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Chapter Text

Lorenzo shut the door behind him and flopped down on the bed with a sigh. Lucrezia had been brushing her hair when he’d entered, but now she set her comb aside and turned towards him. “What’s on your mind?” she said.

“Francesco Pazzi is to be married,” Lorenzo said forlornly. “To a Clarice Orsini from Rome.”

“Is he? I’d heard that he never intended to marry.”

“So did I. But his uncle arranged it, so I suppose Francesco didn’t have a choice in the matter,” Lorenzo said. “Clarice’s uncle is a cardinal, so now the Pazzi have sunk their hooks even further into the papacy. It’ll only be a matter of time before they manage to steal the papal accounts from us.”

Lucrezia came to sit beside him. “But that’s not why you’re upset,” she said perceptively.

Lorenzo gave her a wry smile. “Is it that obvious?”

“Your feelings for Francesco? To everyone but him, yes,” she said with a grin. She nudged him playfully. “Why so gloomy that he’s to marry? You’re already married.”

“Yes, to a woman who doesn’t mind if I have other lovers and who herself has other lovers,” Lorenzo said. “I doubt Clarice Orsini would be so accommodating. I hear they’re very uptight in Rome.”

He and Lucrezia had been married six months now and had reached a very agreeable understanding. In the beginning they’d been swept away by the initial excitement and passion of marriage, but by now it had grown into a familial love that ran even deeper. Lorenzo considered her his dearest friend and closest confidante, and the nights they spent together were certainly enjoyable, but they weren’t in love with each other. And that was fine with both of them.

Although despite Lorenzo’s words, neither of them actually had taken a lover yet. Lorenzo’s heart had belonged to Francesco for as long as he could remember, and he didn’t want anyone else. As for Lucrezia, she told him she was being cautious for the time being so that there would be no doubt about the paternity of their children. None had been born yet, but they were hopeful.

“It seems pointless to worry about Clarice being accommodating when Francesco himself still won’t even give you the time of day,” Lucrezia teased. “Your plan to seduce him is at a standstill.”

Lorenzo heaved another mournful sigh. “My plan to seduce him has been at a standstill ever since I formed it at age sixteen,” he said. “But it will succeed sooner or later. I’m certain he’s been warming up to me lately.”

“Oh, is he down to three insults a day instead of five?”

Lorenzo threw a pillow at her.

It would be melodramatic to say it was the worst day of Francesco’s life because his life thus far had been a miserable existence full of far more bad days than good ones. But today was definitely towards the bottom.

Francesco was by nature someone who kept to the shadows, so standing here in the bright sunlight of the gardens, surrounded by colorfully-dressed guests at his own wedding feast where he was expected to be the sociable host and the center of attention—he felt like a mole or some other burrowing animal suddenly thrust out into the sun where he didn’t belong.

Not to mention the fact that the entire marriage was against his will. Francesco would have been content spending his life a bachelor married to his work, but Jacopo had had other ideas. Privately Francesco had to admit that he was most likely their only chance at making a strategic marriage alliance. Guglielmo was so clearly in love with Bianca de’ Medici no matter how secretive he thought he was being, but when the truth inevitably came out, Jacopo would refuse to allow that match and Guglielmo would refuse to marry anyone who wasn’t her. Thus, the task fell to Francesco.

Clarice was a good match, undoubtedly. Better than any other Florentine man had made recently, better than Lorenzo de’ Medici had made. Yet as Francesco’s eyes lingered on Lorenzo and Lucrezia talking and laughing together a safe distance away, basking in each other’s company, what he felt wasn’t smugness. Quite the opposite.

Frowning, Francesco turned his gaze towards his own wife instead. She was pretty enough and seemed well-mannered, and the red gown he’d had made for her did suit her quite well. Beyond that, his opinion of her had yet to be determined, seeing as they’d never spoken besides a brief conversation in Rome when their families had introduced them. But even in those few short minutes, Francesco had proven himself unsociable company, so surely Clarice was unhappy about having to marry an aloof, miserly banker.

