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drawing room, our lives, again.’
    I felt hypnotised by his words. I heard a passion in them that both frightened and excited me. For a moment he stared at me across the table and I felt caught in his gaze, unable to break the contact.
    Father slammed his hand down on the table, violating the spell Caesare had me under. Silence deafened me. I was aware that we were all looking to the head of the table waiting for his response. Waiting as if for judgement. I wondered briefly if he had noticed the change in my brother then. Father was worldly wise, maybe he could tell that we had sinned. My cheeks reddened with guilt as my Father’s eyes flicked from one to the other of us.
    ‘It is the last I will say on the matter, Caesare. My will is law in this household and in all of Rome. I will not be questioned.’ His voice was firm but barely above a whisper and we knew that when he spoke this way he was at his most furious.
    Caesare knew better than to enrage Father further and he fell silent. His eyes flicked briefly in my direction and seemed both pained and angry. We continued eating as a family: solid and united under our Father’s rule, even when his rule went against our own wishes and needs. Father was Pope. He was the law. He had ultimate power over us as the head of our household. And I, as a woman, had even less say. The law would uphold his right to marry me to anyone he chose. If I refused I could be cast out on the streets to an unknown fate. Until that moment refusal had never even occurred to me. After all, this was sixteenth century
    Rome and no woman went against her husband or father. I imagined the possible consequences; my Father’s raised hand coming down across my face. I saw myself thrown out into the courtyard dressed in rags. I shuddered as any hope of freedom crumbled away and died. I envisaged myself as a daisy, failing to flourish as ice-cold rain beat it down into the mud.
    ‘Are you cold?’ Guila asked kindly.
    ‘No.’ I shook my head, my gaze flicking to my Father as he ate enthusiastically, clearly giving me no more thought. I had lost my appetite.
    ‘You may use my shawl if you like.’
    I met her eyes and for the first time I beheld sympathy. Guila had always been pleasant to me, but somewhat distant. She wasn’t my mother and had never made any attempt to replace her. However, she loved my Father and had at least tried to care for us. She, as a woman, also knew what the rule of a lover or husband meant. She was, although willing, as much a prisoner of her destiny as I.
    ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
    She smiled at me and I looked down at my plate feeling even more certain that the marriage would happen. Her behaviour was a further sign of my fate being sealed. I placed my fork down and took a sip of wine. I didn’t want to marry. I was afraid. What if my new husband knew on our wedding night that his bride was not a virgin? How would I ever explain that to my Father? I looked again at Father as he scooped a few more pieces of meat onto his plate and consumed several glasses of wine as he ate. He was oblivious to my fears. Or maybe he just didn’t care. A daughter could be an asset and a burden. The right marriage was the ultimate goal. If he believed that this was the right match, then it was decided.
    Dinner ended and Guila and I stood, curtseying to Father. Then I followed Guila out of the dining room.
    ‘Thank you for trying,’ I whispered, as I passed Caesare who stood respectfully as we left the room.
    He looked into my eyes, his expression unfathomable. ‘Let’s go riding tomorrow morning, Luci.’
    I left the room without further comment as the brandy decanter was opened and the men began to talk politics. I felt, as I always did in those moments, intensely curious. Their intellectual conversations interested me far more than sitting in the drawing room sewing with Guila. Being sent away always annoyed me, and I often wondered what discussions I had missed. The mystery of men