I’d never seen Giulia naked, nor to my knowledge had any man who wasn’t the Holy Father, but I had no intention of saying so.

Joffre Borgia’s wife looked down at me through her long lashes, and I saw a spark of interest in her eyes—a spark I’d seen before in the eyes of other women. “Tell me, are you little and stunted everywhere?”

Ah, the eternal question. Female curiosity; it’s put more women in my arms than you might think. Though never a princess. “Am I stunted everywhere?” I repeated, giving Sancha a slow, cool smile. “Perhaps you’d like to find out for yourself, madonna.”

She leaned down, smelling of overripe flowers. Her breath was hot and spiced on my face. “All those dirty things in that book, little man. Is that what dwarves like? Do you like to pluck out hair too?”

Dio. I linked my fingers around the back of her neck and yanked her mouth against mine, just to shut her up. She gave a gasp of surprise, but then her tongue darted into my mouth, and her teeth scored my lip.

I drew back, touching my lip where she’d drawn a bead of blood. Private rumor among the guardsmen had it that Sancha of Aragon liked rough handling, both giving it and receiving it, and for once rumor appeared to be correct. “I don’t need books for inspiration,” I said finally, and flipped De Vita Caesarum closed before she could ask any more sordid questions about the plucking out of hair.

She looked pleased at my daring, and her hand strayed to toy with the lacing at my shirt. “Cesare has some books that would make a churchman go blind. Any churchman but him, that is.” Her fingers petted my chest as though she were caressing a lapdog. “Cesare likes to tie me down, you know. Like a crucifix, with my arms out, and then he does whatever he likes to me.” She lowered her voice. “And what he likes is to hurt me.”

My fingers froze, moving through her hair. “Does he, now?”

She arched a little, giving a shiver and a purr at once. “Sometimes I think he won’t stop. Not till I’m dead.” She didn’t appear too disturbed by the thought. To girls like Sancha of Aragon, rough play is all a game, just another way to lead a man about by the balls. She’d shriek bloody murder if the rough play ever got dangerous. But it never would, because who dares seriously hurt a king’s daughter? No, she’d play her little games around the fringes of the dark things, fancying herself so daring, and the girls like Anna were the ones who died when they did the same.