"Cira . . . I am sorry. I should not have done that," he began from behind her. She tightly closed her eyes as she felt tears come to them. She shook her head. 

"No, I wanted you to," she replied. She wrapped her arms around her middle as she thought. I can’t let him suspect anything. But I can’t let this continue! In three days my life is destined to be lived behind a nunnery’s walls. I can’t let this go any farther; but I don’t want it to stop.

"Cira, what is the problem?" he asked as she felt his warm hand rest on her right shoulder. She deeply sighed. 

"I have to leave on Sunday."

"So you have told me. I don’t care if you live farther from me; distance is not something that can separate us." She spun on her heel and turned to face him. As much as her spirit lighted at his words, she was reasonable and she wouldn't let her senses overrule her mind. 

"Is there an ‘us’?" she quickly asked. "How far do you think this can go? We’ve known each other for but five days." 

She was calmed when he reached out and captured her hands. He held them in his own, his dark thumbs rubbing the back of her hands in tiny circles. "Granted five days is a short time, but I know that I feel something between us. I can’t walk away from this. If I did, I would always wonder what might have happened between us." 

Cira gasped. "You feel that strongly about me?"

He nodded his head. "I have never met a woman who has spoken her mind as freely as you have. I must admit that I was eager to see you again after the masquerade. There’s something captivating about you that is singing to me." He paused and she could see him swallow. "And yourself? Do you feel something, or am I just confessing to hear myself speak?"

She waited for a moment as she thought. All week she had thought of him, when she had been packing with her mother, when she lied to her father, when she wrote back to him.

She faintly smiled. "I have felt something or why else would I keep writing to a man whose name I did not know?"

"Good, good." Lorenzo bowed his head for a moment. When he looked back up she didn’t like the glance in his eyes. "You have yet to tell me where you are going." 

Her eyes widened as her mind raced to try and think of an answer. "I can’t," she forced herself to say. "Don’t ask me! I can’t lie to you."

His grip became tighter as his dark eyebrows lowered. From somewhere else in the garden a bird chirped. "Why not? I have been wondering why you asked me to meet you here. It is as if all of our proceedings have been in secret. What are you hiding me from?" 

She shook her head and looked down. Tears once again came to her eyes. "I can’t! Please don’t ask this of me!" she softly wailed. 

His hands released hers. "You are wed." She snapped her head up to look at him. She saw something strange in his eyes; something like fear.

"No! I’m not wed!" she quickly replied. She was gladdened to see relief come over his face. 

"Then what are you hiding from me? Surely, my dear Cira, it is not as bad as you think."

She stood there, her eyes captured by his, her heart beating fast within her, the feel of his hands from just a moment ago still warm within her. 

"What do I see? Are those tears caressing my Lady’s cheeks?" he softly asked, a small smile on his lips as he reached for his handkerchief. She took the white square of silk from his hands, reveling in her fingers brief brush against his own. She then marveled at the silk’s softness and smooth texture under her fingers. She lightly dabbed her eyes, her thoughts still racing through her. 

She had enjoyed this relationship -regardless of its brevity; she had craved for this all her life and had never received it due to her late birth. I can lie. She closed her eyes for a moment. I haven’t lied to him yet. He deserves to know. She opened her eyes with a hollow feeling in her stomach. She lowered the silk and began to twist it in a tight roll with her hands as she looked into his caring eyes. She silently cursed herself as her mouth opened and she told him,

"I’m leaving for St. Maria’s on Sunday." While he still had a smile on his lips, she continued, "I’m destined for the convent." His eyes became wide for a moment as surprise overtook him. She couldn’t stand it so she turned her body away from him. She wrapped her arms around herself again, wanting comfort that she knew wouldn’t come from him. 

"How long have you known this Cira?" he asked, his voice lowered but calm. She didn’t dare look at him as she felt tears come to her eyes again. 

"Since before I met you, Lorenzo," she replied, maybe a bit coldly. She waited for his response. She expected something harsh, she almost wished it of him. She had deceived him and had taken something she knew she couldn’t have. A dull ache began in her stomach; she knew it might soon take over all of her.

"When were you going to tell me? Or were you just going to leave me on Sunday without another word?" His calm voice frightened her more than if he had shouted. 

She shook her head, her curls following her and lightly hitting the sides of her face. "Of course I was going to tell you. I would not leave you without word."

"Perhaps it would have been better to have told me when we met, when I asked you for another dance, or when we sat and talked the entire night." His voice had turned angrier.

"How was I to know that it would go this far?!" she cried. She cursed at her own weakness as she felt a tear fall from her right eye. There was silence between them for an uncomfortably long time. 

