There was anxiety under his amusement. My Pope had been just a little tentative with me, ever since the debacle of my painting as Persephone. My long, angry silence from Florence, and then his relief at having me back—I think he was half convinced Fra Savonarola would toss me on the bonfire. Really, one brush of danger with a French army or a few religious fanatics, and a fond lover sees disaster lurking around every corner! Rodrigo had excommunicated Savonarola, as much for the way his Angels had treated me as for his semiheretical rantings, and showered me with presents ever since my return.

But my anger with him hadn’t truly abated until I pointed a finger at my lover some few days after my return from Florence and said quietly, “You will never put me on display like that again.”

“I was proud of you! So proud, I wanted them all to see—”

“I don’t care what your reasons are.” I’d cut him off as I never dared do before. “I am your mistress, Rodrigo. No one else’s. And in the future, you would do well to remember that!”

A glint of anger had showed in his eye for a moment, but I held his gaze unblinking and then I saw the anger fade, replaced by a faint chagrin. “Never again,” he agreed reluctantly, and there was no more talk of having me sit for another painter without my clothes on. “Maestro Botticelli’s painting?” he ventured, and when I gave a cold “It’s burned up, and a good thing, too,” nothing more was said about that either.

My anger had faded since then (well, mostly), but Rodrigo still seemed anxious with me sometimes.

“A whole chain of diamond roses couldn’t keep this unicorn from escaping,” I said lightly after I thanked him, rising from my mirror. “Don’t you know the stories, Your Holiness? Only a fair young virgin may bind a unicorn. Usually with a golden bridle.”

I called for my maids, and Rodrigo broke into a laugh as Laura ran into my chamber. She wore her best gown, pink velvet sewn with seed pearls, and she waved a length of gold ribbon. “A fair maiden to bind me,” I explained as Laura clamored to tie the ribbon about my wrist for a leash. It was the best way I could find to leash her, really. “She so begged to see the spectacle, I promised her she could come. For a short time only,” I added to Laura. “Then it’s to bed with you. Masquerades go on far too late for little girls.” Not to mention the fact that people in masks seem to get up to all kinds of behavior they’d never dream of indulging in bare-faced. The kind of behavior no little girl should see.

“Yes, Mamma.” She added a deeper curtsy for Rodrigo. “Your Holiness,” she piped, “you match Mamma. You have horns!”