It was Lucrezia who reacted most viscerally to her daughter’s claims of innocence. Isabella seized the opportunity, leaning heavily into her mother’s blind support and the fact that none of their relatives had actually witnessed the incident.
“It’s my fault for not stopping her. But I swear, I didn’t do it!”
Lucrezia, moved by the sight of her eldest daughter’s tears, rushed to Isabella’s defense with fervent indignation.
“Your Eminence, how could you listen to such rumors and trust them over your own daughter’s word? Doesn’t it break your heart to see her suffering like this?!”
Isabella buried her face against Lucrezia’s chest, sobbing with practiced intensity. Between her performance and Lucrezia’s mounting agitation, the mood at the dinner table began to shift; perhaps, the others reasoned, they should grant Isabella the benefit of the doubt, if only to silence her displays of grief.
Meanwhile, the feast remained untouched. As the seafood stew and truffle risotto cooled, a starving Arabella reached for a chicken breast dumpling, only to accidentally nudge the platter of stew with her elbow.
*Clatter!*
The plate overturned. A mess of red tomato-based stew splattered across Arabella’s dress and the pristine white tablecloth. Cardinal Del Mare, already frayed, vented his irritation on the unfortunate girl.
“How clumsy! My appetite is utterly ruined. Damn it!”
With a violent clatter, he threw his cutlery onto the table, rose—having eaten nothing but a crust of bread soaked in olive oil—and stormed out of the dining room.
The tension shattered. Lucrezia shrieked at the blameless Arabella.
“Because of you, Father has left! You’ve ruined this precious tablecloth!”
With that, Lucrezia swept out of the room, cradling a still-sobbing Isabella in her arms.
Ariadne offered a quiet word of comfort to Arabella, who remained hunched over, neck retracted like a turtle in a shell, utterly cowed.
“It’s not your fault.”
Arabella looked up, eyes wide. Ariadne gave a steady nod.
“Truly.”
Ariadne wiped the tomato stain from Arabella’s sleeve with a napkin and issued a brief, sharp command to the servants who had been watching the cooling meal in silence.
“Bring the next course.”
To let such trivialities weigh on one’s heart was folly. When the road was difficult, one had to eat well, rest well, and recharge for the trials ahead.
“Eat all of this before you go upstairs. Don’t miss the meat when it arrives, and make sure to chew it well.”
Ariadne pushed the plate toward Arabella. The girl obeyed, popping a dumpling into her mouth and chewing while watching Ariadne intently. Despite her instructions, Ariadne had touched nothing herself, save for a few tomatoes from the caprese salad.
“…Ari, aren’t you eating?”
“I had a late lunch.”
Ariadne replied calmly, her expression composed. Her hands trembled slightly, but it was nothing she couldn’t hide.
* * *
Once inside her mother’s private chambers, the dam broke for Isabella.
“Mom, do you know what that crazy girl, Ariadne, said to me?”
“What? What did she say?”
Lucrezia, already primed to see the intruder as the villain, flared up before the subject was even fully broached.
“What on earth did that wretched girl have to say?”
“Mom, she said she was going to ‘take me out’!”
Lucrezia paused. She was more than willing to side with Isabella on principle, but she wondered if she had misheard the severity of the threat.
“Take you out?”
“Yes!”
“Are you sure she didn’t say you had ‘strong guts’ or something of the sort?” Lucrezia asked, her voice tinged with skepticism. “That quiet, gloomy girl—did she really say something like that?”
Isabella’s anger ignited.
“Mom, don’t you believe me either? She called me a ‘fucking bitch’ and said she was going to take me out. She told me to watch my back at night!”
Lucrezia had never once heard Ariadne use vulgar language. The second daughter, brought from the countryside, had never even uttered a common “damn it.” It was a detail that stuck with her—a strange anomaly for a girl born to a maid and raised on a remote, rural estate.
*‘Well, her mother was composed, too.’*
Isabella grew irritated when her own mother refused to believe her. Everyone bought her lies without question, yet now, when she was speaking the truth, Lucrezia looked right through her.
“Mom, do you really not believe me?! Why is your expression like that? That damn girl really said it!”
“No, no, Mom obviously believes our Isabella. You must have been so upset.”
Lucrezia offered belated comfort to her beloved eldest daughter, but Isabella had already sensed the lack of sincerity in her mother’s tone.
“Argh! I’m so annoyed! Damn girl, I won’t let you get away with this! I hate you too, Mom!”
* * *
Isabella wasn’t the only one enduring an unsatisfying encounter. Prince Alfonso, having returned to the palace after Ariadne’s debutante ball, gulped hard when he heard that Queen Marguerite had summoned him. The moment had finally arrived.
The Queen had previously warned him to be careful, as a marriage alliance with a princess of the Galico Kingdom was under discussion. Yet, unbeknownst to her, he had attended another lady’s ball, attempted—and failed—to become her partner, and nearly sparked a confrontation with other noblewomen. Worse, it had all been witnessed by the Countess Marquez, the Queen’s closest confidante. He had no idea what sort of thunderous reprimand awaited him.
