The Wolves of St. Peter's by Gina Buonaguro

she wouldn’t be leaving here to go with any of them. They cannot take their pleasure in the marriage bed, nor make her a lady.”
    â€œAnd so you’re sure none of them gave her the ring?”
    â€œIt wouldn’t be kept a secret. She seemed to think whoever had given her the ring would marry her. Whoever it was, I’m sure she didn’t meet him between these walls. I would know.”
    Francesco helped himself to more wine. “Have you looked in her room?”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œMore gifts. Letters, perhaps. Anything that might indicate this man’s identity.”
    â€œWe can go and look. She didn’t read or write, so I wouldn’t expect to find letters.”
    Imperia led him down the hall past two young houseboys carrying steaming pails of water destined for baths. It was siesta time,and the girls were resting and preparing for the evening’s entertainments. Through an open door, Francesco glimpsed two naked girls entwined together on the bed. Another, dressed only in a chemise, sat at a dressing table, combing her hair. Smiling invitingly at Francesco, she beckoned him to join the girls on the bed. He smiled back, shaking his head and blushing slightly at their boldness and his own unexpected excitement. He didn’t look into any more rooms after that, and the sounds that reached him as he walked by were ordinary enough to subdue him: a request for hot water, a few lines of song, furniture scraping over the floor, the tolling of bells in the square.
    Calendula’s room was only a few square yards. This was not the room in which she entertained, only the one in which she lived, and if it held any secrets, they weren’t forthcoming. A tiny window revealed a warren of tiled roofs, and the room’s only furnishings were a narrow bed with plain linen sheets and a dressing table, its stained surface scattered with cheap combs, pins, and pots of face paint. He opened the drawers of the table and found much the same, along with a few handkerchiefs in various states of cleanliness and some ribbons and lengths of lace. He searched for a hidden drawer, but Imperia told him there were none, since all the girls’ dressing tables were the same. Francesco wasn’t surprised to see a yellow dress quite similar to the one Calendula was discovered in, the spare pair of sleeves hanging on either side, making the garment appear as if it were intended for a woman with four arms. The only other object in the room was a Madonna, poorly executed on wood that had long ago cracked. He touched her faded face, and the paint came off on his finger as readily as the rouge had come off Imperia’s cheek. As Imperia suspected, there were no letters, but tucked into the frame of the Madonna was a small piece of paper that was inscribed with one word: “Calendula.”
    They sat on the edge of the hard bed. Imperia took the paper from his hand and, placing it on her lap, smoothed it as gently as if she were stroking a child’s hair. “I wrote this out for her so she would know how her new name looked. She had others, her given names and her married name, but she wanted to forget all that, to start anew. She insisted I call her Calendula, and that’s how I came to think of her. You see, Francesco, I didn’t just think of her as a younger cousin. She
was
my younger cousin. You’re the only one besides my father who knows this.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œIt seemed best to keep it that way.” Imperia sighed, glancing down at the paper again. “I know you didn’t see it, but she could be a sweet girl. At least, that’s how I remember her, when we were both young, before she married, before she tried to bear children. That—and this place—hardened her.” Imperia faltered, and Francesco was struck at that moment by how much she reminded him of his mother. It was in the tilt of the head, perhaps, or the fine skin, or maybe it was