I thought of pointing out the languid, long-legged good looks of every page boy, manservant, and male attendant in this palazzo. And the naked marble figures of Apollo and Pan and David, rather outnumbering the statues of Venus and Diana and Salome. In Carbognano, men of Vittorio’s tastes were spoken of only in whispers, but in cosmopolitan Rome such things were far more casually viewed. I had been shocked at first, but Rodrigo didn’t care who went to bed with whom, and I certainly wasn’t going to spurn poor Vittorio just because ranting men like Fra Savonarola said he was hell-bound. I didn’t think Orsino’s view of the world was quite so flexible, however. “Vittorio chases art rather than women,” I said instead, hanging up my cloak on a silver wall peg. My Pope’s letter had offered to house us in the Palazzo Santa Maria when we brought Laura to Rome, but I had taken one look at Orsino’s face and written a tactful refusal. I knew any number of noble families in Rome who might have played host for us, even a few of Orsino’s cousins from the family’s more illustrious branches. But for Orsino’s peace of mind I’d chosen Vittorio Capece, whose appreciation of me would be nothing more than aesthetic.

Orsino flushed. “The way men look at you . . .” he began, and trailed off, standing in the middle of the room with his hands hanging at his sides like a little boy. Really, men. Such delicate flowers with their bruised feelings and hurt pride. And they say women are the oversensitive ones!

“The way men look at me?” I kept my voice teasing. “I’ve seen the way all those wives look at you! Envying me my handsome young husband when they have some dour graybeard!” He brightened at that, as I’d intended, and I kissed his cheek. “Let me settle Laura.”

“Surely the maids can do that?” But I pretended I hadn’t heard him.

My daughter had been whisked up to a chamber of her own before she could break any of our host’s costly knickknacks. She was already careening about the room with her nursemaid chasing behind, another maid with a silver ewer of water and a red-haired manservant with a tray trying their best to keep out of the way. “You must rest before the papal audience, little mistress!” But Laura ignored that blithely, running up to present me with a sticky, sugary fig squashed in each fist. “He brought me my favorites!”

“Madonna Giulia.” The red-haired manservant bowed to me, and I found myself recognizing him.

“Bartolomeo!” I greeted him. Holy Virgin, could this really be Carmelina’s favorite apprentice? He had grown.