“The Neapolitan ambassador described her as small-statured.” Lucrezia and I had devoured every bit of news we could gather about Sancha of Aragon: sixteen-year-old bastard daughter to the would-be King of Naples, bride-to-be of little Joffre Borgia, and the marriage link my Pope had devised to bind Naples to his interests. The wedding wasn’t to be announced until Christmas, but rumors flew.

“They say she’s pretty, too . . .” Lucrezia frowned down at her bosom. “And curvaceous!”

“But she’s dark.” I slipped an arm about Lucrezia’s waist, holding up a carved hand mirror to reflect both our faces. “So we two blond beauties can’t possibly be outshone. You must have a new dress for Joffre’s wedding—fresh hems on old gowns are very well for every day, but everyone who is anyone will be there to see Joffre and Sancha married. Pale green silk, I think, with silver brocade sleeves so you look like a mermaid . . .”

Lucrezia’s face brightened in the mirror, but only for an instant. “You think my father will let my Lord Sforza accompany me to the wedding?” she ventured.

“Perhaps you can ask,” I said lightly. “Now, let’s try this gown here with a pair of yellow sleeves—”

“I have asked! He just says my husband is to keep his distance till I’ve properly grown. I have grown. I’m fourteen, and I’m taller than you!”

The maidservants looked at each other, and I shooed them back. Lucrezia made an angry swipe at her eyes with the back of her hand. Leonello turned a page, deaf in his corner, and I went on pulling a yellow silk sleeve over Lucrezia’s arm. “Fathers aren’t always the most keen-eyed when it comes to seeing that their daughters have turned into women,” I murmured, soothing.

“I’m Countess of Pesaro, and I’ve never even shared a roof with my husband, much less a bed.” Lucrezia’s lower lip pushed out. “I’m a married woman, and I’m still living in my father’s household learning French verbs and Greek translations and—and Machaut songs. Everyone laughs at me, I’m sure of it. They think Lord Sforza doesn’t want me—they think he won’t have me in Pesaro with him because I’m ugly, or because I’m bastard-born—”

“Nonsense.” I began tying the silk laces of her sleeve, tugging puffs of gauzy shift out through the fashionable slashes. “I saw him at the wedding; he went round-eyed at the sight of you.”

“Caterina Gonzaga said he was looking at you!”