Leonarda Lunetta, his little moon. He’d still harboured some doubt at the notion of sending her to a convent, even after the incident at Mass with the younger Palagio, but any prospect of a different future had been well and truly destroyed by her behaviour at the dinner. Ever since she’d come of age, he’d been told by all and sundry that she must marry or enter a convent. He’d left it longer than was prudent, in truth, hoping neither husband nor God would prove a better future than staying home with him, but Florence was a city that did not suffer rule-breakers and he’d not counted on his daughter developing quite so independent a voice. She’d become wilful, speaking her mind whenever it pleased her and asking for the freedoms of a man. He’d tried to find a husband, a fool’s errand he now realised, and so the convent must be her salvation and his family’s resurrection. Guilt coursed through his veins as heady as the wine. He would support her, naturally, and she could write to him and he would visit when it was possible. In part, Luna’s future had been taken out of his hands: Tommaso Palagio had forced his decision. He’d insisted it be written in the marriage contract: the cripple sister must enter a convent. Vincenzio had to admire the man’s tenacity. Luna was a good daughter; she would accept his decision dutifully, even if she didn’t like it.

Friar Bartolomeo leant across the table. ‘Do you wish me to find an escort for her?’

Vincenzio swung his attention back to the conversation. ‘What do you ask?’

‘I say do you want me to arrange an escort to take Luna to the convent, or would you prefer it were you or me who delivered her to the sisters?’

He stared at the friar whilst the image of his daughter turning her back on him and disappearing through the convent doors filled his head. ‘Arrange it, if you would. I cannot spare the time.’

Friar Bartolomeo sighed. ‘As you wish.’ He knew what really lay beneath Signore Fusili’s stern exterior and he would pray for the man’s tormented soul.

Vincenzio thought once again of the Medici coin he’d given to his wife. He’d wanted to shout at Lucrezia to shut her mouth at the dinner when she’d mentioned shopping at Matteo Palmieri’s, where the coin had been discovered. She’d no idea what she’d said and he’d sat there grinding his teeth in frustration as she prattled on. Still, no one had come asking questions, so he reasoned the authorities had not traced it back to him.

The terce bells sounded and Friar Bartolomeo rose slowly, wincing. Vincenzio didn’t like to see him struggle; ageing was something he planned on ignoring for as long as he could.