She was standing alone by the table of food, looking as out-of-place as Francesco felt. Well, at least he wasn’t the only miserable person here.

His sulking was interrupted by Guglielmo coming over to clap him on the shoulder. “The groom can’t lurk around at the edge of the festivities all day,” he said. He nodded in Clarice’s direction. “You should go speak to your wife, she looks lonely too.”

Francesco sighed. “If I must.”

Clarice wished she’d managed to prevail upon her parents in allowing her to take her vows and become a nun. She’d been working on them for years and they’d been so close to agreeing, but then she’d received a marriage proposal from the Pazzi, and that had been the end of that. The Pazzi were among the most influential families in Florence and the richest in Italy—in both respects second only to the Medici, but unlike those upstarts (her parents’ words) the Pazzi had the advantage of being a very old noble family. Clarice would have been out of her mind to refuse the proposal.

According to others, anyway. For her part, she would much rather be leading a simple life in a convent out in the countryside than standing here, the bride at a wedding feast more lavish than anything she could have ever imagined.

Clarice sighed quietly and resisted the urge to adjust the sleeves of her dress yet again. The fabric was beautiful and very fine quality, but Florentine fashion was much more revealing than what she was accustomed to. She felt uncomfortable having her shoulders bare and wished that her new husband had selected a more conservative style. If Francesco had even cared enough to select anything himself; he’d probably just thrown money at Florence’s finest dressmakers and told them to create something that would make his family look wealthy.

As she’d been doing throughout most of the day, Clarice dared to steal a glance at her husband. He was leaning against one of the columns of the colonnade around the garden, looking vaguely bored with the proceedings. If Clarice was being honest with herself, she was a little afraid of him. He was quite handsome, his features sharp and striking, but there was an aura of intimidating coldness about him. And he was a banker, and reportedly highly educated; surely he thought her an unrefined simpleton, nothing like the noblewomen of Florence who’d been educated in literature and philosophy alongside their brothers.

“Madonna.”

Clarice was startled from her thoughts by a voice behind her, and she turned around to find herself speaking to the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. She had long dark hair and warm brown eyes, and she was wearing an elegant pink dress and much more jewelry than was the custom in Rome. But while the extravagant fashion on most of the other women (and plenty of the men) at the wedding seemed tasteless to Clarice, on this woman it suited her perfectly, accentuating her natural beauty without overpowering it.

Clarice felt momentarily tongue-tied, but fortunately the woman took charge of the conversation. “Lucrezia Donati de’ Medici,” she introduced herself with a smile, and Clarice politely inclined her head. “Not to be confused with my mother-in-law, Lucrezia Tornabuoni de’ Medici.”

Clarice chuckled along with her, her interest piqued even further. So this was a member of the famed Medici family? She’d heard many conflicting opinions on them, most notably a virulent hatred from Jacopo Pazzi, but the woman standing before her seemed perfectly friendly.

“It can’t be easy to leave a life you’ve known for a man you don’t,” Lucrezia said, and Clarice was taken aback by her bluntness. Was her discomfort so obvious?

She tried to smile. “I’m not the first to do so.”

Lucrezia smiled too—she had a beautiful, entrancing smile. Clarice couldn’t stop staring at her. “And yet, if you don’t mind my saying, you look a little…hesitant,” Lucrezia said.

Clarice’s smile faded as she glanced around again at her surroundings. Far from home without a single familiar face, married to a stranger who had yet to show any interest in her existence and thrust into a community that seemed to feel the same.

Maybe it was because Lucrezia was the first person in Florence to show her any kindness (aside from her new brother-in-law, who was currently too busy socializing with their guests on Francesco’s behalf to keep her company), but Clarice found herself blurting out, “Perhaps Francesco would have preferred a Florentine wife.”

Lucrezia cocked her head to one side. “What makes you say that?”