"Let me talk to your father." She almost jumped with disbelief at the idea. She looked back over her shoulder at him. To her surprise Lorenzo didn't look angry, but rather sad. His dark eyes looked back up at her, as if he had known she was looking at him. What does he mean by that? How far does he want this to go?

"My father will not change his mind. I have been destined for the convent since I was five. I only learned about my fate a few months ago. He will yell at me, laugh at you. He is not an easy man to talk to."

"I can plead, I could change his mind-,"

"By saying what?" she harshly interrupted. She couldn’t reign in the tears that now flowed down her cheeks. "‘Excuse me Your Grace, but you cannot send your youngest daughter to St. Maria’s because I feel something for her.’" Her arms unwrapped and she placed her hands on her chest. "I have no dowry; I cannot marry. If you come walking into his palace and tell him that you don’t want me to leave on Sunday, do you know what will happen to me? To you?" Her brutal onslaught wouldn’t stop. She had thought of this all the way since leaving her father's palace. She didn’t think they would kiss or confess feelings for each other this night. But she had run the possibility over in her mind. There was no way her father would consent. She continued: out of anger, out of sadness, out of pity for herself. 

"I will be branded a harlot. You will be laughed at so that when you return home you will have to live in shame. It just cannot work." She lowered her head as she softly repeated, "It can’t work Lorenzo. It can’t work."

Again there was a painful silence. She tried to calm herself but nothing would stop her tears. 

"Do you want me to leave?"

Cira desperately didn’t want him to leave. She wanted him to hold her again and kiss her and tell her she was beautiful. "Yes." 

"I don’t want to do this Cira. But because you ask this of me, I will leave. Goodnight, my Lady Cira." She softly cried, her fingers aching from the taut twist she had made with his handkerchief. She looked to the piece of silk as she heard his footsteps leave her on the stone pathway. 

"Good-bye my Jester."

Cira packed away the last of her belongings then mournfully stared at her empty bedroom. The walls were bare, her mother had ordered her curtains pulled down the day before, the floor was cold as the rug had been packed away to warm her cell in St. Maria’s. Her bed, a great four poster creature, was reduced to the soft white wood with four carved pillars reaching up to the ceiling. Her room had lost its feeling; just like its lady. 

"It’s so empty," Sofia murmured. Cira only nodded as she turned to look at her handmaid. 

"It is." She looked to the window. "How long do you think it will be until Father calls for me? After he does so we have to depart." 

"Then I hope he doesn’t call for us until late. I don’t want to separate Cira." Cira turned back to Sofia and was warmed to see her handmaid wipe away the tears in her eyes with a lace handkerchief. 

"Oh, Sofia," she laughed as she felt tears come to her own eyes again. She took the space between them in three elegant steps and wrapped her arms around the shorter woman. "Sofia, now you can do whatever you want. You don’t have to look after me anymore." 

"But my Lady," Sofia protested, her tiny mouth in Cira’s hair. "I enjoyed doing it. I would do it again, all over again." 

"Thank you Sofia, thank you," Cira whispered.

They stood like that for a few moments, sharing tears and hugging each other until the door burst open and Melita stood there, with a pale face and her breathing coming out ragged as if she had just been running. 

"Cira! You must come quickly!" she cried. Cira let loose of her handmaid and stared at her sister. Melita was dressed in a light green dress that fell off her shoulders and was tightly hugging her breasts. Cira had changed to a plain gray dress with a black sash holding it close around her waist. She knew she would leave for the convent today and this way she would start in the nuns’ good favor. She knew she wouldn’t be held in high regard there; her thoughts were anything but pure. 

"Why?" she asked Melita. She had no desire to do anything but stay with her loved ones: Sofia and her mother.

"Father has a guest. You know how Father demands for us to be there to help greet the visitor." The younger sister rolled her eyes. She had no desire to be paraded in her father’s court in front of some strangers just to please the Duke. He was the reason why she was going to the convent. She had no reason to please him.

"Who is it?" Cira asked, half-interested. She folded her arms in front of her, waiting for her sister to tell her about some old man who wanted to squeeze the Duke for some gold. 

"The heir to the Medici power in Firenze." That opened Cira’s eyes. She held her breath for a moment. "That’s why you have to come with me, now!"

Cira looked down at herself. The gray dress was too plain to be shown in court in front of another noble. It covered her thin body, not helping her image at all. Her hair was down, she had combed it one last time before packing away the brush in her travel bag. There was no rouge on her cheeks or color to her lips. She did indeed look plain. She quickly looked up at her sister. "I cannot! I’m not presentable!" she protested. 

Melita shook her head as she reached out and grabbed Cira’s right wrist. "It doesn’t matter! You are bound for the convent today anyway. You don’t have to catch anyone." She gave a little tug and Cira fell into step behind her. "How do I look? Desirable? I put on that new perfume, the one Father gave me," Melita asked as she pulled Cira out of her room and into the hallway.

