“Our good Pope Alexander VI does not persecute . . . hmm, well, let’s just say, men like me. But who knows about the next pope?” Vittorio arched an elegant brow at Rodrigo, reclining on a chair twined with vines as he tapped a jeweled finger in time to the music. “A wife would provide protection, shall we say, should the winds of change begin to blow. Because our Holy Father will not last forever.”

It had always seemed impossible to me that Rodrigo would ever die. He had too much energy and vitality, too much life for that. But I saw now that his eyes were puffy and pouched, as though the late nights were beginning to tell upon that famous energy, and the food at his table was as terrible as ever but it was fattening him as it hadn’t done even a year or two ago. He was an old man, old as he had never before seemed in my eyes, and I felt one last twinge of pity. Then his gaze passed over me with the same faint smile of malice he had bestowed on me after Orsino’s death, when I had come before him with eyes full of accusation, and my heart hardened like hoarfrost.

The dance was done. Vittorio Capece bowed and released my hand, but I said, “Another dance?” and we trod three more tunes together, my other suitors falling back in disappointment. Vittorio made polite conversation, and I eyed him thoughtfully. Sandro watched us from across the room and raised his goblet to me with a silent, tilted smile.

Vittorio kissed my hand at the end of the music, gracefully begging my leave—“Allow a gray-haired man to regain his breath, m’dear?” He settled me courteously in a cushioned chair beside the fountain full of snakes, and I smiled thanks as he bustled off in pursuit of wine. Or perhaps a handsome page.

More suitors pressed, but I turned them all down, calculating just when I could make my exit. Lucrezia and Alfonso of Aragon were still dancing; they likely wouldn’t be bedded down together until dawn. Sancha must have drunk enough wine to forget that Cesare had given her the French pox because she was dancing with him now, and the dress kept slipping off her shoulder. Caterina Gonzaga was dancing with the little masked lion in his huge furred ruff, and laughing when he stumbled. Surely it had to be long past midnight.

“The lion and the unicorn!” someone shouted, and Cesare broke from Sancha to lower his horn and go charging after Leonello with a cry of challenge. My former bodyguard gave a mock growl, waddling away, and in his chair the Pope convulsed with laughter. The mummer in the stag mask lowered his own horns and pricked Leonello in passing, and Leonello stumbled and fell. I saw his hazel eyes through the mask’s eye holes, and they had a bitter shine.