Luna sat on her bench outside her father’s rooms, taking off her boots as noisily as she could, for she hoped he would hear and call her in. Papa had been home for two whole days, though they were yet to sit as a family and share a meal. He ate late and alone, after he returned from business, and then retreated to his studiolo. She placed the Sacrobosco beside her and waited. Her lips moved as she silently repeated what she’d already memorised. Here was purpose and distraction and she was ready to impress Papa with her knowledge. A servant passed her with a pitcher of wine and she sat a little straighter. Shortly after, he returned again with the empty pitcher and disappeared up the stairs towards the kitchen.

Luna got up and walked quietly to the door the servant had left ajar. She could see a cup sat on the desk, half full. There was a bottle of tincture too, the label crinkled and flaking, the poultice in a bowl beside it like a dried mushroom. Her father’s headaches had increased and he demanded more of Mamma Lucrezia’s homemade poultices and tonics. The desk was strewn with pages of accounts and the oversized ledgers that Luna recognised from when she used to help her father in the shopfronts. She was surprised to find him poring over his business accounts, for usually he liked to end the day with a book of poetry.

She stood inside the door and saw that he was asleep. He looked exhausted, or perhaps it was just that when he was asleep his mouth slackened and his head dropped back against the chair, so that he seemed older. His Adam’s apple pulsed with each slow breath. A page fluttered to the floor. Luna crept into the room and picked up the fallen sheet. She noticed the seal of the Great Council and read with alarm. The Great Council had decreed that all those who advocated the restoration of the Medicis be put to death. All the households in Florence would have received this, she knew, but still, her heart beat swift for her papa. She secured the proclamation in the pile under a weighted stone as an image of the preacher’s fiery stare flashed before her. Her father did not stir and she felt a swell of pity for all he must contend with. She saw his cloak abandoned in a corner and laid it gently across his knees. His eyelids quivered like a moth’s wings; she liked the idea that her papa dreamt. She left him sleeping quietly, collected her book from her bench and retreated to her bedchamber.

*