"Desirable," the younger sister obligingly replied in a sorrowful tone. 

"You should consider yourself lucky," Melita said as they rounded a corner. 

"What?!" the younger sister replied, being surprised by not only the question but also by the kind tone Melita had used. "Why should I consider myself lucky?"

"You no longer have to be brushed and bathed and powdered every morn. You do not have to have the pressure to look your best every day because your future depends on it. You can look however you want, in your monastery; no one will care. I will always have to be on my best behavior and remember to cross my feet correctly and bat my eyelashes at the wealthiest lord. In St. Maria’s, no one will mind that you are plain."

Cira gritted her teeth. "How kind of you to think so," she replied, without the anger she felt. But the anger did slip away as she thought about what Melita had said. Her sister’s words were true; there was no need for Cira to look pretty anymore. It did not matter today what she wore, as long as she was dressed she was presentable. She allowed Melita to pull her through the hallways. Her sister stopped at the back doors to her father’s court. Melita let loose of her hand then quickly did a pat down of her hair- put in curls this morning- then her clothes. Cira didn’t even smile as her sister gave a downward tug of her neckline to expose even more of her bosom. With a nod of her head, the servants opened the door and Melita walked in, her head held high, her hands filled with a grip of her dress so that she wouldn’t trip over the dripping hemline and so that the men in the room could catch a glimpse of her dainty ankles. Cira kept her head bowed, that was her position as both a daughter and the dishonored one of the family. She knew the routine. She could walk over to her spot in her sleep; she had done it since she was a child. 

"Ah, my Lord. These are my daughters," she heard her father say. She peaked a glance to her left, where her father sat in his blue velvet chair. It wasn’t a throne but it was close enough. It and the platform she stood upon was three steps up from the common floor where visitors and the rest of the court stood and sat. 

"My eldest, Melita," he began. Cira saw her sister curtsy, a low curtsy so that the court and the visitor who was male- heirs were always men in Firenze- could have a better look at her charms. 

"Good day, my Lord," she demurely said. She rose to her feet and Cira, under her dress, readied her feet for her curtsy. 

"And my other daughter Cira," the Duke continued. Cira began her deep curtsy, out of custom since her dress had a high neckline. She crossed her legs in back, her left leg being her support leg, her right extending back. She kept her head bent. 

"Good day, my Lord," she replied. 

"I believe you are mistaken, my Lady." Her blood ran cold as her head jerked back so she could see the room. She stood there, in her low curtsy, and just stared at the heir to the Medici's in Firenze. Her mouth was slightly agape as he smiled at her. "I believe you wanted to say, ‘my Jester’." She rose to stand again as she felt her sister’s and everyone else’s hot gaze on her. 

"Have you met my youngest, Lord Medici?" the Duke asked. Cira could tell from his tone that he too was surprised at the lord’s words. Cira gasped. It all began to click inside of her mind.

He said he was a Medici. I thought he meant he was a cousin, not the heir! Cira thought. Oh Lord, I kissed the heir to the Medicis! What is he doing here?! Why didn’t he heed my words from the other night? She impatiently waited as she saw Lorenzo look to her. He was finely dressed, in a dark red surcoat over a golden thread embroidered white shirt. Gold thread outlined the entire outer edge of his coat, from the coat tails that lapped at the back of his knees, at his wrists and around the collar. The buttons were made out of gold. He wore dark brown leather pants tucked into black suede boots, the tops folded over at his calves. She gasped at the extravagance of it all. She then remembered that Firenze was known for its leather and gold and, unlike in Pavia, they were not hard to find materials. Being heir to the Medici power in Firenze he had accessibility to these magnificent goods.

Lorenzo nodded. "Yes, we met at your masquerade party the other night, your Grace." He looked away from her as she forced herself not to blush. His dark eyes were leveled at her father. "She is the reason why I come to speak to you." Cira closed her eyes as dread filled her. 

The foolish lout! Didn’t he understand anything I told him the other night? Doesn’t he understand!

Cira felt her sister’s cold hand as it wrapped around her right wrist. "What is this about?! Why didn't you tell me you knew Lorenzo de Medici?!" Melita softly hissed. 

Cira could only shake her head as she looked to her beautiful sister. She saw the longing and the cunning behind her sister’s eyes. She knew why Melita asked: she wanted him for her own position in the Empire. Cira suddenly gained a smile and some pride in herself. 

He chose me over her! Lorenzo chose me, plain unloved Cira, over beautiful Melita.

"Because, sister, I didn’t know until just now," she whispered back.

"About Cira? Why good sir? What has she done?" the Duke of Pavia asked. Cira snapped her head around to look at her father. He sat boldly in his chair, his uniform still crisp and the gold shiny like the day it was woven. She couldn’t believe her father would ask a question like that. He believes I have done something wrong? Me?! When all my life I've done nothing but please him! A more rambunctious daughter would have done more to protest her life behind a convent’s walls.

