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next utterance.

      ‘Not her.’

      ‘But Your Highness, it is a holiday…’

      ‘Not her. She misbehaved abominably today. It must be dealt with at once.’ He paused and gave my mother a look that made her wilt like a blossom in scorching heat. ‘Now go.’

      Madonna Trusia and Elena bowed again to the Duke; my mother and Alfonso both shot me sorrowful little glances before moving on.

      ‘Come,’ my father said.

      We walked in silence to the nursery. Once we arrived, Donna Esmeralda was summoned to witness my father’s formal address.

      ‘I should not be required to waste an instant of my attention on a useless girl child with no hope of ascending to the throne—much less such a child who is a bastard.’

      He had not finished, but his cursory dismissal so stung that I could not let an opportunity to retaliate pass. ‘What difference does it make? The King is a bastard,’ I interrupted swiftly, ‘which makes you the son of a bastard.’

      He slapped my cheek so hard it brought tears to my eyes, but I refused to let them spill. Donna Esmeralda started slightly when he struck me, but managed to keep herself in check.

      ‘You are incorrigible,’ he said. ‘But I cannot permit you to further waste my time. You are not worth even a moment of my attention. Discipline should be the province of nursemaids, not princes. I have denied you food, I have closeted you in your room—yet none of this has done anything to calm you. And you are almost old enough to be married. How shall I turn you into a proper young woman?’

      He fell silent and thought a long moment. After a time, I saw his eyes narrow, then gleam with understanding. A slight, cold smile played on his lips. ‘I have denied you the wrong things, haven’t I? You’re a hard-headed child. You can do without food or the outdoors for a while, because while you like those things, they are not what you love most.’ He nodded, becoming ever more pleased with his plan. ‘That is what I must do, then. You will not change until you are denied the one thing that you love above all else.’

      I felt the first pangs of real fear.

      ‘Two weeks,’ he said, then turned and addressed Donna Esmeralda. ‘She is to have no contact with her brother for the next two weeks. They are not permitted to eat, to play, to speak with each other—not even permitted to catch a glimpse of each other. Your future rests on this. Do you understand?’

      ‘I understand, Your Highness,’ Donna Esmeralda replied tautly, her eyes narrowed and her gaze averted. I began to wail.

      ‘You cannot take Alfonso from me!’

      ‘It is done.’ In my father’s hard, heartless expression, I detected traces of pleasure. Filius Patri similis est. The Son is like the Father.

      I flailed about for reasons; the tears that had gathered on the rims of my eyes were now in true danger of cascading onto my cheeks. ‘But…but Alfonso loves me! It will hurt him if he can’t see me, and he’s been a good son, a perfect son. It’s not fair—you’ll be punishing Alfonso for something he didn’t do!’

      ‘How does it feel, Sancha?’ my father taunted softly. ‘How does it feel to know you are responsible for hurting the one you love the most?’

      I looked on the one who had sired me—one who so cruelly relished hurting a child. Had I been a man, and not a young girl, had I borne a blade, anger would have overtaken me and I would have slit his throat where he stood. In that instant, I knew what it was like to feel infinite, irrevocable hatred for one I helplessly loved. I wanted to hurt him as he had me, and take pleasure in it.

      When he left, I at last wept; but even as I spilt angry tears, I swore I would never again permit any man, least of all the Duke of Calabria, to make me cry.

      I spent the next two weeks in torment. I saw only the servants. Though I was allowed outside to play if I wished, I refused, just as I petulantly refused most of my meals. I slept poorly and dreamed of Ferrante’s spectral gallery.

      My mood was so dark, my behaviour so difficult that Donna Esmeralda, who had never lifted a finger against me, slapped me twice in exasperation. I kept ruminating over my sudden impulse to kill my father; it had terrified me. I became convinced that without Alfonso’s gentle influence, I should become a cruel, half-crazed tyrant like the father and grandfather I so resembled.

      When the two weeks finally passed, I seized my little brother and embraced him with a ferocity that left us both breathless.

      When at last I could speak, I said, ‘Alfonso, we must take a solemn oath never to be apart again. Even when we are married, we must stay in Naples, near each other, for without you, I will go mad.’

      ‘I swear,’ Alfonso said. ‘But Sancha, your mind is perfectly sound. With or without me, you need never fear madness.’

      My lower lip trembled as I answered him. ‘I am too much like Father—cold and cruel. Even Grandfather said it—I am hard, like him.’

      For the first time, I saw real anger flare in my brother’s eyes. ‘You are anything but cruel; you are kind and good. And the King is wrong. You aren’t hard, just…stubborn.’

      ‘I want to be like you,’ I said. ‘You are the only person who makes me happy.’

      From that time on, I never once gave our father cause to punish me.

Late Spring 1492

       II

      Slightly more than three years passed. The year 1492 arrived, and with it a new pope: Rodrigo Borgia, who took the name Alexander VI. Ferrante was eager to establish good relations with him, especially since previous pontiffs had looked unkindly on the House of Aragon.

      Alfonso and I grew too old to share the nursery and moved into separate chambers, but we were apart only when sleep and the divergence in our education required it. I studied poetry and dance while Alfonso perfected his swordsmanship; we never discussed our foremost concern—that I was now fifteen, of marriageable age, and would soon move to a different household. I comforted myself with the thought that Alfonso would become fast friends with my future husband and would visit daily.

      At last, a morning dawned when I was summoned to the King’s throne room. Donna Esmeralda, could not entirely hide her excitement. She dressed me in a modest black gown of elegant cut and fine silk, with a satin brocade stomacher laced so tightly I gasped for air.

      Flanked by her, Madonna Trusia, and Donna Elena, I crossed the palace courtyard. The sun was obscured by heavy fog; it dripped onto us like soft, slow rain, spotting my gown, covering my face and carefully arranged hair with mist.

      At last we arrived at Ferrante’s wing. When the doors opened onto the throne room, I saw my grandfather sitting regally on his crimson cushions; beside him stood a stranger—an acceptable-looking man of stocky, muscular build. Next to him was my father.

      Time had not bettered Alfonso, Duke of Calabria. If anything, my father was more temperamental—indeed, vicious. Recently, he had called for a whip and flogged a cook for serving his soup cold; he beat the poor woman until she fainted from loss of blood. Only Ferrante was able to stay his hand. He had also dismissed, with much cursing and shouting, an aged servant from the household for failing to properly shine his boots. To quote my grandfather, ‘Wherever my eldest son goes, the sun retreats behind the clouds in fear.’

      His face, while still handsome, was a portrait in misery; his lips twitched with barely-repressed indiscriminate anger, his eyes emanated an unhappiness he delighted in sharing. He could no longer bear the sound of childish laughter; Alfonso and I were required to maintain silence in his presence. One day I forgot myself,

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