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revealed nothing at all startling, and Filippo was soon bored.
    He began to think back to the other evening at Francesca’s. Running his tongue over his lips, he pictured the door to her bedchamber. Ajar. He imagined pulling the door open as he did each week, and he smiled at the thought of the candlelight that always spilled out into the corridor, the warm smell of burning rosewood—she always had the fire lit—and the headiness of the cut flowers she liked so much. Breathing a little faster, Filippo ran the flat of his hand down over his breeches, rubbed his palm over his cock, and shut his eyes. Saw Francesca sitting on the edge of her bed. Saw himself crouching before her, his fingers gripping her knees. He swallowed, wiped his face, and returned to his translation. Into his mind came another, less welcome picture: a fleeting glimpse of the sweet curve of Maria’s lip. Filippo frowned and began once again to write—with every semblance of enthusiasm.
    ***
    â€œI worry about you, Maria,” Emilia said.
    Maria ignored her scowling sister. She closed her book, replaced the quill in its small iron pot, and rubbed at the ink stains on her thumb and first two fingers. Picking up the three small sheets of thick paper she had by now covered with scribbled notes, she read quickly through what she had written. A little crooked line puckered the skin between her brows, but as she finished reading, her expression cleared, and she tucked the three leaves inside the green leather-bound Book of the City of Ladies with an air of some satisfaction.
    Emilia’s arms were tightly folded, and her bottom lip pushed forward sulkily as she stood and watched. “What if it were to become generally known how many hours in a week you devote to your books?” she said. “And that book in particular. I do not believe I know any other woman who does what you do.”
    â€œIt is no secret, cara —” Maria began, but Emilia interrupted.
    â€œWell, it ought to be, Maria. It does not seem—I do not know what the word should be…”
    â€œWell, perhaps if you read a little more widely yourself, you would be able to find the words you seek with more ease,” Maria said sharply. “Come, let us go and take the air—and no more criticism of how I choose to spend my time. As we go, I will tell you something of de Pizan…perhaps her story will convince you that it is quite proper for women to choose to improve their minds.”
    â€œI doubt very much that Filippo cares for your studies…” Emilia muttered.
    Maria flushed. “I think that what passes between a wife and her husband should remain their business alone, do you not agree, Emilia?” And, tucking another curl back under her cap with fingers that shook, she stood and strode past Emilia to the door.
    The two sisters walked in silence through the narrow streets.
    Maria sensed rather than saw the sideways glances that Emilia threw toward her every few moments, but she made no attempt to talk to her. The stuff of their stiffened skirts whispered as they walked, as though in muffled conversation together, but other than this, the two women made no sound at all; each seemed absorbed in her own thoughts.
    But now it was no longer her book that occupied Maria’s mind: she thought instead of her husband.
    She was sure that Filippo believed she did not love him.
    The Sisters who had raised her so carefully after the death of both her parents had done their work well, she thought. As well as instructing her in the faith, they had taught her to read, to write both in Latin and Italian, to be intelligently curious about the world around her—and to regard the “will of the flesh’ with dark dread, in case it should lure her into irreparable sin. Even now, more than ten years a respectable wife, Sister Annunziata’s dire indictments still whined inside her head if ever she sensed Filippo’s gaze