“Rodrigo.” I took my Pope’s big hand in both of mine, my sore heart softening just a little, though my pulse still pounded outrage. “Rodrigo, you know you have nothing to fear on that score, I—”

“We are Pope, Giulia Farnese, and We fear nothing.” He jerked his hand from mine, turning in a quick whirl like a bull about to storm into the arena. And oh, Holy Virgin, but it was a bad sign when the papal We emerged. “It is late. There is work to be done. We shall bid you good night.”

I felt like I’d been slapped. Hot tears sprang to my eyes and a tight misery clutched my chest, but I pushed it down. “And Laura?” I couldn’t help whispering.

“Will remain an Orsini.” Rodrigo looked at me over his shoulder, and I saw the glint of steel in his eyes. “Really, Giulia, you’re very lucky she was born a girl. If you’d borne a son, I’d be far more angry with you!”

“Your Holiness,” I managed to say, flat-voiced, trying to hide how very much that hurt me. He gave an angry jerk of his chin, not quite a farewell, certainly not the fond kiss with which he usually left me, and I stood clutching myself, cold and naked and miserable as the door banged behind him. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the tears burn my cheeks. My Pope gave me pearls and diamonds and velvet gowns; he gave me a silver teething ring for Laura and a cardinal’s red hat for my favorite brother—but he wouldn’t give a name to my daughter.

Not that.

Apparently even the Venus of the Vatican cannot have everything.

Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

It is better to be feared than loved.

—MACHIAVELLI

Carmelina

You,” I told Bartolomeo, “are a disgrace. You are unfit to do so much as sweep a floor in my kitchen. You bring shame to the skill of good cooks everywhere, and you will die a miserable failure unable to even boil an egg.”

Needless to say, I was delighted with my new apprentice.

“What’s wrong with it?” Bartolomeo stared crestfallen at the toughened egg lying before him like a little stone. “I’ve seen my mother do this—”