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the spasmodic tics of human endeavor, the aimless urgency, the pride of it. The superbia . Hurrying feet, muttered curses, cross remarks sent winging about the estate. The child fled to keep out of the way, and hunched on the bottom step of the outer staircase, hugging her knees to herself.
    I could make out the very lashes on her inky eyes, you see, I could smell her very purity.
    Vicente was tersely chiding a maid about the unsavory state his better attire seemed to be in. From the kitchen, Primavera’s voice rang with impatience. Fra Ludovico kept himself safely out of the way, polishing the ornamental candlesticks to be used at Mass. So Bianca happened to be alone when the entourage rounded the last steep curve in the road and drew abreast along the stone wall that shored up the gardens hanging above. The urchin stood there with her chin dropped, studying the roof of the palanquin, until the mounted soldier said, “Run and tell the lord of the house we have arrived.”
    â€œWho is it?” said Bianca, a reasonable enough question, as the man was only one, and we implied a pair at least.
    â€œThe Duc de Valentinois and his sister.”
    A pale hand appeared in a seam of velvet drapes, as if considering whether or not to open them to the light. My eye fell on the jewel, an irregularly faceted ruby of uncertain clarity but with striking purple depths.
    â€œOh,” said Bianca, “a friend to play with.”
    Then the hand disappeared—perhaps the sister had caught a glimpse of Bianca, or had realized that a voice so youthful wasn’t worth the effort of attending. The brother apparently knew his sister well and waved the bearers on. Sweating and grunting, the attendants pressed forward until the equipage had been lifted up the last rise to the villa’s front door, and set down on a length of tapestry laid out for the purpose.
    â€œDe Nevada. You rascal, we’re here,” shouted the man. “You’ll leave us languishing like a fishmonger and his prize salmon out here?”
    The attendants stood back. As Vicente rushed out, in a robe of charcoal blue, the curtains in the palanquin parted and the sister emerged, blinking as if she’d just woken from a sleep.
    Bianca moved forward from the shadows to see.

I am a girl
who did no wrong

    I am a girl who did no wrong.
    I walked this side of Gesù when I could.
    I kept an angel in my apron pocket.
    I do not think it did me any good.

Cesare

    T HE MAN was a young brute, one of those handsome men who knock mountains to one side in order to clear the view. Primavera was both smitten and on her guard. She saw how his feet gripped the ground as he dismounted, as if his boots were filled with bronze feet, as if he were in the act of being cast already as his own statue. His dark eyes were tigers, prowling to strike at threats.
    â€œVicente,” he said, “a basin of water for the face, a basin of wine. There are plans to arrange tonight, and little enough time.”
    â€œThat man has a storm of beauty in his face,” said Primavera, backstairs. “He looks as if he could easily wrestle any squid out of the water.”
    â€œHe is a monster sinner,” said Fra Ludovico, fussing at his vestments. “Don’t you know who it is? It’s Cesare Borgia, the son of the Spanish Pope. To plot a vendetta, no doubt, to lay waste to more of our homeland. Is he requisitioning troops again?”
    â€œHis campaigns cost me the lives of both my sons,” said Prima-vera. “They were fools to allow themselves to be conscripted, but they were my fools. I hope Don Vicente is cannier than they were, rest their souls.”
    â€œHe’s a guest of our master,” said Fra Ludovico. “Don’t get any ideas about dishing up vengeance or anything foolish like that, or we’ll all be slaughtered in our beds before morning.”
    â€œI like a man who wears his implement so prominently,” said