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could not entirely disguise a certain unease. He gave the device a slow, groaning quarter turn. “I like to think of this wheel as an ancillary to Dame Fortune's far more prodigious mechanism. When this wheel spins, it can turn a saint into a heretic and a heretic into a saint.” He looked at Caterina, his eyes swimming with a flagellant's desire. “Which would you rather be, my child: a heretic or a saint?”
    Caterina's face seemed to waver in the torchlight, flickering between generations; her lips were lush with prepubescent innocence, but she had the hard cheekbones of a thirty-year-old. “I would like to confirm our understanding,” she said in an assured woman's voice. “There are three benefices. The total income is two hundred ducats a year. They are to be assigned to my brother separately, so that he can sell one or two if the need arises.”
    The Cardinal nodded. “If your brother has your skill at mercantile transactions, my child, I am certain he will aggrandize these incomes in short time.”
    “He is an idiot who will gamble them away in a fortnight.” Caterina's eyes had a glassy determination. “I won't take all my clothes off. It's too cold in here.”
    “I don't expect you to,” the Cardinal whispered. “I am, after all, a prince of the Church.” He withdrew several lengths of gold cord from his ermine-trimmed cloak. “I think you can stand comfortably on the rim. I won't be giving you a spin.”
    Caterina stood on the rim and leaned back against the angled frame of the wheel. The Cardinal gently spread her legs and arms and with the cords tied her wrists and ankles. “My delicious little martyr,” he murmured reverently. “You are a far more felicitous vision of virtuous self-denial than one finds amid the obscene gore favored by these modern painters, who force one to count each droplet spurting from a saint's truncated neck. How very much more agreeable. I imagine you didn't know I was such a disciple of tradition, did you, my child?”
    The Cardinal drew closer, and his fingers hovered over the hooks that fastened Caterina's cioppa. “May I peek?” he whispered. Caterina responded with a high-pitched giggle. The Cardinal unhooked the cioppa and spread the fur lapels gently aside. Caterina wore a gown in the currently fashionable style called a camora; the tight bodice had a deeply cut, rectangular neckline that revealed Caterina's prominent collarbones and an impressive amount of firm, high bosom. The Cardinal sighed admiringly. After a few moments' contemplation, his fingers delicately worked at the laces of the bodice; he then spread the bodice apart and slipped the underlying chemise off Caterina's shoulders and breasts. “Ah,” he sharply exhaled. “Your nipples are hard.” Caterina giggled again.
    The Cardinal stepped back and drew up his floor-length velvet robes. He fumbled for a moment, then rocked his hips in a steady, swaying rhythm. Caterina smirked and teasingly pressed her erect nipples toward him.
    The light in the room rippled and brightened. Suddenly Caterina's eyes were wide with fear, as if she were a real victim on the wheel. The Cardinal observed her response and stopped masturbating.
    “You are a dedicated servant of God, Your Reverence. I can see that you practice your collegial duties even when absent from Rome.”
    The Cardinal let his robes fall, then turned and inclined his head in acknowledgment. The Duchess of Milan stood in the doorway like a condemned man's last vision. The Cardinal made the sign of the cross with wry urgency.
    “Administer your sacraments elsewhere, Reverence. I have business with my lady-in-waiting.” Isabella's voice was husky and calm.
    The Cardinal shrugged, retrieved one of his torches, and left. The Duchess of Milan stepped in front of Caterina.
    “I need you to perform for me as well. Tonight, at the ladies' ball in honor of the Duchess of Bari. The time has come to do away with Cecilia Gallerani.”
    Caterina snorted