Papa thought she was worth only as much as the price he could bargain in a marriage contract. How cruel his endowment of education now seemed when he had never planned on allowing her to fulfil its calling. She dropped her head to the rose flowers resting in a large glass bowl on one of the side tables. Papa had called her impudent and indecorous, said she was without humility. Just a girl. As though there was nothing worse that she could be. The smell of the roses was pungent and almost rotten, the flowers close to dropping. In a few days, her step-mamma would collect the petals and steep them in water to use in one of her tonics, a salve to ease her father’s headaches through the autumn months. Luna would prove her father wrong. She’d show him that her female sex did not lessen her mind’s alacrity or her right to his acceptance. That if he opened his books and his goodwill to her once more, she’d repay him with a cleverness beyond what anyone believed her capable of, something to salve his brain. Just like the rose bush.

Luna left the hall and went to her father’s studiolo. It would be at least four hours before his return, a good amount of time for writing. Guido Palagio’s irksome face flashed before her and she felt her scalp prickle with the memory, but she’d not be deterred. She closed the door before turning to assess the state of the room. There was a dirty cup on the desk, stained red round the rim from wine, and near it a few discarded poultices. She recognised the faint smell of lavender as she placed the poultices into the bowl and pushed the cup to the farthest corner of the desk. She reached out to run her hand down the length of beads but the cotton thread was empty.

Luna hovered for a moment then went and sat in her papa’s chair. The frame was strong and big, the arms wide. She shuffled to seek better comfort from the hard wood and to dispel the guilt of trespassing. She pulled herself in to the desk and placed her hands firmly upon its cool wood, just as she’d seen her father do. The oak was smooth and marked with thin streaks of the darkest brown. She ran her finger along the seams. The pattern flowed like molten rock through the wood and her mind burned with a similar fierceness. She would feel no more guilt; it was time she listened to her own voice.