She mounted the staircase and was glad to sit when she reached her bench on the gallery of the first floor. Luna ran her hand along the uneven wood, feeling for the natural imperfections of the once great tree trunk before reaching down to unlace her boots. Her father had commissioned the seat and its use had become so much a part of her routine that it was only here, once she’d sat, that the tightness in her back unravelled and she let down the guard she kept up when in public.

The door to her father’s studiolo was closed; he must not be home yet. Luna wondered if he’d have the book of astronomy with him. She heard the servants in the main hall preparing the table for their meal. A flicker of candlelight danced on the stonework. It would be dark before long.

Her step-mamma’s lively voice echoed down to the courtyard. Luna looked up, expecting to see her leaning over the gallery from the floor above with a tongue-lashing ready to burst from her lips. Only that morning, Mamma Lucrezia had reminded Luna it was her brother’s bath day and here she was, too late to help. The speed of the painter’s brush paid no heed to her waiting chores but that would not appease her step-mamma’s temper; she must hurry up now.

The wood beneath her shuddered as, downstairs, the last door was bolted for the night. Her father must be home. He’d be hungry and calling them all to the table before long, which meant Mamma Lucrezia would be even more impatient with her. The family ate together at least three times a week, never the same days. Papa would usually mention in the morning that he’d sup with them as though giving his family a wonderful honour, leaving her poor step-mamma in a whirl of preparations. Mamma Lucrezia was busier than ever on days such as this. But she was proud of her table and skills in the kitchen. Luna could not disagree; her step-mamma’s mutton stewed with wines and spices was the tastiest she’d ever tried.