Carmelina Mangano’s long face appeared cautiously around the door frame. “I’m sorry to interrupt, madonna—but do you wish me to postpone cena? The dishes have been ready an hour, if you wish to eat . . .”

“Thank you, Carmelina. We’ll eat shortly.” I smoothed the front of my loose Neapolitan overgown, trying to unclench my fingers, and motioned her in. “You might as well know,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even. “I set off in the morning.” I looked at Orsino. “For Rome.”

“We do?” My cook blinked at that.

“Yes. Dawn if we can manage—” I broke off in surprise as Carmelina straightened, turning her face toward me full-on. “Holy Virgin,” I said, distracted despite myself. “What’s happened to you?” Her right cheek was one massive livid bruise.

She hesitated. Her eyes flickered as though she were thumbing through various stories, and she finally mumbled something about one of the travelers from Venice whom I had welcomed when they begged a night’s hospitality. I didn’t know whether to believe her, but she cut me off when I asked for the man’s name. “Just one of the cooks, madonna. It doesn’t matter if we’re leaving tomorrow anyway.” Carmelina hesitated, eyes flickering again. “Though if it’s not too much to ask—could we leave by the Montefiascone road? The Venetians, they’re setting out tomorrow too, and one of their guardsmen told me they meant to take the other road. If we were to leave by way of Montefiascone, we wouldn’t have to travel with their party . . .”

“Of course.”

She was gone with a swift bob of a curtsy, relief in every line of her body. I turned back to Orsino and Adriana, both still regarding me. “Enjoy cena, both of you,” I said. “I have a great deal of packing to do.”

Adriana’s face had turned looked thoughtful. “You have gotten quite independent, haven’t you, Giulia Farnese?”

“Perhaps,” I said, and looked at Orsino. “I am twenty years old, after all—no longer quite such an ignorant little goose as I used to be.”

My husband’s whole body was hunched with misery. “Giulia—”

I looked at him, my husband in the blue doublet that matched his eyes. Eyes all soft with love, and full of tears. I’d been so touched, these days past when he was wooing me. Touched enough to imagine myself at his side, his wife in truth and not just in name.

“Giulia,” he said again. “I’ll take you back—when the Pope doesn’t—I mean, when he’s . . .” Orsino cleared his throat. “Our own life in Carbognano, and our own children—I’ll grow all the roses you want in the garden—”

“I want you to grow a spine,” I said, and slammed the door.

Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN