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A sudden shaft of soft sunlight falls onto his face, the shadows playing on his brow as he frowns, as he half-opens his eyes and squints through the dawn invading his bedchamber and runs a hand down his face. He rolls onto his back, his arms stretched up above him, his fingers reaching for the red-gold canopy of the bed, when he hears a murmur from beside him. His eyes fall on her. A sweet face, really, when it is quiet in sleep, framed with unruly black ringlets; but a mouth as wide and gushing as the Tiber. Come the eve, half of Rome will know who she slept with this night. He groans silently, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his fingers, and jars to his feet, slipping from the warmth of covers reeking of perfume, sex and sweat.

Too much wine, he thinks dimly as he staggers a little. He pulls on his linen shift, and begins to button the heavy black robe above it, the small buttons inlaid with ruby so to match the scarlet trim. A touch of decadence even his mentors cannot object to. With half the buttons done, that murmur behind him rises again.

"You're a priest?" squeaks the girl with black ringlets.

He keeps his back to her, so to hide his smile, and pulls the crucifix strung about his neck out from the cover of his shift. "You did not notice last night?" His tone is light, almost concerned, but his eyes are gleaming.

"I – you . . . you did not have your robes on last night."

He closes his eyes at that, picturing her scarlet blush, and almost laughs at her stupidity. But he does not, instead he adjusts the cross so it lays flat on his chest.

"By day I am a cleric," he declares. "By night I am who I want to be."

As he goes to finish his buttoning, there is a sudden rap against the window. He spins sharply, and hears the distant sweet sound of his sister's giggle. The girl in his bed has pulled the sheets up to hide her breasts, her face an amusing mask of shock. He makes a bow to her, before pounding from the room, emerging barefoot and half-dressed with his robes flapping at his legs into the courtyard.

"Lucrezia!" he shouts, his voice and smile of delight and laughter. He surveys the courtyard, but sees no trace of his sister. "Sister!"

"I spied a woman in your chambers!" comes her young, honeyed voice, and all at once she emerges from behind one of the many slim marble columns flanking the courtyard. She is the picture of elegance this morning, dressed in a soft gown the colour of cream, pearls and gold at her throat, ears, and wrists, and her golden hair streaming down her back in a perfumed wave. "Another one!" she adds, and skips deftly from column to column, her eyes bright and mischievous as she regards him where he stands tense and ready to pounce from the centre of the courtyard, his bare feet among the rosebeds, his smile easy.

"There is a punishment for spying," he says, his tone deceptively soft, and their eyes meet, and after a moment both laugh in unison. He creeps toward her, but she ducks away and runs to another column, with him in hot pursuit.

"And what's that?" she cries.

"Oh, I think you know . . . " he replies, and she shrieks in delight as he chases her. She runs from him on slippered feet made of air, and spins from the columns of the portico to the soft lawns lining the courtyard in neat squares between the flowerbeds. Her skirts fly behind her, and he grabs at them. She twists and runs and skips, deft and light as a doe, but finally he catches her waist and pushes her to the grass, landing on his elbows atop her, and smiling as she laughs up into his face.

"Can I come to your wedding?" she teases, her cheeks rosy and bright with mirth. His too, as he thinks of the black-haired girl in a wedding gown of ivory lace. A whore in virgin's whites, he muses.

"I'll never have a wedding, you know that," he says, as he has a thousand times before on mornings such as this when he wakes to find his sister in the courtyard after he's spent his seed within some pretty, noble whore.

She traces the light black beard on his chin as he speaks, her fingers gentle as whispering, and more delicate than any morning dew.

"No," she says, her shell-pink mouth curved into a soft-lipped smile. "You are betrothed to God." She sees his sad smile at that and narrows her blue eyes a little at him. His left hand strokes her ear, before threading into her golden curls, his thumb alone upon her cheek. "Don't you love God, Cesare?"

He dips his head at that, and brushes his nose against hers. "More than I love you," he murmurs, and they both smile again, fuller this time, as her fingers continue their gentle stroking of his chin, and his thumb rubs softly against her cheek. Her eyes seek his, always, and she sees that sadness reappear in his now.

"Don't be sad, brother," she whispers. He leans up on his elbow now and she rises up onto hers too, and her hand moves to his chest, picking at the ruby buttons of his cleric's robes. "Maybe Papa will become Pope . . . and then you can be who you want to be." Her eyes search his face.

"If he does become Pope, I'll be what he wants me to be," replies Cesare, watching her as her gaze flickers up and down his face, hurriedly, and he knows that something worries her. He touches a finger to her throat in question.

"Can the Pope have children, Cesare?" she asks, after a moment, her fingers cupping his chin. She looks so worried that for a moment he wants to weep for her.

"I've heard it rumoured that Pope Innocent has twelve." He bumps his nose against hers, and they share a smile.

"But I have also heard it rumoured that he is dying," she murmurs.

At that he stops his smile, and frowns a little. "No news on that," he replies, his voice a sigh. "He's been dying for weeks now."

"If he does die . . . will our father wear his crown?"

She has the excited look of a little girl then, he notes with affection. He reaches round and cups her cheek with his hand.

"The new pope will be elected by the College of Cardinals, my love," he explains. "And only God can predict the outcome."

"Well, since you will have no wedding, I will pray to God to choose Papa as pope," she decides, and lays back on the grass, her head tipped back, her golden hair spilling down over her neck and grazing her breasts. "I want to wear a beautiful white veil," she says, as he lays down beside her, their heads tilted toward each other. "And a crown of pearls for his coronation."

He gives a soft laugh, that deep rumble that starts in his chest, a velvet sound he uses only in front of her, and their mother. "God may need some help then."

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