I couldn’t do anything about the boots now; they were tight as a second skin and I imagined I’d have to do a good deal of hopping and cursing in the privacy of my chamber to peel them off, no doubt with the hand of Santa Marta snickering at me, if a severed hand could be said to snicker. But I paused in a crook of the stairs to the kitchens and shook my hair down from the high-piled arrangement of curls that Madonna Giulia had insisted made my neck look longer, and scrubbed at the smoky stuff she’d had me line about my eyes as well. The arrogant kitchen cat prowled past, and I swear the notch-eared bastard was laughing at me. Santa Marta save me if any of the scullions saw me in this ridiculous ensemble; I’d never hear the end of it! Fortunately the kitchens were at full boil, trotting out one tray of dainties after another, and everyone would be far too busy to notice if I slipped through the storerooms to my own chamber. I’d be back in my apron to supervise the spun-sugar bulls and unicorns in no time.

“Little cousin?”

I yelped and whirled. My cousin Marco stood half through the doors leading to the outside courtyard, staring at me. I hadn’t seen my cousin once since giving him Madonna Giulia’s money. He’d been far too busy to visit me once the Duke of Gandia returned to Rome, too busy feeding the endless stream of soldiers, toadies, and whores Juan Borgia brought to his palazzo on a nightly basis for debauches that went till dawn. But now here he was: Marco, standing here looking at me after months, and why in the name of all that was holy did he have to turn up tonight?

I had a fleeting urge to clap my giraffe mask back on. If I’d been wearing the mask he might not have known me—in my outlandish male finery, in the dim light of the back passage, maybe he’d assume I was some noble guest who’d gotten lost. Perhaps one of Sancha of Aragon’s notorious Neapolitan ladies-in-waiting, sneaking off to some dark corner to meet a lover. But no, my mask dangled from my hand and Marco’s eyes had gone huge at the sight of me.

I attacked first. “What are you doing here? If you’ve come for more money, you might as well go home. I’m in the middle of a banquet, and I’ve no time for your wheedling. Or your threats.”