Would she yell? Would she weep? Alfonso could endure his mother’s shouting, but he truly dreaded her tears. It was a special kind of torture. The suffocating cocktail of guilt for having saddened her, the rebellious, nagging thought of *“Was I really that wrong?”*, and the weight of his own self-reproach was almost more than he could bear.
Pondering his fate, Prince Alfonso followed the Queen’s messenger, his steps heavy as they led him toward his mother’s private chambers.
After traversing a long corridor and passing through several rooms, he pushed aside the modest twill curtains. Queen Marguerite was waiting, seated in a single armchair. Sensitive to the chill, she had a fire burning in the hearth; as the embers flickered, her shadow danced wildly against the walls.
“Mother. Did you call for me?”
“Yes. Sit.”
Queen Marguerite closed the report she had been reading, placed it on the side table, and turned her gaze to her son.
“I heard you attended the debutante ball of the Cardinal De Mare’s second daughter.”
“It’s Ariadne. You know her name, Mother.”
Queen Marguerite frowned at her son’s stubborn defiance, though she conceded to the correction.
“Yes. Ariadne.”
She picked up the report from the side table and handed it to him. Prince Alfonso glanced at the contents.
“This is a report on the Grand Duke of Valois of Galico and his daughter.”
“That is correct. Lariesa De Valois. She is your intended, and the marriage alliance is currently under discussion.”
To preserve the purity of their bloodline, it was customary for royalty to marry other royals from neighboring lands, yet church law strictly prohibited union within six degrees of consanguinity.
Since Queen Marguerite hailed from the Galico Kingdom, Prince Alfonso was the maternal cousin of the current King of Galico and his sister. Naturally, a marriage with the Princess of Galico was barred by the church. Therefore, the most noble-blooded lady currently available in Galico was Grand Duchess Lariesa, the second daughter of the Duke of Valois and an eighth cousin to the current King, Philip IV.
1.
Prince Alfonso set the report he had been reading onto the side table. He had no desire to finish it.
“And so?”
“The diplomatic mission from the Galico Kingdom is scheduled to visit San Carlo next month. We will be discussing the specific details regarding your marriage.”
Queen Marguerite stared intently at her son.
“What happened yesterday is in the past. It can be buried. But while the Galico mission is here, you must conduct yourself with absolute decorum. See to it that I hear no rumors of you being intimate with any young lady from any house.”
At his mother’s stern words, a shadow of distress crossed Prince Alfonso’s face.
“Mother, Ariadne De Mare is not just ‘a young lady from some house’.”
The Queen’s expression hardened into severity.
“Are you suggesting you intend to marry her? The disparity in your status is evident. She is baseborn, the daughter of a Cardinal. Given the circumstances, whether she is legitimate or not makes little difference. Even if she were the Pope’s illegitimate daughter, I might have gritted my teeth and permitted it. But this is not the case—a Cardinal’s illegitimate child and a Prince? That will not do. It is impossible in this lifetime.”
Queen Marguerite firmly reminded her son of his reality.
“You are not in a position where you can simply take any woman you fancy and elope. You are the sole heir to the Etruscan Kingdom. End this now, before the situation becomes more dire.”
Seeing her son hesitate, she drove the final nail in.
“If you drag this out, you will only be a burden to her. She has a reputation and a marriageable age to consider. If she misses her chance at a proper union because she is tethered to you—with no possibility of a future—then that is the true disservice you are doing to Ariadne.”
This time, a jolt of shock appeared on Alfonso’s face. It was a point the Prince had never once considered. Queen Marguerite paused, then added, driven by maternal anxiety.
“Stop escorting her to official events and stop exchanging letters. Being seen together in public is an inconvenience to her, and offering false hope is a great discourtesy. Behave like a gentleman.”
* * *
While one man faced his mother’s stubborn opposition regarding Ariadne, the other enjoyed his mother’s full support.
The problem, however, was the simple fact that he could not win the woman’s heart.
“Ottavio. What methods do you use to seduce a woman who doesn’t like you?”
Ottavio De Contarini stared at Cesare De Como with an expression that suggested he was looking at a truly bizarre specimen.
“Wait—you, the capital’s greatest philanderer, are asking me how to seduce a woman? How could I possibly know something you don’t?”
Cesare flicked the match he had been playing with until it went out, then tossed it into the wastebasket.
“I have never had to seduce a woman. They have always come to me first.”
It was an insufferable statement, but it was the truth. Cesare De Como was the most popular man in San Carlo. Who said young women were shy? Love letters and gifts from noble ladies flooded toward him daily. Cesare had set all sorts of personal records that consistently shattered the confidence of Ottavio De Contarini, who had been witnessing it all firsthand from the sidelines.
To add insult to injury, Cesare’s indifference flayed Ottavio, who could only rub his aching forehead. Cesare stared at him with nonchalance.
“What? Do I look like an eyesore?”
As Cesare muttered that he couldn’t help that it was the simple truth, Ottavio glared at him in disbelief. Still, he racked his brain for his friend’s sake.
“If you aren’t sure, why don’t you start with the basics? There isn’t a woman alive who dislikes flowers. Some might find them insincere, so send a gift along with them. It never misses.”