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.
âYou 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 thisâ¦thisâ¦â he struggles to find the words â⦠this termagant with whom Signor di Cicciano so loves to fightâor 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 manâs red stripes across your arse? They wonât want youâeither of themâif they see you as a victim. And you canât afford to lose either one of them.â
âI wonât lose them. I have them too firmly hooked.â My words are muffled from where my cheek is pressed into the pillow, but I am too tired to lift my head. âStop being cross with me, will you? Why are you angry?â
âBecause you never seem to know when you are well off, thatâs why. Itâs just like with Argenta and the Conte di Vecchioâyouâre 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 canât actually afford you. You forget, I know exactly how little he pays.â Modesto jabs a finger in my direction.
Now, I have always regretted telling Modesto why I choose to ask Filippo for such a small feeâhe 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.
âHe reminds you of your uncle?â I remember him saying, shaking his head as though doubting my sanity. âYour uncle ? Dear God, Signora, what was this? An incestuous childhood liaison or something?â
âDonât be disgusting!â
âWell, what then? What is it about your uncle that could possibly make you wish to make a charity case out of Signor di Laviano?â
I tried to explain it to him. It was not because of any great virtue of my Uncle Bigoâsâhe was just kinder to me than anyone else was, I suppose. He made me laugh. Before my mother diedâbefore I became the newly preferred target for my fatherâs drink-fuelled ill temperâmy big, bulky, silver-haired Uncle Bigoâs visits were frequent and eagerly anticipated. After her death, however, he stopped coming. I was never told why. I havenât seen him since I was seventeen.
I glare at Modesto. âItâs my choice what my patrons pay me. I like Filippo,â I say. Modesto does not. âAnd he needs me.â
âYou are worth far more than this, Signoraâyou could be greater than all of them: greater than La Rosa, than da Mosca; certainly far greater than Alessandra Malacoda, and sheâs fucked royalty âthough God alone knows what anyone sees in that stick-thin little trollop. All this misguided charity will do your reputation no good in the endâeven if the man does remind you of some long-lost relative.â
âVery well, Iâll ask Filippo to wield his belt more gently next time. Happy?â 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.
âOh, go to sleep, Signora,â Modesto says
Serenity King, Pepper Pace, Aliyah Burke, Erosa Knowles, Latrivia Nelson, Tianna Laveen, Bridget Midway, Yvette Hines