“Don’t worry, Sandro.” I aimed my brightest smile up at my brother, who still looked worried. “I shouldn’t have troubled you. It’s just an old man with a wandering eye, after all—you think I can’t defend my own honor against that? In truth I’m flattered! It’s much more entertaining to be a wife than an unmarried girl, I can tell you. Come, we’re almost back to the palazzo, I’ll show you my new quarters. I live better than a princess now—I know you said the Orsini were rich when Orsino began inquiring for me, but you have no idea. Embroidered Spanish velvet for my bed hangings, and such a carpet . . .”

Carmelina

T he room I was allotted in the servant quarters of the Palazzo Montegiordano was tiny. Just enough for a pallet and a small chest that doubled as both chair and storage for my clothes. I could touch all four walls without moving from the spot.

Santa Marta save me, it was paradise.

Madonna Adriana da Mila had started to fuss when Marco presented his newly orphaned cousin from Venice. “Cousin?” she said dubiously, looking from Marco to me, and I suppose she thought he was just trying to bring his whore into the household for easier access.

“Cousin,” I said firmly, and cast my eyes down and let Marco do the arguing as a good girl should when accompanied by the man, be he father, husband, brother, or cousin who owns her life.

Madonna Adriana brightened when Marco mentioned my skills as a cook: “The marzipan tourtes, those were her own contribution to the wedding feast, madonna. I believe the bride spoke highly of them? Carmelina’s skill with sweets is surpassed only by my own—”

I took a moment to huff quietly through my nostrils at that, but I kept my eyes lowered and let Marco take the credit. Maybe he was getting the credit for my wedding feast, but I was getting something in return, so all in all you couldn’t say I hadn’t been paid a fair wage for my work.

Madonna Adriana brightened even further when I murmured that of course I would be adding my hands to the kitchen at no extra cost to Marco’s wages. “I can’t give you a room, now,” she warned. “Perhaps a pallet in one of the storerooms . . .”

In the end I had my little cubby, which had once been a spare storage space for oil jars. I didn’t mind; the whole little space had the tang of good olive oil, and when I stretched out in my little bed at night I breathed it in rapturously as I slid into sleep. The first sleep I’d had in months that hadn’t been broken by fearful dreams.