The masked man who had killed first my friend and then a string of others was either gone from Rome or dead. Or had perhaps never existed at all, except in a series of coincidences and a dwarf’s overheated imagination. It would not be the first time my flights of fancy had led me into trouble.

Sancha twisted her neck at my book. “Why would anyone bother teaching a dwarf to read? All you have to do in life is juggle.”

“Why would anyone ever bother teaching a princess to read?” I retorted. “All you have to do in life is flop on your back and produce babies.”

“I’ve got the first part all right.” She let out a giggle, buffing at her nails. They could have used a good scrubbing. “What’s that book there?”

“De Vita Caesarum.”

“It sounds dull.”

“It’s salacious imperial gossip about the old Roman emperors. I find Latin smut is much easier for a poor scholar like me to parse together than Latin prayers.”

Her lips curved. “Is there anything dirty?”

“Well, Emperor Domitian liked to depilate his concubines—pluck their hairs out one by one with tweezers.”

“Which hairs?”

“Which do you think?”

“Oooh.” Her eyes widened deliciously, and then she laughed. For a beautiful girl, Sancha of Aragon had a surprisingly nasty laugh. “Can you see the Holy Father doing that to Giulia Farnese?”

“Keep your tongue off my mistress, madonna.”

“Well, aren’t you the little champion?”

“I’m paid to be.” No use explaining friendship to a spiteful tart who didn’t believe dwarves had any more feeling in them than dogs. I turned a page.

“I don’t see why everyone thinks Giulia’s so special.” Sancha sounded resentful. She’d cut quite a dash at the Neapolitan court, and no doubt she’d intended to do the same here—but in Rome, it was Giulia Farnese who set the fashions. The virtuous women of the Holy City might shudder at the Bride of Christ’s reputation, but they devoured every detail of her appearance down to the last tassel and ribbon. Let Sancha of Aragon show herself at Mass in blue striped velvet, or Lucrezia Borgia in pink-and-silver checkered silk—if Giulia Farnese tripped out in pale green with a matching furred capelet, every woman in Rome was soon sporting the “Farnese green” and the “papal mozzetta.”

“Really, I don’t think she’s so beautiful at all,” Sancha continued peevishly, picking at her nails again. “I’ve got a far finer figure. Don’t you think, little man?”

I allowed my eyes to travel over her. “I’d have to make a comparison, Madonna Sancha.”

“You must have sneaked a look when La Bella was dressing.” Sancha tossed her head. “If you saw me without my shift, you’d give me the prize.”