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the less crosses the room to a carved table below the window, upon which stand a number of Murano glass bowls and pots. Picking up one of these, he holds it in the palm of one hand, scoops two fingers into the contents, and walks back to me. I lean on one arm upon the table, and Modesto (none too gently) rubs the mixture onto both buttocks while I finish my peach. Despite his lack of finesse, the smarting skin feels cooled. Taking my wine with me, I cross to my bed and lie down on my stomach.
    â€œYou let that man go too far too often, Signora. It is unwise. How do you think you are going to be able to sustain the image of this…this…” he struggles to find the words “… this termagant with whom Signor di Cicciano so loves to fight—or the reincarnation of Aphrodite that the Maestre de Campo has practically started to worship , if every time you turn your back on the pair of them, they see that you have some other man’s red stripes across your arse? They won’t want you—either of them—if they see you as a victim. And you can’t afford to lose either one of them.”
    â€œI won’t lose them. I have them too firmly hooked.” My words are muffled from where my cheek is pressed into the pillow, but I am too tired to lift my head. “Stop being cross with me, will you? Why are you angry?”
    â€œBecause you never seem to know when you are well off, that’s why. It’s just like with Argenta and the Conte di Vecchio—you’re risking the patronage of two wealthy new devotees, both of whom are happily paying through the nose for their pleasures, just so you can indulge some poor creature who can’t actually afford you. You forget, I know exactly how little he pays.” Modesto jabs a finger in my direction.
    Now, I have always regretted telling Modesto why I choose to ask Filippo for such a small fee—he pays little more than half the amount the others give me each time. When I admitted it to him on that one thoughtless occasion, Modesto just stared at me in disbelief.
    â€œHe reminds you of your uncle?” I remember him saying, shaking his head as though doubting my sanity. “Your uncle ? Dear God, Signora, what was this? An incestuous childhood liaison or something?”
    â€œDon’t be disgusting!”
    â€œWell, what then? What is it about your uncle that could possibly make you wish to make a charity case out of Signor di Laviano?”
    I tried to explain it to him. It was not because of any great virtue of my Uncle Bigo’s—he was just kinder to me than anyone else was, I suppose. He made me laugh. Before my mother died—before I became the newly preferred target for my father’s drink-fuelled ill temper—my big, bulky, silver-haired Uncle Bigo’s visits were frequent and eagerly anticipated. After her death, however, he stopped coming. I was never told why. I haven’t seen him since I was seventeen.
    I glare at Modesto. “It’s my choice what my patrons pay me. I like Filippo,” I say. Modesto does not. “And he needs me.”
    â€œYou are worth far more than this, Signora—you could be greater than all of them: greater than La Rosa, than da Mosca; certainly far greater than Alessandra Malacoda, and she’s fucked royalty —though God alone knows what anyone sees in that stick-thin little trollop. All this misguided charity will do your reputation no good in the end—even if the man does remind you of some long-lost relative.”
    â€œVery well, I’ll ask Filippo to wield his belt more gently next time. Happy?” I can feel a scowl crumpling my face as I reach across and pick up my glass with fingers now sticky from the peach juice. I drain the last few mouthfuls and feel my head become woolly. My eyelids begin to close of their own accord, and I can feel the room circling slowly around me.
    â€œOh, go to sleep, Signora,” Modesto says