“What is, madonna?” I ventured into her chamber, drying my hands on the apron I hadn’t had an opportunity to take off before being whisked upstairs to see my mistress. For a panicked instant I thought I was going to be dismissed. A fortnight’s agony of waiting and praying and dousing myself with vinegar had given me the relief of knowing I wasn’t with child—but I could still lose my reputation and everything else with it. All Bartolomeo had to do was go beyond glaring at me stonily and let something slip, maybe show the marks my nails had left in his back and tell the scullions what a whore the maestra di cucina was . . .

But no: Madonna Giulia beckoned me in with her usual friendly wave, and her chamber bustled with a dozen robe makers throwing swatches of figured velvet and Spanish brocade over everything. Slippers and sleeves lay discarded on every surface, the goat gnawed on a curtain tassel, maids darted back and forth like schooling lake smelt—La Bella’s usual cheerful disorder, except for the masks. Dozens and dozens of masks, feathered and jeweled, beaded and eyeless, that lay about the room on every surface staring at me.

“Sweet Santa Marta,” I said as La Bella herself turned from her mirror to look at me. “What’s it supposed to be?”

“A unicorn.” Madonna Giulia doffed her white-and-gold beaded half mask with its tip-tilted eyes and spiraled gilt-and-ivory horn. “I’ve decided to be a unicorn for His Holiness’s masquerade in a fortnight. It’s a Menagerie Ball, so we’re all to come as animals. So, what does one serve a unicorn at a Menagerie Ball?”

I vacillated dubiously between holy water and oats. You couldn’t even get a decent frittella out of holy water and oats. Then I counted my days and blinked. “A fortnight? That’s Easter.”

“Just afterward.” Madonna Giulia’s voice was very dry. “The very instant Lent is done, in other words. The soonest His Holiness could host another celebration for the Duke of Gandia’s triumph at Ostia.”

I heard a few snorts about the room at that. Juan Borgia had come prancing back to Rome crowing of the victory he had won over the remainders of the French army, which had immured itself in Ostia, but the winds of gossip had it that his generals deserved the credit. Besides, what did a small victory count when all the ground gained over the rebellious branches of the Orsini family last fall had had to be given back already to keep the peace?