“You were always a good, sweet girl, Lucrezia.” I shook my head. “What’s changed you? I don’t think we can blame it all on the Tart of Aragon.”

“You will not call her—”

“She is a tart, and you’re well on your way to becoming one. Traipsing around Rome with those Neapolitan harlots she calls ladies-in-waiting, painting your eyes and flirting with Juan’s bravos—Lucrezia, do you know what they say of you, outside Rome?” Fra Savonarola’s rantings, that foul pamphlet that had made my fingertips burn. Leonello’s cool voice: They believe such things because they are true.

“I don’t see how you have any right to call me a poor wife!” Lucrezia lashed out. “My father’s whore—”

“And do you want to be a whore?” I demanded. “I don’t recommend it, even if the jewels are marvelous. It’s not a path I’d ever want for my own daughter.”

“Well, I don’t have a daughter, do I?” Lucrezia’s little face was bitter. “Just a husband nobody wants anymore—Father says I’m to use any excuse I like to keep from sharing a bed with my Lord Sforza; a baby will inconvenience everything now—”

“What do you mean, inconvenience? Inconvenience whom?”

Lucrezia hesitated, pushing at the wet bundle of her hair. “The Holy Father wishes to annul my marriage to Lord Sforza.”

My mouth dropped. “You cannot be serious!”

Lucrezia tossed her head. “He doesn’t tell you everything, you know.”

“Annul your marriage? The legality alone—”

“Cesare says I deserve better than a Sforza lordling. He says a duke is none too good for me, and our father thinks the same.”

“But Lord Sforza—” My thoughts whirled. “You loved him. I saw your face, in this palazzo just three years ago. I let you sneak him into your chamber to consummate your marriage, and you looked so happy—”

Lucrezia shrugged. “And he used to write me poetry, but he doesn’t bother anymore. Too busy droning on about his soldiers and his horses. Besides, Pesaro is so dull. I’d rot away if I had to live there forever.”

“All excellent reasons to cast off a husband, I’m sure,” I snapped. “The law will require something a trifle more substantial than your boredom.”

“Cesare says something can be managed. An annulment—we’ll find some pretext. Consanguinity, maybe. People are always getting marriages annulled for consanguinity, aren’t they?”

“He’s not your brother, Lucrezia, he’s not even a distant cousin! There isn’t any shared blood between you, much less enough for a legal pretext. There’s no pretext at all to annul your marriage, not one that anyone would believe!”

“You don’t understand, Giulia.” Lucrezia sounded patronizing now. “It’s not what people believe. It’s what we tell them to believe.”

I stared at her.

“Cesare says I’ll be a duchess by this time next year.” Lucrezia rose from her bath, and this time I didn’t push her back down. “Or even a princess. Then I’ll be the first woman in Rome, Giulia Farnese—not you. I’ll be the one setting the fashion and heading every parade. Sancha says—”