“Sancha says, Cesare says.” I cut her off as she reached for her robe. “What do you say?”

“Sancha—” Lucrezia stopped herself, looking annoyed.

I looked at her, my middle no longer roiling with rage but with something much colder. My lover’s daughter looked ungraceful and young, lips pushed out in a stubborn pout, hair coiling in wet strings down her neck. Without all the sophistication of paint and powder, you could see she had a red spot on her chin. Seventeen, I thought, she is seventeen. Not much younger than I had been when I went to her father’s bed.

“You didn’t use to hate me, Lucrezia,” I said finally. “In fact, I thought you loved me. I have certainly loved you, ever since I first met you.”

Lucrezia avoided my eyes, slipping into her loose wide-sleeved robe.

“I didn’t think you hated Madonna Adriana, either.” I paused. “So why were you so cruel to her? You’ve been thoughtless sometimes, but I’ve never seen you cruel.”

“I didn’t mean it.” Defensive. “Sancha just made a joke. I thought I would too.”

“A very unkind joke.”

“Oh—” Lucrezia piled her wet hair up again, jabbing pins through the mass of it. “Really, such a fuss. I’ll go apologize to her later.”

“You’ll have to do it quickly, because she’s leaving.”

“What?” Lucrezia turned, still pinning her hair.

“You hurt her, Lucrezia.” I enunciated the words. “Madonna Adriana has decided to go back to her niece in Liguria.”

“All because of a little joke,” Lucrezia muttered, and that was when I slapped her. First with the flat of my palm; I paused to let her look shocked and then slapped her with the back of my hand, as I’d seen her hit clumsy maidservants.

She took a step back, holding her cheek, and I wondered if she’d slap me back. But she stared at me another moment, and then she burst into tears.

“I hate you,” she sobbed, and flung herself down on the marble edge of the bagno. “I hate you, Giulia Farnese—everyone looks at you instead of me, they all do, and Sancha says you’re just jealous I’m the Pope’s daughter so you take all my attention away. Father loves you more than me, and when Laura grows up he’ll love her more than me too, because she’s yours, and anything yours is perfect.”

I didn’t know whether to feel more exasperated or astonished. “Lucrezia, really—”