Chapter 1: The Owl in the Bell Tower and the Big Mystery

The summer of 1375 baked the red-tiled rooftops of Florence until they radiated heat even after the sun slipped behind the distant Apennine Mountains. Twelve-year-old Marco Polo—no, not *that* Marco Polo, just a Marco with messy brown hair, a patched linen shirt embroidered with sunflowers by his mother, and a scuffed pair of leather sandals—huffed as he climbed the 414 stone steps of Giotto’s Campanile, the famous bell tower that loomed over the city’s main square. His parents, wool merchants from Venice, had sent him to Florence to stay with his uncle and learn the family trade, but Marco had other priorities: his pet red squirrel Pippo had scampered up the tower’s open arches that morning, chasing a butterfly, and Marco had spent three hours tracking him.

By the time he reached the top, his feet were blistered, his shirt was stuck to his back with sweat, and half the hazelnuts he’d brought as treats for Pippo had spilled out of his canvas satchel. But the sight that greeted him made him forget his sore feet. The whole of Florence spread out below him: the terracotta sea of rooftops, the silver glint of the Arno River snaking through the city, the shadowy bulk of the Duomo glowing gold in the last of the sunset, and the distant hills rolling purple in the twilight. He leaned against the stone parapet, breathing hard, and heard a soft rustle from the shadow of the bell tower’s overhang.

Two glowing golden eyes stared back at him.

Marco froze. The eyes belonged to a huge barn owl, its feathers a mix of soft brown and snowy white, with a tuft of pale golden fluff on its chest that caught the last of the sun’s light. It was the biggest owl Marco had ever seen, easily as big as a medium-sized dog, and its sharp talons gripped the stone edge of the parapet like iron hooks.

“Uh—hello?” Marco whispered, his voice shaking a little.

The owl tilted its head, the movement slow and silent, and then spoke in a voice like dry leaves rustling in the wind. “I haven’t heard a new voice up here in six months. The last person who climbed these steps was a thief trying to steal the bell’s copper clapper. He ran away screaming when he saw me.”

Marco’s jaw dropped. “You can talk?”

“Of course I can talk. The stones of this tower have been here for 16 years, the wind has been blowing through its arches for centuries, and I’ve lived here for 52 years. We all have plenty to say, if anyone bothers to listen.” The owl hopped onto the parapet next to Marco, its talons making soft clicking sounds on the stone. “I’m Orso. What’s your name, and why are you covered in sweat and missing half your hazelnuts?”

“I’m Marco. I’m looking for my squirrel, Pippo. He ran up here chasing a butterfly.” Marco’s eyes scanned the tower’s open arches, and he spotted a flash of red fur curled up on a stone ledge three levels down. “There he is! He’s asleep.”

“I know,” Orso said, preening a feather on his wing. “I watched him climb up. I didn’t eat him because I could tell you’d come looking for him. You’re the first person who’s ever climbed these steps to look for something other than a view, or something to steal.”

Marco scrambled down three levels, scooping up Pippo, who woke up long enough to nibble on his finger before curling back up in his satchel. By the time he climbed back to the top, Orso had eaten three of the remaining hazelnuts, and was polishing his golden talons on a patch of stone.

“So,” Marco said, leaning against the parapet next to the owl, “I have a question. Everyone in my uncle’s shop keeps talking about the ‘Renaissance’—they say new art, new books, new ideas are popping up everywhere in Italy, and they say it all started right here, in Florence. But why here? Why not in France, or Germany, or even Venice, where my family lives?”

Orso went still, his golden eyes widening just a little. For a long moment, he said nothing, and the wind whistled through the tower’s arches. Then he spoke, quieter than before. “That question,” he said, “is the best question anyone has ever asked me up here. I’ve been waiting 52 years for someone to ask it.”

Marco blinked. “Really?”

“Really. Every tourist, every merchant, every thief who climbs these steps asks the same questions: How old is the tower? How heavy are the bells? Does the tower really lean? No one ever asks why the spark that’s lighting up the whole world started right here, in this tiny peninsula stuck between the Mediterranean Sea and the Alps.” Orso flapped his huge wings once, sending a gust of wind that ruffled Marco’s hair. “I can’t tell you the answer with words. You have to see it for yourself. I can take you back in time, to meet the people who started it all: the poets, the painters, the scholars, the merchants, even a little troublemaker from the Medici family who’s been stealing fruit from the market stalls for years.”

Marco’s eyes went wide. “Time travel? Really?”

“Really.” Orso hopped onto the parapet, his talons gripping the stone edge. “But first, we need to see what Florence looks like right now, in 1375. You need to see the people, the markets, the workshops, the things that make this city different from every other city in Europe. Hold on to my leg, and don’t let go, no matter what.”

Marco didn’t hesitate. He slung his satchel over his shoulder, tucked Pippo’s sleeping form into the front pocket, and wrapped his arms tight around Orso’s fluffy feathered leg. Orso flapped his wings once, twice, and then they were falling—not down, but sideways, gliding off the top of the bell tower and out over the city square, the wind rushing past Marco’s ears so fast he laughed out loud.

They landed in the middle of the Piazza della Signoria, right next to the market stalls that were still open late into the evening. The square was buzzing with people: merchants in bright wool cloaks haggling over prices, peasants carrying baskets of fresh vegetables, nuns carrying baskets of bread for the poor, a group of soldiers in dented armor laughing over a game of dice. The air smelled like roasted chestnuts, cinnamon, wet wool, and the sharp tang of the Arno River.

“First stop: the book stalls,” Orso said, hopping onto the edge of a wooden stall stacked high with leather-bound books. The old man running the stall looked up, then smiled when he saw Orso. “Orso! Haven’t seen you in a week. Brought a friend?”

“This is Marco,” Orso said, tilting his head toward the boy. “He wants to know why the Renaissance started in Italy.”

The book seller, whose name was Messer Antonio, laughed and pulled out a thick book bound in red leather, its cover embossed with gold letters. “Ask him about Petrarch,” he said, tapping the cover. “That’s Francesco Petrarca, the poet who died last year in Arquà. Everyone in Florence is still talking about him. He’s the one who started all this, you know.”

Marco leaned in, squinting at the gold letters. “Petrarch? I never heard of him.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Orso said. “He only died a year ago. But he’s the most famous man in Italy right now. Let’s go meet someone who actually knew him.”

Before Marco could ask any more questions, a flash of red velvet came barrelling toward them. A boy about Marco’s age, with curly black hair, a face smudged with jam, and a tiny gold medallion hanging around his neck, skidded to a stop in front of the stall, and grabbed the hazelnuts out of Marco’s satchel before he could react.

“Hey!” Marco shouted.

The boy cackled and ran, dodging between the market stalls, his red velvet cloak flapping behind him. Orso took off before Marco could even blink, gliding low over the ground, and landed right in front of the boy, blocking his path. The boy skidded to a stop, his eyes going wide when he saw the giant owl.

“Luca de’ Medici,” Orso said, his voice sharp. “I saw you steal three apples from the fruit stall yesterday, and a honey cake from the baker this morning. Give the hazelnuts back, or I’ll tell your father you stole his gold coin to buy glass beads from the Ve