I clenched a fist around the necklace and stormed back to my chamber. I wished Madonna Adriana had still been there, with her creamy satisfied smile—I’d have flung that pretty pearl in her face. As it was, there was only my new maid Pantisilea, going through my boxes and chests.

“Are you spying on me?” I shouted.

“Madonna Adriana’s orders.” My maid looked apologetic. “Did you meet the Cardinal, Madonna Giulia? Is he handsome? I haven’t seen him up close—”

“Get out!” I shouted. “Get out and stay out!”

Her eyes fastened on the necklace looped through my fingers. “Oooh, that’s pretty! I like a bit of jewelry myself; it shows a man has serious intentions—”

“Out!”

“I’m going, Madonna Giulia, I’m going.”

She gave me a curtsy and a comradely giggle as she scampered out, which I resolutely refused to return in kind. “Your name is ridiculous!” I yelled after her instead, slamming the door. Pantisilea, indeed. That nosy piece of string was no Amazon warrior queen; she wasn’t even a maid—she was a common spy. A spy of my very own, to keep my mother-in-law informed of all my actions, all my doings, all my secrets. I had no one to trust here at all.

I upended the table beside the bed, taking a small mean comfort in the crash of a vase, a goblet, and a prayer book. I flung the pearl necklace down on my wedding chest and eyed it as though it were a snake. I would not try it on.

Not for another hour, anyway.

I held out that long.

My Cardinal had good taste in jewels, I’d say that for him. I’d still throw his pearls at his feet if he dared call on me again. “Take that, Cardinal Borgia,” I said aloud, tugging the rope of pearls over my head.

Rodrigo Borgia. I’d finally remembered his name.

When a man gives you jewels, even if you’re planning to throw them back in his face, you should remember his name.

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Saturn has impressed the seal of melancholy on me from the beginning.

—FICINO

Leonello

H ector, son of Priam, fierce as flame. I declaimed the words silently, reading from the book in my hand as I strolled across the piazza. Thrice-noble Hector, seizing from behind, sought by the feet to drag away the dead, cheering his friends—

A properly gloved and veiled housewife on her way back from confession gave me a dubious glance. My lips must be moving along with my thoughts, like a mumbling madman. I made her an impeccable bow and said gravely, “‘Thrice, clad in warlike might, the two Ajaxes drove him from his prey.’ Did you know that, good signora?” I showed her the book. “Thrice!”