“Never mind Iseult,” I said at last, picking up my ivory-fretted lute and giving it a twang. “There’s no point if you’re not going to joke and grumble about her. Talk to me instead, if you’re not going to tease me about my terrible taste in books. I’m thinking of another visit to the country—will you promise not to get homesick for the city this time, if I promise to make it a short visit?”

“Where in the country?” Leonello eyed me. “Perhaps Carbognano? I noticed one of those short, dull letters just arrived from your husband again. No doubt praising the summertime beauties of Carbognano in his execrable spelling.”

“Don’t be rude,” I chided. “And why shouldn’t I go to Carbognano? A stint in the country would do Laura good.” And I wouldn’t mind being away from Juan for a while, either.

“If you go within spitting distance of Orsino Orsini,” Leonello pointed out, “the Holy Father will explode.”

“The Holy Father may do as he pleases. As long as Laura is not a Borgia, then she should have a chance to see the father whose name she does carry. We will live with him again someday, after all.”

“Oh, you will, will you?”

“You know he has always wanted me back.” Not that he ever really had me to begin with. It wasn’t precisely the passionate declaration I might once have hoped for from my husband—an earnest promise that he would consent to take me back once Rodrigo was done with me. But it was a practical consideration for the future, Laura’s as well as my own, because I knew that the day would come when Rodrigo was no longer part of my world—when he died, or when his passion for me did. I hated to think of his love ever failing, and certainly it had not waned at all in more than four years—but, well, mistresses were discarded. My sister was forever reminding me of that, usually as she nagged for some papal favor that I must obtain for her now, while the getting was easy.

Much as I shrank from the thought of being discarded, even worse was the thought that my vital, virile, cheerful Rodrigo would ever be laid beneath the earth.

Oh, Holy Virgin, what a prospect! Could I not have any cheerful thoughts today? I crossed myself, heaving another sigh. Even Leonello seemed gloomy, fingering the book’s spine and looking thoughtful. “What is it?” I said, and picked up my lute again. “Don’t tell me I’ve dragged down your mood, too.”

“I’ve been wishing to ask you for a favor, Madonna Giulia.”

“Of course. Is it about Carmelina?” I missed my sharp-tongued cook with her sweet hands. I thought Leonello missed her too—he had saved her from that oaf Juan quite romantically, after all. Who says a small man can’t act the hero?