The scene outside of Imperia’s villa was chaotic: crowds had gathered, people pointed and whispered, rumors flew fast as feet, women spoke in quiet tones, men stood slack-jawed. The sun was bright, the colors washed out. Inside, women huddled and cried. There was a distant wailing. A portrait of Imperia hung askew on the wall; I straightened it. I headed into the music room, hoping to find her lying across the lid of the harpsichord, laughing at her glorious ruse, but she wasn’t there. Instead, I found Chigi, the whites of his eyes red as his disheveled hair, forlornly fiddling with an empty wine goblet. “Is it true?” I asked.

He nodded. “Imperia’s gone.”

I rubbed my face, four times, even though no amount of counting and brush twirling could bring her back. Imperia, dead? Impossible.

We found Margherita in the library, blotchy eyes, sniffling, dress askew as if she’d pulled it on in a rush. I pulled her into my arms and said, “I can’t believe the rumors that she would’ve done this to herself.”

Margherita pushed me away and shook her head. “That’s only what they want you to think.”

“I don’t believe it, either,” Chigi said. “Yes, I’d found a new lover in Venice and yes, I’ve talked about bringing her to Rome, but Imperia knew my affections for her hadn’t wavered. She was planning on inviting us to a private supper, just the three of us. She wasn’t distraught. She was excited.”

“And it’s supposed to have been poison?” I whispered.

“If it was her, she would’ve chosen a more dramatic tableau,” said Margherita.

“A knife through the breast would’ve made for her kind of show,” seconded Chigi.

“Did she . . .” I was twirling my father’s old paintbrush; I hadn’t made a conscious decision to pull it out, but there it was. “. . . leave a note?”

Chigi shook his head. “Only a will.”

Margherita added, “There’s no evidence that she did this. None at all. That’s only what they want us to think. Right?” She raised a brow at Chigi.

Lips pursed, he nodded.

“So, who?” I asked.

Margherita pulled a bound copy of Sappho’s poetry off a shelf and flipped through it as though looking for an answer. Chigi wiped his nose.

“One of her clients?” I offered.

Margherita sighed. “She did know the secrets of a lot of powerful men who see their destinies as sitting on the papal throne. We all know such secrets.”

“It could’ve been anyone, half the men in Rome, and the entire population of the Vatican,” added Chigi.

“I can’t believe this,” I said, once Margherita and I were alone up in her room. “What will happen to the villa?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” She dumped a drawer of clothes into a traveling bag. “I’m leaving.”