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of the larger streets and from there to the gate leading out into the city. Once we were free of the ghetto’s stifling confines, I all but sagged with relief. Nothing had prepared me for the suffering of Rome’s Jews. Even as I walked away quickly, I knew I would be haunted by what I had seen.
    Under the circumstances, and given that I had nothing of any substance to report to Il Cardinale, I persuaded Vittoro to escort me only so far as Rocco’s shop in the Campo. There the captain left me with my promise that I would not return to the palazzo without the guard he would send to fetch me.
    You may wonder why I went there. To put it plainly, I was overwhelmed and had no idea where else to turn. To all intents and purposes, I had failed in my first mission for Borgia, having discovered nothing to indicate what my father had been doing, much less records of his work. Sofia Montefiore claimed complete ignorance of his activities. The only other person I could think of who might know was Rocco.
    He was occupied at the furnace in the back and did not see me at first, giving me the opportunity to study him as he worked the massiveblowpipe he held as easily as though it were a feather. The sculpted muscles of his bare back flexed as he filled a molten lump of sand with breath, transforming it into a shimmering glass bubble streaked with crimson and azure.
    According to Pliny the Elder, the Phoenicians discovered the art of making glass, although some say it was known even earlier. The Moors in Andalusia refined the technique, producing works of astounding purity. But it fell to the Venetians to create glass of such breathtaking beauty as to be likened to the exhalations of angels. Rocco was a true master of the art and it was for that reason, and surely for no other, that I found him so fascinating to watch.
    I held back, not wanting to startle him, until he clipped off the finished goblet and set it on a nearby rack to cool. Only then did I muster a smile and step forward.
    For just a moment, as he caught sight of me, his expression was unguarded. I saw there—what exactly? Surprise, of course, for he could not have expected to see me again so soon, but something more. A flash of wary pleasure, perhaps, or was that merely a trick of the speckled sunlight filtering through the plane trees shading the yard? Surely there was nothing to merit the sudden flush of warmth that stained my cheeks and made me look away.
    “I need your advice,” I said simply and was relieved when he put down his tools and nodded.
    We sat again at the table near the back door, well away from the busy street. Nando was out playing with friends. For the moment, we were alone. Briefly, I described what had happened in the past day. I said nothing of the attack on me but saw him frowning at the bruise on my forehead, revealed when I absently brushed my hair aside.
    “Are you all right?” he asked.
    “Yes, of course. I am fine.” Uneasy beneath his penetrating gaze, I moved quickly to the reason for my visit.
    “Do you know what my father was working on at the time of his death?”
    “I do not,” Rocco said. “Why do you ask?”
    “Questions have come up,” I said carefully. “I am endeavoring to find answers.”
    “For Borgia? Is he the one asking questions?”
    “Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? It’s not as though I would run about asking at anyone else’s behest.”
    That was tarter than I had intended, but Rocco did not seem to mind. He leaned back, studying me, and said, “I made equipment for your father a few months ago, but it was of the same sort you just ordered and could be used for any number of purposes.”
    “He said nothing to you of why he wanted it?”
    The glassmaker hesitated a moment before replying, “Giovanni was always very discreet. He rarely spoke of his work in any but the most general terms.”
    “Were there never circumstances when he felt able to speak in greater detail? Perhaps in a gathering of like-minded