She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. I put your clothes out an hour ago. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. “Yeah, I’ve heard that story. "At length I am my own master," murmured the knight, as his foot touched the strand. Mama will be expecting me. .
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