give Mena a reassuring hug and followed her maid back to the servants who awaited them in front of the cathedral.
They left the market behind, the crowds thinning as they moved closer to the Arno. Once over the famous Ponte Vecchio bridge, they turned towards a neighbourhood of grand palazzi, towards the Via Porcellatti. This was nothing like the terrible courtyard where she had become so lost—and then found.
It was quieter here, the shouts of the merchants and beggars behind them. There were still people, to be sure, many of them, going about their own business at a dignified, luxurious pace. Ladies in silken gowns and sheer veils anchored with jewelled bands emerged from the church of San Lorenzo as the bells tolled above them, trailed by their vigilant maids. Men in embroidered velvet doublets and sleeveless robes spoke together in hushed, intent voices, their gazes following her as she moved past. Servants scurried about on errands, heavy baskets over their arms. The shops were shaded with green awnings, offerings of gold, jewels and silks displayed to shining perfection.
The structures here were vast, solid, but built of plain, greyish-pink stone. Their heavy doors and lacy-screened balconies whispered of power, security, wealth. This was where the Strozzis lived.
Just as Caterina had directed in her letter, it was a perfect square of a palazzo, three storeys high, at the corner of a half-hidden square on the Via Porcellatti. In the distance, soaring high over the red-tiled roof, could be seen the ochre-coloured brick dome of the Duomo, Brunelleschi’s famous achievement.
The shutters were half-open, offering shade in the warm afternoon, the doors closed and barred. But it was unmistakably their destination—the Strozzi arms hung over the portal.
‘This must be it,’ Mena murmured, her voice heavy with exhaustion. ‘At last.’
Isabella glanced towards her maid. Mena’s face was grey and drawn beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat, her eyes bloodshot. Their journey, such a rare source of pleasure and inspiration to Isabella until she was lost, had been only a trial to Mena. Had she been wrong to bring Mena with her? Or perhaps wrong to have come here herself? She should have been frightened, surely, but somehow she just felt—excited. She knew she could not leave now.
Isabella gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘We are here, Mena! In no time at all we will have warm baths, good food and a clean bed to rest in.’
‘Praise be to St Catherine!’ Mena murmured fervently.
One of the footmen left his horse to bang the great brass ring against the heavy, iron-bound door. The sound reverberated through the courtyard within, echoing, and after only a moment they heard the inner bars being drawn back, the creak of hinges as the door opened to reveal a page clad in the embroidered Vespucci livery.
‘The Signorina Isabella Spinola has arrived,’ the footman said.
The page’s gaze flickered past him, taking in Isabella and her ragged retinue. Surely, she thought, they were not an auspicious sight. She did not arrive in a silk-draped litter, followed by carts filled with clothes’ chests and furniture. She had no large train of servants. And they were all covered in the dust and grit of the road, her plain, dark-blue-wool travel gown creased and dirty. She thought of the sheer veils and jewelled headdresses of the ladies they passed and reached up to touch her own hair. The thick, black length was simply braided and tucked into a net, covered by a flat velvet cap.
Doubt touched Isabella again. She was a country mouse, about to enter the palatial halls of the most sophisticated society in the world. What if her clothes, her manners, her everything were just wrong? So wrong Caterina laughed her out of the house, sending her back to where she started. Back to lonely ignorance. To men who were nothing like the angel in black she had met earlier.
But the page, rather than insisting she could not be Signorina Spinola and slamming the door, merely nodded. ‘Of course. Signorina Strozzi is expecting you.’
He swung the door wider and several more liveried servants streamed out, hurrying down the steps to take their animals’ bridles. ‘They will take your horses around to the mews, Signorina Spinola. If you would care to follow me, the mistress has instructed me to take you to her at once.’
‘Of course,’ Isabella echoed, sliding down from her stiff Spanish saddle with the help of one of Caterina’s servants. Her legs felt turned to ice water, unsteady beneath her. Once she stepped through those doors, she could not turn back. Could not run away.
Coward! her mind whispered. What are you waiting for? Has this not been what you wanted for so very long? Your blood is as fine as hers, as ancient and noble. Don’t shame your father—or yourself.
Isabella stiffened her back, straightened her shoulders. She was no coward. She never had been. She just had to go forward, even if the stone facade of the palazzo contained the mouth of hell itself. There was no other choice. Not now. And surely she would have it no other way.
Her head tilted high, she followed the page through those doors. Only to find an earthly paradise, untouched by even a hint of fiery torment. Even the modern tumult of the city seemed leagues away.
Isabella stood still for a moment, gazing around in silent wonder. The courtyard was open to the sky, but the overhanging roof that covered the second-floor gallery gave shade and coolness. A tall marble fountain presided in the very centre, sparkling water spilling from a stone nymph’s urn into a shimmering, bubbling stream. The pale pink flagstones were swept and scrubbed, lined with classical statues, gods, goddesses and heroes interspersed with backless benches and chairs that invited quiet conversation, solitary contemplation. It looked just like one of the etchings in her father’s books, a Roman villa come to life.
How her father would have loved it.
‘Signorina?’ the page said softly.
Isabella glanced at him, startled. She had forgotten he was there, forgotten she was not alone in the midst of this perfect beauty. He smiled—obviously he was accustomed to such reactions.
‘Shall I take you to Signorina Strozzi now?’ he asked. ‘She is most eager to greet you.’
‘Of course,’ Isabella murmured. ‘Grazie.’
She followed the page across the courtyard, past the rows of statues, whose blank stares seemed to follow her just as those of the men in the street had, judging her. At the far end rose a wide stone staircase, ascending in a soaring arc to the terrace. They were only halfway up these steps when a door at the top opened and a painting come to shining life stepped out.
It had to be Caterina. Isabella had not seen her kinswoman since she was a child, but she well remembered the occasion. She remembered how she, a dark, shy little girl, stood in awe of her older cousin, who seemed made of the rays of the sun, so beautiful and graceful was she. Everyone whispered that Caterina was destined for great things, for a place of fame and renown, and soon after that she seemed off to a fine start in her glorious life. Once she had even been betrothed to one of the Vespucci family, but rumours of her ill health had made that false.
Awe was a fine word for Isabella’s emotions on that long-ago day. Awe that a human being could be so perfect, could be all that she herself was not. Fair, serene, accomplished, self-possessed. Awe and—and envy.
Those feelings hadn’t changed with the years, Isabella found, as she stared up at her cousin. Caterina stood framed in the arched doorway, one of her statues come to life. Her skin was pale as marble, touched with pink only along the high, smooth cheekbones, the perfect foil for the loose fall of waving, red-gold hair that flowed to her waist. She wore an open robe of sky-blue silk over an even paler blue muslin gown, shades that matched her eyes. If Isabella were to paint her, she would use priceless blue marine.
Caterina gave a welcoming smile and hurried along the terrace. Her arms, draped in long, gold-lined sleeves, were outstretched in welcome.
‘My dear cousin!’ she cried, enveloping Isabella in a rose-scented embrace. ‘You are here at last. Was your journey terribly taxing?’
Caterina was not very