at the servant that poured me wine. “Really. Well, you looked fairly appreciative when I was coming down the stairs. Or was that God’s skirt you were looking up, while your mouth caught flies?” It was too easy. He reddened.
“I . . . was merely surprised at the alteration in your person, no more, I can assure you. And allow me to counsel you against the sin of vanity, for it is a heinous fault and can lead you into ruin.”
I sighed. “In answer to the question that came before the sermon, no, I did not ask your uncle about the painting. I thought there too many people gathered.”
He nodded and made as if to continue, but I had a question of my own. “The empty chair at your uncle’s left, is that for his son? For you have a cousin, do you not?”
“Yes. Niccolò. But no, he is not yet here.”
“Then where is he?” Another thought struck me. “And where was he all day, for that matter? Surely he should have been at your uncle’s side for all the festivities?”
“He is at the university.”
“Where? Padua, Bologna?” I named two of the three universities I know. The third, here in Pisa, would not explain his absence.
“No, here in Pisa.” He smiled wryly at my surprise. “He is expected tonight, as you see.” Brother Guido’s voice was heavy with irony.
“But will not come?”
Brother Guido shrugged, and I could see his reluctance to speak ill of another man, especially a kinsman. But I saw more dislike in that shrug than I had ever seen him express, and more censure than he had ever given, even to those nameless ones that had murdered our friends. “He is not, perhaps, as mindful of his duty as Lord Silvio might like. But as an only son, he may act as he pleases and still be assured of preferment.”
“Why?” I was belligerent. “I have heard of many cases when an undeserving son is disinherited in favor of another. Why does not your uncle do that?”
Brother Guido looked me full in the eyes, with his blue gaze. “Because the only other potential heir that he loves and trusts decided to become a monk.”
Madonna. I saw it all now. Silvio loved his nephew Guido better than his own son, Niccolò. Niccolò was undeserving, but before Silvio could elevate Guido to the status of heir, Guido found his calling and took the habit. “And does . . . your uncle not try to dissuade you from your path?”
“All the time,” admitted Brother Guido ruefully. “For you see, he has in every way been a father to me. I lost my parents to the plague of 1460—I was too young to mourn them. My uncle schooled me and raised me, taught me all that a young noble should know. He was always mindful that fate had given him the inheritance that could have been mine, for he was a younger son, and my father’s death had given him the city. Thus he treated me with no less favor than his trueborn son; at times, with more,” he admitted, and shook his head. “I do not say it was right, and certainly it fostered no great love toward me in my cousin’s heart. But as I grew and read widely of the Scriptures and others of my uncle’s devotional books, I heard God calling to me. I agreed to enter the Franciscans as a novice, with my uncle’s blessing, for a year—to consider my calling before taking full vows. But my mind is now made up,” he finished with resolution.
I looked back to Lord Silvio and felt sorry for him. Yes, I, a humble jade, looked up at a great lord and felt sympathy. For here he was, in his own house, sitting between a no-good whore and an empty chair on his saint’s day, staring into space as his son humiliated him with his absence, while his well-beloved nephew was lost to him as an heir. I pressed Lord Silvio’s hand to recall him to himself and began to praise the placement of the table, determined that he should enjoy his night.
And indeed, there was much to praise, without my having to perjure myself. Each course that followed was more magnificent than the next. I stuffed myself happily with hare’s testicles, so small and smooth that you could swallow them whole, fresh-caught lipioti, tiny octopus with two tiny front teeth, sharp as barbs, which you must remove before eating them,