“He’s Cardinal-Bishop of Porto e Santa Rufina,” Sandro began, ticking the titles off. “Administrator of Valencia, and spent some years there—he is a Spaniard, you know; Borgia used to be Borja. There’s some who said the Borja used to be Moors or Spanish Jews, but I wouldn’t put much stock in that. Dean of the College of Cardinals, which means he’ll summon the Conclave when it comes time to elect a new pope—”

“All these titles and elections,” I said, impatient. “Tell me the interesting parts!”

“Rich,” Sandro said. We had left the piazza now, plunging into the maze of narrow winding streets that coil and twist back on each other in such a vast citywide knot that any non-Roman is instantly lost. As none of them will hesitate to tell you, as soon as they sense you had the temerity not to be born in the Eternal City. “You saw his house—he’s one of the richest cardinals in Rome, I daresay.”

I thought of the huge pearl, currently lying on my windowsill where the sun could strike velvet gleams out of it. I’d flung it down there instead of locking it away in one of my chests, determined to let one of the servants steal it, and that would teach His Eminence a lesson when he learned I’d lost his precious present and didn’t even care . . . but none of the servants would touch it, too afraid of getting their hands chopped off as thieves, I suppose, and it really looked so pretty lying there in the sun gleaming and singing at me. I didn’t know what to do with it, only that I was not going to wear it.

At least not where anyone could see me.

“—bastards, of course,” my brother was continuing in his cheerful recitation of my suitor’s vices. “Seven or eight by various mothers, in Spain and Rome—”

“Five living, he told me.” I made a face. “I’ve met one—Juan; he’s sixteen. He’s forever dropping in to smirk at me and make rude remarks. There’s another son, supposedly; he’s only just returned from the university in Pisa; and a younger boy and girl who still live with Madonna Adriana, but they’re all visiting their mother now and I’ve not met any of them. If they’re anything like Juan, they’ll be a sorry batch.”

“All provided for, though,” Sandro allowed. “The daughter’s been dowered to the skies; Juan Borgia is Duke of Gandia in Spain—”

“I know. He’s forever underfoot. Duke or not, he’s still a witless, lecherous idiot.”

“—and the elder boy in Pisa was made Bishop of Pamplona by fifteen.” Sandro gave an envious shake of his head. “Oh, for a doting and all-powerful father. How am I ever supposed to be a bishop or a cardinal someday without one? I’m far too lazy to earn it.”