Sweet Santa Marta. Marco too? My eyes flew open; I gaped a moment, and Leonello looked at me inscrutably. I put the heels of my hands to my face to hide from his gaze. Marco.

Marco dead.

Ever since the attack in the wine cellar, rage had festered in my belly toward my cousin—a flinty, straightforward fury; almost comforting. But now I felt rage muddling together with shock, with disjointed memories of the boy who had first captured my heart when I was twelve with his easy smile and broad shoulders. I thought of the amiable gambler I’d tousled and chivvied out of wine shops and zara games, the shame-faced fool who thought nothing of leaving a wedding banquet in midpreparations just to put a bet on a bullfight, the man whose bed I’d sometimes shared when he felt like celebrating a win at the cards . . .

My cousin, who had given me to Juan Borgia because he owed money, or because I had taken his place in the kitchens, or both. Maybe Marco hadn’t really guessed what the Duke of Gandia would do to me, but I was sure he’d been careful not to think about that part. Marco didn’t like to think about ugly things. He’d just screwed his eyes firmly shut, lured me into the trap, and told himself nothing ugly would possibly happen.

I made myself take my hands down from my eyes, because unlike my cousin, I could look at things when they were ugly. “Marco and the Duke of Gandia, Leonello?”

Madonna Giulia’s bodyguard sipped calmly, not deigning to answer me. I didn’t know what to think, whether to rejoice at the end of Juan Borgia’s life or say a prayer for the end of Marco’s. Is this the price? some part of me wondered. Juan Borgia dies, but so does a foolish, laughing man who used to share my bed? I sat feeling very cold in the hot kitchen, breathing shallowly through my nose and trying to keep my head from flying into pieces, as the dwarf opposite me swirled his wine thoughtfully in its cup.

“You know, I’ve never seen you drink more than a cup of wine at a time, Leonello.” I managed to speak around the confused choke of emotions in my throat. “Much less get reeling drunk.”

“Sometimes even I feel the need for oblivion.” He tilted a shoulder. “It was a bad business, Carmelina.”

“The Duke of Gandia—did he—”

“When there is a viper loose,” Leonello said in a neutral voice, “you can run all you like evading the fangs. But sooner or later, someone will have to risk the fangs and kill the viper.”

“True,” I said faintly. “All the same—please don’t tell me any more.” If I heard any more, I was going to be sick.

“Ask Bartolomeo for details, then,” Leonello said. “When you are ready.”