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was completely dressed in his hose and tunic, his purse and riding gloves still in his belt. His features were so peaceful, so unaltered; I had seen him sleeping like that a hundred times. But as his father had pressed him—not so much with endless hectoring as with relentless encouragement—to undertake one military adventure after another, regardless that none had achieved result, the peace had vanished from poor Juan’s face, even when he slept. That was why he had begun to go elsewhere in the night, to find new faces that would not mirror how much his had changed.
    “Is he dead? He isn’t dead!” I shouted again and again. I tore aside his tunic, thinking that he could begin to breathe when his lungs were no longer constricted. That is when I saw the knife wounds, a half dozen on his torso alone. They no longer bled, but the water had widened each into an obscene little mouth, the flesh white at the lips, pale pink inside. Indeed no metamorphosis described by Ovid was ever as horrifying as this; it was as if beautiful Juan, his face still unblemished, had been transformed into some aquatic creature covered with gaping fish mouths. The slash across his throat was far the longest and deepest of these orifices; within it I could see the white bones of his neck. They had nearly decapitated him.
    So, my own life, my own soul, now you know what your mama sees whenever she looks upon dark water.

V
    I returned to my rooms, only to lie awake in bed. Yet I must have fallen asleep shortly before dawn, because when I opened my eyes again, the sun that pierced the cracks in the shutters was unbearably bright.
    “So much snow,” Camilla said as she stirred the coals in the brazier beside the bed. “It came down all night.”
    Wearing only my chemise, I padded barefoot across the icy tiles and flung open the shutters. The light seemed a thousand times brighter than even Valentino’s contrived explosion in the Inferno. With my hand I shielded my eyes and hardly noticed the cold.
    Our Lord has assigned Dame Fortune—that goddess known to the ancient Romans as Fortuna —dominion over this world, much to the delight of evil schemers, whom that bitch often favors over the good and just. But having threatened her worst, Fortune had granted me a brief reprieve. Because the fine points of Valentino’s treaty had yet to be sharpened, I might have sufficient time to draw a straight line between the murdered woman, Juan’s amulet, and the condottieri —thus establishing my innocence in the eyes of the pope, regardless of Valentino’s desire to keep the truth buried. And I had no intention of waiting for the latter’s determination of my “usefulness.”
    “I must learn the truth about this unfortunate woman,” I said, looking down at the thick snow in the courtyard; the Florentine and his mule had already traced a deep ellipse upon the glistening surface. “Her associations and why she was murdered.” I mused for only a moment before I added, “There are considerable ladies in the businesshere. Some of them must have kept company with the condottieri before they left Valentino’s employ. And I needn’t tell you where we will find them in greatest number—we should obtain invitation to some ambassadors’ suppers.”
    “Do you want me to talk to Messer Niccolò again,” Camilla said, having joined me at the window.
    I nodded absently. “It might be sensible to begin there. Surely he is a clerk with the Florentine embassy.” I blew out a breath. “I suppose I should make his acquaintance. I’ll get dressed.”
    I put on my thickest hose, calfskin half-boots, and the heavy wool dress I had worn for most of our journey here. But just as I snatched my plainest cape from out of my traveling chest, I heard Camilla say, “Madonna. The boy has come.”
    I went back to the window, observing the same boy we had seen on three previous occasions. But now his face was as red as a lobster’s back and I could hear him sputtering