Well, I wouldn’t need to do much covering today. As long as I delivered Madonna Lucrezia’s sweetmeats for her wedding guests, after all, no one inside this insulated billow of kitchen steam would get in any trouble on account of Marco’s lapse. And if the maids and pot-boys no longer grumbled at my orders, well, they knew after a year of working side by side that if there was anyone who could roll out that endless line of wedding sweets in time, it was me. I smiled, giving an automatic pat to the little bundle of Santa Marta’s hand under my skirt, and reached for the bowl of caravella pears to try my miniature tourte again. Marco had objected, saying you could never make a tourte so small it could be eaten in one bite; the crust would surely blacken in the oven before the filling cooked.

My nose and I, we knew better.

Leonello

W ell?” my mistress said anxiously. “What do you think?”

She turned a circle before me, skirts flaring, and I looked up from the finger knife I was sharpening and scrutinized her top to toe: Giulia Farnese, now known to all Rome as Giulia la Bella, the Venus of the Vatican, the Pope’s beloved. Her famous hair had been twined at the back of her head into a complicated mass of gold plaits; she wore green and gold Spanish brocade with full flounced sleeves; her gold-embroidered slippers peeped out of her fringed hem. “Beautiful, of course,” I shrugged. “No different than the previous six dresses.”

“Don’t I look sallow in green?” Giulia gave another turn before me. “Please tell me I look sallow.”

“Why on earth do you want to look sallow, Madonna Giulia?” I slipped the finger knife back into its hidden sheath at my wrist.

“This is Lucrezia’s wedding day! Everyone has to look at her, not me or that primping girl who’s to carry her train, or anyone else. I need to look plain by comparison.” Giulia flew back behind her dressing screen again. “Very plain,” her voice floated out.

“Then put a sack over your head and be done with it,” I said, returning to my book.