesitantly.  “But the portrait . . . it is of a nobleman.  The hat you wear . . . it does not suit.  Could – could you remove it, per favore?”  The momentarily cold stare she received in return almost frightened her before it softened into a gentle twinkle.  Eyes narrowed mischievously, the boy brought a slender hand up to the merchant’s boater perched jauntily atop his head.  He tugged it away with a grin.

The cascade of golden hair that tumbled free of its clever up-do nearly reached the seat of the stool, shimmering brilliantly in the glow of the sun.

Camilla stared in shock from the odd new sight to the impish smirk spreading across thin lips.  For a moment she only gaped unblinkingly, but then the image clicked, and her eyes widened in realization.  A low chuckle escaped her lips; instantly, she clapped a hand to her mouth in apology.  But the urge was irrepressible, and a trickle of tiny giggles escaped until she was chortling uncontrollably, doubled over with uncontainable mirth.  After a moment, the boy joined in.