You’d never think a whole household could be thrown into such an uproar by a visit to a nunnery. Hours after cena it was, but the Pope’s daughter was keeping every servant under this roof at a trot, packing and unpacking and repacking for her forthcoming sojourn to the Convent of San Sisto. I flattened myself against a wall to let a manservant bent double under a loaded chest stagger past, followed by a maid with an armload of little slippers and another maid with a basket of shifts for mending, and crept back through the dark kitchens toward the wine cellars.

I cast my usual critical eye over my domain, but the fires glowed softly, banked for the night, and the floors were immaculately swept. Much quieter than usual. A fishwife from the docks had been sentenced to hang tonight for strangling her husband with his own fishing line; my carvers and undercooks were all wild to go see the execution. I gave my permission after their work was done, and most of my people tripped out just before the sun was beginning to set, already taking odds on how long it would take the murderess to strangle and planning where they would take celebratory drinks afterward. I had already sent up a plateful of honeyed figs and a plate of toasted salted almonds for Madonna Lucrezia to nibble as she packed—now, I had a rare evening to myself.

“Marco had better not take up much of my time,” I grumbled under my breath to Santa Marta, who rode in her usual pouch at my waist. I’d seen my cousin only once since the masquerade, when he’d appeared in the Duke of Gandia’s train among the guardsmen during a visit to the palazzo. “And what is a cook doing nobbing with guardsmen instead of tending his kitchens?” I’d asked.

“We play the occasional game of zara together.” Of course they did. “The Duke of Gandia plays with us too, sometimes—he’s not too proud to have a laugh and a game of primiera with his guards. Or with the cook either, come to that. Not like that brother of his who’s too good for anyone else on this earth. At least the Duke of Gandia always brings good wine.”

“And gold too, I shouldn’t wonder,” I couldn’t help warning. “It may sound very fine to play cards with a pope’s son, Marco, but he can afford to throw a hundred florins down on one bet, and you can’t.”

“Don’t harry me,” Marco snarled, and that had been our last words to each other since the masquerade. But evidently he was sorry for being short with me, for I’d received a hasty note today in the afternoon. I can repay you the money I oh you, my cousin wrote me in his none-too-literate scrawl. Meet me in the palatso wine celler after cena? Its quiet and Im trying to avoyd the others—I stil oh Ugo 10 scudi.