Lorenzo laughed and it almost melted all of Cira’s anger. "She has done nothing ill, your Grace." He chuckled again. "My mother thought it a horrible offense until I told her otherwise." 

He told his mother about me! Cira thought. I just want to run and hug him for being so dear. But Father won’t be so easily persuaded to change his mind.

Lorenzo continued, "I came to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage." Cira couldn’t contain her surprise as she gasped aloud. 

In marriage! How dare he be so bold?! How wonderful. I would love to be at his side each day for the rest of my life. She stopped at her own thoughts. She thought it over again then smiled. It’s true. I do love him.

Her father seemed to be choking on his words as he sat there and sputtered for a moment or two. The rest of the small court was silent. The Duke finally began to laugh. He pointed a finger at her.

"Cira?! My Lord, you must be joking! You surely mean Melita, my eldest. My plain faced Cira is to be a nun tomorrow. Her life is to be dedicated to God and to bring godliness onto the Vodici family. She has no dowry for a husband. So, you see my Lord, only Melita is acceptable to be wed." Cira felt ashamed, as if she was of a poorer quality than her sister. Her own father mocked her in his court. She tightly closed her eyes and wished the entire room would go away, except Lorenzo. 

"Your Grace, I may have dressed the part of a fool for your party, but I am not one. I desire your daughter for my wife. If that is so humorous, perhaps I should take it that you are laughing at me and my family. Is that it, your Grace?" he coldly and calmly replied. Her father sobered up.

"No, of course not my Lord!" the Duke replied. 

"Then listen to my offer: You wish for the da Vodici line to be in God’s favor. And for this to happen you believe Cira’s life has to be given up to the nuns of St. Maria’s. In exchange for your daughter, my family -in da Vodici’s name- will build a cathedral so grand that God could only look kindly upon you. The grayest marble in the world will make up its strong walls. A bell tower higher than the clouds will be built besides it so all of Pavia will see the bell of God and will know in which direction to come to service. This sir, is what I offer you for your daughter Cira’s hand."

No one could still the tide of whispers that came up from the courtesans. It was a grand gift: to have a cathedral built emptied many coffers, but it was the best gift a noble family could give to God. It was a prestigious thing and it was offered for her hand. Cira couldn’t help but blush. She wanted to sing, to dance, to cry, to run to Lorenzo and hug him and kiss him. But first she had to wait for her father's consent. She looked up at him. With each heartbeat that passed she became more eager and impatient. If I have to wait another moment I will ignore the rules of conduct and just run out there and hug Lorenzo.

"My daughter Cira for a cathedral?" the Duke of Pavia began softly so that those seated at the front doors had to lean forward to catch his words. Lorenzo mutely nodded. He was stoic as he stood there, his arms clasped behind his back, his gaze not wavering from the Duke's. Seconds became eternity as she waited for him to say something. 

Is he going to change his mind? Is Father so stubborn that he won’t take this gift?! A cathedral! She became giddy as she looked back to Lorenzo. His eyes briefly looked to her and he gave her a small smile. I’m worthy enough for a cathedral! I just want to hug him!

"I have promised the nuns," the Duke of Pavia began. Cira’s heart sank until she became angry. She turned on her heel and faced her father. 

"You would rather stick to your pride than to have a cathedral?!" she accused. She did not miss the Duke’s eyes widen nor the sweet smile her mother gave her from the other side of the Duke. The Duke chuckled as he held up a hand to her to indicate for her to stop.

"You didn’t let me finish, daughter." He turned his head to Lorenzo. "Are you sure you want a woman with such a sharp tongue, my Lord?" the Duke joked. Lorenzo nodded. 

"I want her with all my heart, your Grace." 

"Oh Cira," Melita whispered to her. Cira could only watch as her father’s eyes returned to her. 

"Then I give you Cira’s hand with my blessing." Cira didn’t need another moment. She turned to Lorenzo and rushed to him. His arms were open for her and she gladly flung hers around him. She reveled in his smell, a mixture of new leather and lye soap. His strong arms pressed her to him and she couldn’t stop herself from grinning like a fool. 

"See," he began, his voice a whisper as she could feel his mouth by her left ear. "I cannot listen to common advice. It is my shortcoming; when I want something, nothing will stand in my way. Do you mind?" She turned her head up to see his face. He was widely grinning at her. Without a word, she reached up and kissed him. She didn’t care what her father thought of her, what her sister thought of her, or what anyone else in the room thought of her; she only wanted to feel Lorenzo’s soft lips again. When she parted from him she looked into his soft brown eyes and whispered,

"No, not at all."