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"Lucrezia." Her voice is measured and quiet, her hand slow as she picks up the ivory comb laced with mahogany from the table. "Lucrezia Borgia."
Lucrezia continues to study her mother in the looking-glass, and finds herself as always drawn into those deep brown eyes, almost black in the shadows of the candleflame, bottomless, terrifying in certain lights, as they are tonight. But it is not terror that lights them, Lucrezia soon sees, it is fascination, awe, delight. Vannozza of the House of Candia, her noble mother, her father's retired mistress. A woman of grace and strength, and a fabled beauty even now. In her youth she was adored by many, and in her age she lives quietly in her villa in the hills beyond Rome, where the city is a speck in the distance, and the stench of it is a faint memory. Like all her mother owns or wears, the villa is well-chosen: quiet, secluded, and beautiful, made of yellow stone and marble, with a stream that runs beneath the house and through the courtyard, spouting into a fountain near the entrance, lemon trees in the gardens, an orchard, an olive grove, and always the sound of birds.
Her mother's hands are gentle as they comb through her heavy golden locks.
"Such hair," breathes Vannozza from behind her, fanning it out and gathering the tresses up in the bone-white comb. "Your father was fascinated by your hair the day you were born. There you were in your cradle, pale and placid, with those beguiling blue eyes and a crown of gold curls." The smile that wrinkles her eyes is deep and heartfelt and Lucrezia smiles too. "Juan, too, he never cared for babes, but he was captured. And Cesare, my dear sweet Cesare, he loved you most of all." The comb passes easily through the golden curls. "He loves you still the most, I can tell. Juan . . . Juan will battle any foe you come against, rushing in with sword raised and hurling curses." She closes her eyes a moment, her smile smaller now. "He is a brave man, Lucrezia, but being brave is not the same as having courage. He fears nothing, but when you fear nothing, you are afraid of anything." Her eyes open. "Cesare is clever, and full of courage too. He will do anything for his Borgia blood once he has thought about it a while. And he'll hear your heartaches, my sweetling, and nurse your weary mind. He'll be there for you in your dreams, and look before andafter you, for all his days."
"I do not need Cesare to be my champion," murmurs Lucrezia, meeting her mother's steady black gaze in the mirror. "Nor Juan, nor Papa. I am my own champion, my own lady, my own sword, and shield." She says it without pause, her tone confident, but her eyes are that of a little girl and her mother sees through them, right into the doubts of her mind. She watches as Vannozza purses her lips, and soon joins her on the lace-draped chair facing the looking-glass. Her mother rests her head on Lucrezia's shoulder, and the two study each other's reflection.
"I have kept you here all your youth," says her mother. "Kept you hidden and safe from prying eyes and salacious tongues, and let you grow up sweet and pure and unspoilt within my villa. I have watched you play in the courtyard and paddle your dainty feet in the stream, and seen you raise flowers to your nose and smell them, and noted that pretty little smile that follows such a scent." Her mother's own mouth curves now, but her black eyes are shadows once more. "Your father protests, he has done for years, and makes me drag you off to some masque every now and then, for appearances' sake, but other than that I have kept you here, and whole, and good, and safe. My precious daughter, my golden Crezia." She kisses her daughter's smooth shoulder swiftly. "But if your papa becomes pope . . . everything will change. You'll live with him, and your brothers, and his new mistress. Oh, you'll visit me once a fortnight, mayhaps, but that court will suck you up and make you a stranger . . . if you let it."
"What must I do?" Her voice is a whisper.
She sees relief in Vannozza's eyes, and feels her mother's hands press warm against her arms. "You must let Cesare watch over you," she replies after only a pause. "And Juan and your father . . . Giulia, too." Her eyes flash a little at the mention of the new mistress's name. "They are experienced players – you are a maid of thirteen." She kisses her again. "Dress well, and speak well, flirt and laugh and dance, but guard your secrets, my heart, guard them well. Any passing word you hear – do not disregard it, keep it, tell it to your brothers. We are a family, together we have strength, apart we are nothing. Remember that."
For a moment, Lucrezia is silent, and her eyes leave Vannozza's in the mirror to stare down at her hands. The girl's hands are small and slender, pale and soft, fingers ringed occasionally with gold and pearls. She looks up again, her eyes blue worried pools in the dim candlelight, but never more beautiful.
"I have no secrets, Mother," she says at last, her voice a cracked whisper.
"Oh, my heart," whispers her mother in reply, catching her daughter's chin and turning her head to expose the smooth, unblemished curve of her throat. "This throat, these lips, those eyes . . . they will buy you all the secrets you and your family will ever need, Lucrezia Borgia."
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