“Dinner.” Carmelina regarded the goat grimly. “It’s been escaping the kitchen ever since last night, trailing after whoever it could find. You’d think it would be smart enough to know it’s going to end up spitted and stuffed, but I suppose goats aren’t known for their brains.” Her tone turned musing. “The brains can be very tasty too—chopped up small with sweet marjoram and parsley . . .”

“You can’t kill him,” I protested. “Look at that face!”

The goat kid gave another pathetic baaaaa. Carmelina looked down at him, fists on hips. “Looks like dinner to me, Madonna Giulia.”

“Well, he’s not.” I scooped the goat up into my lap. Lucrezia giggled as he began to nibble on a corner of her sleeve, and I stroked the floppy white ears. “I’m granting him a reprieve from execution.”

“Where were you when I was arrested?” Leonello murmured, or I thought he murmured, but he had retreated back behind his book again.

“What else can I make for evening cena?” Carmelina was demanding. “We don’t have roast kid, we’ll be reduced to pottage and hot sops.”

“I don’t mind pottage and hot sops,” I wheedled, cuddling the goat. “Do you, Lucrezia?”

“No, no, please don’t kill him!”

Carmelina gave a dour look at the goat. “You got lucky,” she told it, and turned to go.

“Who do you favor for Pope, Signorina Cuoca?” Leonello looked up at her from his book. “Our Cardinal Borgia? Or one of your fellow Venetians, Cardinal Girardo or Zeno or Michiel?”

“It’s none of my business,” she said curtly.

“If we only concerned ourselves with our own business, life would be very dull.” Leonello’s smile was lazy. “I find your business, for example, very interesting indeed.”

Carmelina gave a scowl and vanished. My favorite cook had not taken to my new bodyguard. Every time he addressed her, she looked as if she wanted to scratch and spit.

“You shouldn’t needle her,” I told him as the door slammed behind her. “It doesn’t do to offend the cook—you’ll eat nothing but burned stews.”

“I can’t help it.” He looked at the door where Carmelina had vanished. “That’s a woman with secrets if I ever saw one.”

“We all have secrets. Don’t you?”

“Oh, many.”

“Tell me one. More than a fortnight you’ve been my shadow, and I don’t know anything about you.”

“Are you sure you weren’t switched at birth with a peasant baby, Madonna Giulia? Girls of your birth and rearing do not care to know about the lives of their servants.”

“All right, keep your secrets.” I stroked the goat in my lap, distracting him from nibbling on my sleeve. “At least tell me what you’re reading.”