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I’d not known she’d already been baptized, being but a day old when I came to her. He presses a thumb gently to her forehead, just as the priest must have done. “The prince himself stood for her, and so did Il Benedicto.”
    Two godfathers, and well chosen. Prince Cansignorio Scaligero is the most powerful man in the city, having killed his own brother this winter past to seize the rule of Verona. And Il Benedicto is the most pious, as resolved to be poor as the prince is to be rich. Il Benedicto owns nothing but a haircloth shirt, sleeps in the doorway of whichever church he finds himself nearest to when the curfew bells are rung, and eats only if some stranger, moved by some mixt of guilt and charity, presses food on him. No one knows his true name or his family or where he came from, nor why he chose, longer ago than anyone can remember, to evangelize in our streets. Some say Il Benedicto is too devout to abide the petty corruptions of a monastery. Others whisper he’s too unschooled to be allowed to join a religious order. But not one of the tens of thousands of souls in all Verona doubts that this pauper is the nearest of us to God. No man could do better than this calculating Lord Cappelletto has, guaranteeing his family the protection of both God and government by binding his daughter to such godfathers.
    His daughter, their goddaughter—but my darling lamb. And easier for me to scheme a way out of Ca’ Cappelletti with her, now that I know how much Lord Cappelletto wants the world to think him pious. “Bless the saints,” I say, and I do bless them, for giving me my chance to see Pietro, “if she is already baptized, she can join the children’s procession for the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin.” Making myself as big-eyed as a cow, I offer to carry her, if his lordship wishes it.
    He purses those liver lips, unsure. So I add, “Il Benedicto leads the procession, kneeling.” It is only a guess, but surely a good one, as Il Benedicto never misses a chance to inspire Verona with his bloody-kneed piety.
    “Make sure Il Benedicto blesses her on the steps of the Duomo, once everyone is assembled just before the procession starts,” he tells me. “And carry her toward the front of the cortege, near Prince Cansignorio’s favored nephews.”
    I nod my feigned obedience. What trouble is it to me to keep her close to the swaggering little counts, at least until I can slip away to see Pietro?
    But Lord Cappelletto will not leave me and Juliet be. He points to the empty cradle, with its sumptuous layette. “My daughter is not to be taken into a servant’s truckle-bed.”
    “She naps in the cradle. But nights are long for a child to be alone.” As they are for a full-grown woman. “If I keep her close, she’ll not cry.”
    Juliet gurgles a smile at him. Already she knows how to rule a man. Nestling against Lord Cappelletto, she softens him from an imperious father into something closer to a doting grandpapa. “I suppose if Juliet prefers it, you may put her down for the night in her bed, and lie there yourself,” he says. “Only until she is old enough to mind you sleeping beside her, but that will be some time yet.”
    Some time . I hold his words tight in my chest, guarantee of all the hours they promise I’ll have with Juliet.
    My breasts are hard and full again, and I reach for my nursling, needing her to suck the ache away. But before Lord Cappelletto will let me have her, he says, “Make sure Juliet wears the Cappelletto headpiece, always. Not only when you take her out, but whenever she is awake.”
    He means for me to know she is above me. But surely it is only him who is above, too certain of his superiority to see that silk and pearls and all King Midas’ piss-streams of gold could not equal the worth of what flows between my milk-babe and me.
    Juliet begins to work her mouth into the demanding circle I know so well. As her lips curl in and out, I wait, knowing that when the first cry comes