Belladonna smiled widely as some of the guests seated close enough to hear Cass tittered and winked at each other.
Cass felt more embarrassed than ever. It was as though everyone were laughing at a joke whose punch line she had misunderstood. Her stays were pressing down on her chest, and the high collar was squeezing her neck, trapping her breath deep in her throat. “Are you going to open it?” She gestured at the gift, hoping to divert the guests’ attention.
“Does everyone think I should?” Belladonna read the rolled parchment attached. “It’s from Don d’Agostino.”
The guests sitting closest to Belladonna all nodded their approval. Madalena leaned in to Cass and whispered something in her ear about how handsome Don d’Agostino was. “If I weren’t so mad for Marco . . . ,” she said, giggling, and Cass realized she was a little bit tipsy.
Belladonna set down her knife and fork and dabbed primly at her mouth with her napkin. She tugged at the brown paper wrapping, folding it back to reveal a sturdy crate. Lifting off the top, she tilted the opening toward the far end of the table so that everyone could see the contents. Cass had been in the middle of taking a drink of wine and nearly dropped a half-full glass of sweet burgundy in her lap. The entire crate was tightly packed with books, their spines a rainbow of vivid colors.
“Do you like to read, dear?” Belladonna asked Cass curiously. “You look as though I’ve uncovered a crate of gold.”
“I do,” Cass admitted. “My aunt has quite a collection, but yours outstrips it in every way.”
“What is your favorite?” Belladonna asked. The rest of the table had fallen quiet. Even among Belladonna’s learned friends, it was unusual for a young girl to be so interested in reading.
“I enjoy the writing of Michel de Montaigne,” Cass said carefully.
Belladonna’s dark eyes brightened. “He is a favorite of mine as well. ‘Age imprints more wrinkles in the mind than it does on the face.’”
“It does for you ladies, anyway,” the man sitting across from Cass said with a chuckle.
As the guests finished supper, the servants cleared plates and filled cups of coffee and tea. Cass seized the opportunity to have some coffee. She liked the earthy Spanish beverage that the pope had only just declared acceptable. Of course, Agnese abhorred it, as she did almost anything that was new or different.
A man dressed in white, whom Cass presumed was the cook, waddled into the room with a huge cake balanced precariously on a silver tray. The cake was several layers high, and decorated with what looked like real flower petals.
“Before we enjoy this lovely dessert,” Belladonna said, “there is one other gift I’d like to share with you.” She signaled one of the serving boys and spoke some low commands into his ear. He nodded and hurried from the room. Everyone waited expectantly, looking around with amused glances.
A minute later, Falco shuffled into the room with a large rectangle under his arm. Was it Cass’s imagination or did he look pale? The serving assistant came behind him carrying an easel, practically nudging Falco forward. Cass raised an eyebrow at him, but Falco refused to meet her gaze.
Belladonna tapped her fingers on the long table and the room went silent. “Close your eyes,” Belladonna commanded.
Everyone but Cass obeyed.
“You too, Signorina Cassandra,” Belladonna said drily. Cass, flushing, squeezed her eyes shut.
“This is the best sort of gift: one I commissioned for myself,” Belladonna said. Around Cass, the guests laughed politely.
“Ready? Open your eyes.”
Falco’s newest painting of Belladonna stood at the head of the table. It was a reworking of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. Instead of lovely Venus, it was Belladonna who stood mostly nude in the painting, her right breast and thigh covered by her dark swirling mane. Instead of a seashell, she was springing forth from the blooms of a rose.
The guests broke into applause. Cass found herself applauding along with them, although she felt dazed, as though her head had detached from her body. She couldn’t stop staring at Belladonna’s bare legs and uncovered left breast. I wonder how long she posed for that, Cass thought. Saved from a cruel death from boredom only by Falco’s witty conversation.
Falco stood next to the easel, transferring his weight from one foot to the other. Belladonna was praising his virtues—work ethic, attention to detail—to the rest of the dinner party guests.
The cook began distributing the cake, but Cass was no longer hungry. She knew she should be happy for Falco. After all, this was the whole reason he had left Venice, to make a name for himself. But she couldn’t help but think of what sorts of projects he’d be doing next, of more long hours in Belladonna’s bedroom. Perhaps next time Bella would just pose completely nude.
Cass leaned close to Madalena. “I think we should leave,” she said softly.
“Oh, please, Cass,” Mada said. “Stay for a while.” Correctly interpreting Cass’s change of mood, she said, “The painting doesn’t mean anything. What sort of woman actually asks to be painted as Venus? She’s obviously in love with herself.”
“I don’t care about the painting,” Cass lied. “I just have a little headache, that’s all.” It was true. The nape of her neck and her temples were stinging. Perhaps Siena had braided her hair too tightly. “And there are entirely too many people here.”
“Well, you should have Bella’s handsome house physician whip you up a tonic,” Mada said.
Cass recalled how the ladies from tea had gossiped about Signorina Briani’s attractive doctor. The doctor, the butler, Falco. Cass wondered how many other young men boarded at Belladonna’s villa. Perhaps she collected attractive staff the same way she collected books.
When Cass frowned, Madalena added, “Just let me have a few more dances.” She stared at her with wide, pleading eyes.
“All right,” Cass relented. “Go dance. I’m going to rest in the library.” Bella’s portrait there didn’t seem so bad now that Cass had seen this latest work. She still hadn’t made eye contact with Falco. He was being mobbed by other guests eager to discuss his techniques and sitting fees.
“I’ll be quick,” Mada said. She stood up from the table and left on the arm of a man with close-cropped black hair and piercing green eyes. Cass stood too. She weaved her way through the milling guests.
Her head began to hurt worse, blood pounding an uneven tempo in her ears. The guests were loud. Too loud. The airy violin music had sharpened into scalpel blades, each stanza cutting a bloody path across her skull.
Cass found the library and collapsed into a chair. The room was quiet and dim, the only light coming from a scattering of dying orange embers still flickering in the dark fireplace. She turned her back to the wall, refusing to look at the painting of Belladonna draped just as she had once been. What she needed to do was take advantage of this moment and search for the Book of the Eternal Rose. She would, just as soon as her headache faded. Burying her head in her hands, she pressed her fingertips hard against her temples to slow the throbbing.
“Signorina? Are you all right?”
Cass looked up. The silhouette of a man stood in the doorway. Undoubtedly, the handsome house physician. He didn’t sound young, though. Maybe the gossiping hags from tea had been exaggerating.
“It’s my head,” she said. “It’s pounding. Is there something I can take for it?”
As the man came closer, his features began to sharpen. Cass dug her fingernails into the armrest of her chair. Her stomach plummeted, and for a second she thought she might faint.