I smiled at my brother: six years older than I, slender and dark-haired with a smile of demure wickedness like a fallen angel and his cardinal’s cap forever sitting at a rakish angle. I had another brother in my hometown of Capodimonte, and a sister married in Florence as well, but Sandro and I had always been each other’s favorites. We had the same dark eyes and the same sense of fun that danced behind them, and both were traits the rest of la famiglia Farnese sorely lacked.

“Not only amusing, but handsome as well!” Lucrezia certainly seemed to be admiring my brother’s eyes, and her lashes had a quick flutter for the rest of him, too. “Surely the handsomest man in the College! Except for my brother Cesare, of course. A girl must always support her big brother first—Giulia will understand that. Goodness, but it’s hot!”

The Pope’s daughter fluttered her fingers at the base of her throat, a gesture copied from Sancha to draw attention to her breasts, which had been powdered and trussed and laced into the lowest-cut gown I’d ever seen her wear. Orange-red brocade embroidered within an inch of its life, too ornate for a simple summer entertainment, but Lucrezia had been piling it on in these past months: wider skirts, lower necklines, more paint, more embroidery, more jewels; anything to make a splash. I couldn’t help looking at her thoughtfully as she chattered at my brother again.

“—we’ll be hearing more of those dull motets, I suppose. Ugh, but I don’t care if I never hear Josquin again. There’s something new, though; one of the court musicians set the Avernus sonnets to music.” Another sweep of lashes. Someone really should tell her not to overdo the lashes. “Surely you’ve read Avernus’s sonnets to his Aurora? I favor Sonnet II, but Giulia prefers Sonnet VI. Just because it has Aurora as Europa, borne off by Jupiter as a bull—”

“You know my fondness for bulls,” I said lightly, and Sandro gave a brief scowl. He’d never entirely reconciled himself to my status as the Pope’s mistress. It’s not precisely what most men want for their favorite sisters, is it? My little sister, the Pope’s mistress.