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my gown, I withdrew the knife I habitually carried and made a small slit along the side of the boy’s neck. At once, his blood began to flow. The color was dark red.
    “Not cyanide,” I said. Had it been, the nicked vein would have produced bright cherry-red blood, the only certain indication that the poison is present. One of the reasons cyanide is so popular among those of my profession is because the public, in its infinite wisdom, believes that it can be readily detected by the scent of almonds it gives off. But the scent is easily masked by any number of substances, including garlic, thereby instilling a false sense of security that can be very useful.
    “What else might it be, then?” Vittoro asked.
    “I don’t know. Was there anything unusual about his posture when he was found? Anything that might indicate that he’d had convulsions?”
    “There didn’t seem to be. He just looked as though he collapsed.”
    “Where are his clothes?”
    Vittoro handed them to me. They were in good condition for the boy’s station and ample enough to have kept him warm. Inhaling, I smelled damp wool, wood smoke, and a faint but not very intense odor of sweat. Nothing to indicate that he had been ill.
    “If you want to open him up…,” Vittoro began. Holy Mother Church forbid such treatment of the dead, even when it was the only means of establishing what had killed them. The prohibition had not stopped me in the past and would not have done so then, but there was no time. As I could not rule out the possibility that the boy had been poisoned, I had no choice but to act. His Holiness was about to dine.
    I jumped from the wagon, caught up my skirts, and ran. My presence was noted the moment I stepped into the kitchen. Work sputtered to a halt before the maestro di maestri barked a command and everyone snapped back into action.
    I forced a smile. “Is that pork I smell? For His Holiness?”
    The maestro assured me that it was, to be accompanied by Il Papa’s favorite apricot sauce as well as the savory peas he enjoyed and golden rounds of lightly fried chestnut meal, the achievement of such a meal under such lamentably primitive conditions being mentioned only once or twice—or thrice—as though in passing.
    “You have whetted my appetite,” I declared. “I must have a taste of everything.” This was not an unheard-of demand from me. During the frequent state dinners at the Vatican, Borgia liked for me to be present as a reminder of the care he took with his own safety and of the weapon he could unleash should he choose to do so. On such occasions, I preferred to eat first in the kitchens, where I customarily enjoyed a portion of the food prepared for His Holiness.
    I was not, contrary as it may seem, being entirely reckless; only somewhat. Most poisons in food can be detected by sight and smell, provided one knows what to look for. Of course, cooking and the addition of sauces make that task more difficult, but it was for just that reason that Borgia—like any sensible prince—employed someone of my dark calling.
    His Holiness’s dinner was already plated on gold serving pieces to be carried forth by pages wearing the mulberry and gold colors of the House of Borgia. They froze as I approached, their outstretched arms suddenly trembling under the weight of what they bore. I told myself that I had inspected the pork with the greatest care. The same was true of the apricots, peas, chestnut meal, and every other ingredient, as well as the wine. Every maestro di cucina knew better than to use anything that had not been sealed by me to indicate that it was safe. Forgeries were possible, but my father had caused the seal ring that he had used before it became mine to be wrought so intricately as to make copying it unusually difficult. Moreover, I changed the color of the wax I used daily, selecting randomly from among dozens of hues. The plain truth was that I had taken every possible precaution to assure that Borgia