Self-consciously I retreated behind the screen, untying the linen wrappings. If she put me in some motley suit or belled cap . . . On the other side of the screen I could hear her chattering to the maids, asking one how her lamed mother was faring, listening to the second confess her hopes of marriage to one of the Borgia guards. “I’ll speak to Madonna Adriana about him; I’m sure we can manage something. Is he handsome?”

I swallowed as I edged around the screen again. My mouth had gone dry, and I couldn’t stop looking down at myself. Madonna Giulia turned midchatter to look at me, the maids following her eyes, and I suddenly found my stomach fluttering. Don’t laugh, I thought wretchedly. Please don’t laugh. I had not been laughed at in so very long—I might still be a dwarf but I was respected in this household, my skills feared and whispered of, and if any guardsman or rude maidservant japed at me, I had the right to cut them down with my viper tongue with no fear of punishment because I was more valued here than they. No one had japed at me in so long. If La Bella looked down at me from the height of her beauty and gave one of her merry laughs—

She did laugh—she laughed and clapped her hands. “Dio,” she said softly, the sheer honest delight in her eyes stopping the sick swoop in my stomach, “Messer Leonello, I knew you were a handsome man!”

“Hardly.” I found my tongue again somehow as I looked down at myself. “Velvet feathers do not turn a lame bird into a peacock.”

“Hush.” She prowled around me consideringly. “Let me adjust those ties for you at the shoulder—girls, hold up my glass!”

The two maids brought the mirror over, tilting it down at an angle so I could see, and I swallowed at the sight of my own reflection. The livery Madonna Giulia Farnese had chosen for me was stark unadorned black velvet, a severely plain doublet tailored like a glove to the contours of my odd torso. The tabs at the armholes were cunningly tailored, extending my silhouette to make my shoulders look broader, my head less oversized. The shirt was crisp snowy white, just a thread of blackwork embroidery at the wrists—“No lace,” Giulia said behind me. “I did promise. And see, there are two sheaths sewn inside each cuff for those little wrist knives of yours.” I had warm black hose that fit my stunted legs without bunching, black boots to the knee, a belt of supple black leather with several more stitched sheaths for my Toledo blades. The household emblem of the Borgia bull and the papal keys was confined to a discreet badge on one sleeve.