Her father went straight to his studiolo and, after what she felt was time enough for him to have settled, Luna followed. She remembered the hawk she’d seen flying through the city; that was a good omen. She hesitated at the door. Her father was standing on a small stool, his back to her, reaching up to a shelf of books. It was impossible to tell what mood was upon him; he seemed so lofty and distant up there. This was her favourite room in the palazzo, the smallest and the fullest. The window to the left of where he stood looked out across the piazza in front of their house and from that vantage he could spy every visitor if he wanted to. The midday sun peeped over the ledge and tendrils of light played in the air like insects, dappling the floor then flitting across the desk that Luna saw was a mess of books. One was open with pages crushed by the force of being dropped, she presumed, whilst a second balanced precariously on another’s spine and Luna worried that any more additions would simply topple off and smack to the ground. Her father closed the book he held and dropped it to the desk. Sure enough, it landed on the edge and dropped to the floor. She couldn’t help herself; without even knocking, she went in and picked it up. Then she saw the one that had its spine almost rent apart. It was the copy of the Isotta Nogarola dialogue that Luna had borrowed so frequently she’d begun to believe it was her book. The sight of it now broken distressed her. She pressed her palm across the crushed page and smoothed the hide cover as best she could to soften the creases.

Her father heard her and stepped down. Luna greeted him with a fast bob. He stretched his back.

‘All those can go,’ he said, sweeping his arms out with a flourish.

She hesitated. ‘Do you wish me to take them somewhere?’

‘Why else are you here? You can tell Mamma that I cannot do this any more quietly if that is her complaint.’

‘No, Papa. Mamma did not send me.’ She turned to the jumble of books again. ‘What are you doing with these?’

‘Your sister is probably threading a needle to her tapestry as we speak, but you, Luna, still prefer musty old books.’

She nodded.

‘Very well, my dear,’ he said, stepping onto the stool once more.

Luna listened to the distant sounds of the street, waiting for him to continue.

‘I am deciding which of my books to save from the purge of Savonarola’s fire. Those on the table will go back onto the shelves.’