Madonna Giulia appeared in the courtyard then: her breath misting white on the chill dawn air; Pantisilea tramping behind with the bundles; little Laura slumbering in her nurse’s arms wrapped in a spare furred cloak; her sister, Gerolama, following behind in a long stream of complaints. Giulia ignored her, looking as drawn and tired as I did, worn under the eyes as she went to join Madonna Adriana in the carriage. Leonello followed, La Bella’s eternal small shadow in black, and handed her in before scrambling up himself. As she disappeared inside I thought I saw the velvet gleam of the Pope’s huge teardrop pearl about her neck again. She hadn’t worn it all summer, but she wore it now. Somehow I didn’t think Orsino Orsini would be accompanying his wife in that carriage. He was there in the courtyard, bareheaded despite the chill, and Giulia looked at him out the window of the carriage as though asking him a question. He opened his mouth, but just closed it again and looked wretched. Giulia pulled Laura into her lap and didn’t look at her husband again.

The captain of the guards kicked his horse into a trot, spurring out of the courtyard toward the Montefiascone road. From the windows I thought I saw servants watching, and the rest of Madonna Giulia’s family, but I didn’t pay any attention to the faces. All I wanted to see was the road, the road, the road stretching ahead, leading me farther and farther away from the man locked in the storeroom.

By midmorning the roiling in my stomach had subsided almost entirely. The air was dry and cold, the sun shone overhead, and we rolled along briskly enough on the dusty road. Bartolomeo had grown restless and hopped out of the wagon to go loping alongside the wagons for a while, tossing a pebble up in the air and catching it again. The guards called back and forth to each other on their horses; Madonna Giulia sat gazing out the window of her carriage up ahead with her chin propped in her hand; I could hear the servants in the other wagon chattering. I could have ridden with them, but a good cook always rides with his equipment when traveling.

My father taught me that.