“My husband has become very stubborn.” Her voice was careful, expressionless. “I must pick my battles these days, and I’m doing my best to discourage him from the notion of sending Laura to be fostered in France for a French marriage.”

I thought of sunny little Laura being brought up in the stiff formality of the French court and kicked a loose stone out of my way.

“I think I may win on that front,” Giulia went on. “I’ve quarreled very badly with the Holy Father, so he isn’t so keen on giving Laura a dowry anymore. I don’t see any French comte making an offer for her now.” A faint smile. “And no son of Adriana da Mila will want to put up the coin for that kind of dowry, either. But Orsino is still hoping some grand match will present itself.”

“What has any of that to do with not leaving Rome?” I still didn’t like the thought of Laura being raised to speak French. That sweet, laughing child who had clung to my stubby fingers as she took her first steps . . .

“The Holy Father has made it clear he can’t stand the sight of me—and Orsino likes that. He takes me to a great many parties now, so all the other men can watch the Pope snub me, and envy Orsino instead of pitying him as the cuckold.” Exasperation colored Giulia’s voice. “Though really, I don’t think that particular plan is going as well as Orsino hoped. He can introduce me all he likes as the Rose of Carbognano—I ask you!—but no one will ever think of me as anything but the Bride of Christ. Men don’t honor him for having me for a wife; they just despise him for reclaiming soiled goods. They tell him he should have thrown me out like the whore I am, and then usually they come around and try to seduce me. Men!”

“Your husband is a fool,” I said.

“And he is my husband, so of course I obey his wishes in all things.” Giulia’s voice went flat again. “We’re to stay at least until Lucrezia’s wedding. I pass my days sewing with Lucrezia, new gowns for her bridal chest. She chatters away like nothing ever happened, mostly about her new husband-to-be. Apparently he’s young and handsome.”

“Ah, yes, Alfonso of Aragon. I wonder if he’ll last any longer than Lord Sforza.”

“Poor man.” Maybe Giulia meant Giovanni Sforza, or Alfonso of Aragon, but she was looking at me. “Why did you come to see Fra Savonarola’s execution, Leonello? You don’t have any reason to hate him.”