“How old were you when we last had a papal Conclave?” he continued, that deep bass voice rolling about the painted vaults of the sala. “Perhaps you don’t remember that charming custom the mob has of sacking the old residence of the new Pope? One can track the rise and fall of the votes by counting what looters come to which doors . . . not that I have any likelihood of donning the papal tiara, of course, but sometimes the sacking begins before the vote is strictly over, and encompasses the losers as well as the winners.” He gestured around the rapidly emptying room. “Should any looters come to my palazzo, they will find it empty of anything worth stealing.”

“Almost.” I threw back the cloak I’d worn in the summer heat to cover my rich dress on the seething streets. His necklace looped my throat, the huge teardrop pearl almost disappearing between my breasts. He stopped in his tracks, his eyes fastening on it.

Wife, nun, or whore, my mother’s voice whispered in my ear. Once you’ve chosen, there’s no changing it. I’d become a wife, and I’d assumed my life complete: fulfilled, finished, tied up with a ribbon. Things hadn’t quite turned out that way, had they?

My Cardinal stood gazing at me. I reached into my sleeve, taking something out and holding it in both hands, and his breath caught as he saw his pomegranate. The fruit’s rosy skin split easily, even though my hands were trembling, and I heard Carmelina the cook’s crisp Venetian voice in my ear now. Nuns become whores, whores become wives, wives become nuns. And some are a combination of two or three. Words that had echoed strangely through my head all week. Was I here because of them?

No matter. I was here. And I never looked away from my Cardinal’s dark gaze as I dug half a dozen jewel-like seeds from the pomegranate and swallowed them.