“Your father will kill you,” Marco groaned. “He’ll kill me, if he catches us—”

Probably. “Marco, do you really have nothing but ricotta between the ears?” I put just a hint of tartness into my voice, like the last squeeze of lemon juice going into a sweet sauce to give it bite. “Forget my father and look at what I’m giving you. Your post with Madonna Adriana, safe and sound—and with my father’s recipes you can be the best cook in Rome just as he’s the best cook in Venice. In return, all I ask is shelter. A place in the world for your newly orphaned cousin Carmelina, come to live with her cousin and of course devote her labors to his kitchens.”

He chewed his lip.

“Madonna Adriana won’t fuss,” I wheedled. “Not when I work free. And her new daughter-in-law can’t stop raving about my marzipan tourtes.”

Marco looked at me, then down at his wine. I drained mine, not taking my eyes off him though I heard movement in the next room. The Cardinal’s household, stirring at last. Servants would be bustling into the kitchens at any moment.

“So—” I raised my eyebrows. “Do we have a bargain?”

Giulia

A good dose of sugar does wonders for one’s state of mind. After devouring all the marzipan and half the baked apples at the crack of dawn (I always eat when I’m upset), I had a cautious flash of insight: Maybe my husband hadn’t come to my bed last night because he was drunk and felt he might prove incapable? Even virgin girls like me knew what could happen to a man after too much wine. Perhaps he’d had one cup too many last night, so his mother scolded him and told him to wait until he was sober. Could that be why he’d said he wasn’t allowed?

Surely Orsino would come to me today. Perhaps even this morning: a passionate young man kicking down my door, impatient to possess his beloved. It was just like the fantasies I’d dreamed up as I read Petrarch’s sonnets, imagining what would happen if Petrarch had ever summoned the courage to simply sweep golden-haired Laura into his arms rather than moon about kissing her discarded gloves and writing her some admittedly excellent poetry. Surely Orsino had more courage than Petrarch—at least I was his wife, unlike Laura, who had been somebody else’s wife—and Orsino had a perfect right to sweep into my chamber if he liked. So I stuffed the crumb-scattered plates under the cushions on the wall chests, rinsed my mouth with rosewater from the ewer until my breath was sweet, pinched my cheeks to make them glow, and crawled right back into bed with my hair freshly combed about my shoulders. And once again, waited.