She sounded genuinely curious rather than derisive, which heartened Clarice enough to elaborate. “From what I’ve seen and heard, the women of Florence are so—so elegant and educated and sophisticated. Like you,” she said without thinking, then blushed. “And I’m…”

“A very beautiful and kindhearted woman,” Lucrezia supplied when she trailed off. “Any man would be lucky to call you his wife.”

Clarice felt herself blushing harder. “You don’t even know me,” she said.

“Not yet, but I feel that I already do.” Lucrezia reached out and took her hands, and Clarice was too startled to pull free of her grasp. Her hands felt shaky and sweaty all of a sudden, and she desperately hoped Lucrezia didn’t notice.

“I think we’ll be great friends, Madonna Pazzi,” Lucrezia said with a smile.

Clarice hesitantly smiled back, her heart lifting for the first time all day. But then it sunk again as she remembered something. “The Pazzi and the Medici—I heard they don’t get along,” she said.

Lucrezia scoffed. “Why should we concern ourselves with the petty squabbles of men?” she said carelessly, surprising a laugh out of Clarice. “Speaking of, it appears your husband is coming this way.”

Clarice glanced in the direction Lucrezia was looking, and her stomach twisted with nerves as she saw that indeed, Francesco was approaching. “So he is,” she said.

“I won’t take up any more of your time,” Lucrezia said. “I just wanted to see if you were all right.”

She let go of Clarice’s hands, which immediately felt cold and empty. Clarice gave her a small smile. “Thank you for your kindness,” she said.

“I hope we’ll speak again soon,” Lucrezia said. “May I call on you in a few weeks’ time?”

Clarice’s smile widened. “I would like that very much.”

Lucrezia gave her one last smile and left, just as Francesco arrived in front of Clarice. Clarice dropped her gaze, not feeling bold enough to look him in the eye.

“You seemed friendly with Madonna Medici,” he said.

Clarice bit her lip at the slight emphasis he put on the name. “I apologize, I know the Medici aren’t friends of your…our family,” she said. “She only wanted to introduce herself.”

“You misunderstand me, I wasn’t angry,” Francesco said. “Just surprised. Frankly, I didn’t even think the Medici would deign to accept my invitation—which I only gave out of societal obligation—but I suppose they never like missing a spectacle.”

He sounded miffed about the extravagance of the festivities. It made Clarice fear him less and like him more. She dared to look up at him and saw that his expression was as unreadable as always, but he somehow seemed a little less intimidating than he had during the ceremony. Maybe because they were alone, or at least, surrounded by guests who were distracted with each other’s company and not watching them.

So Clarice felt brave enough to ask, “Which Medici is she married to?”

“Lorenzo, the oldest son and head of the family,” Francesco said. “That one.”

Clarice turned to where he’d nodded and saw that Lucrezia had joined a handsome, well-dressed man who was talking animatedly and making her laugh. There was a little pit of something unpleasant in Clarice’s stomach, but she ignored it in favor of wondering why Francesco sounded jealous.

Perhaps he was in love with Lucrezia and envied Lorenzo for being married to her. What if that was why he seemed so unenthusiastic about marrying Clarice? Because his heart already belonged to another? Clarice looked uneasily back at him, but he was already looking at some point in the opposite direction of Lucrezia and Lorenzo.

“I’m starting to hope that Francesco is the one who’ll be accommodating,” Lucrezia said.

Lorenzo looked confused. “Accommodating about what?”

She turned to look at Clarice, who was…not talking to, but at least standing silently with Francesco, and looking very slightly more relaxed than she had before Lucrezia had spoken with her. “Me wooing his wife,” she said.

1 Month Later

He seems like the gods’ equal, that man, who
ever he is, who takes his seat so close
across from you, and listens raptly to
your lilting voice

and lovely laughter, which, as it wafts by,
sets the heart in my ribcage fluttering;
as soon as I glance at you a moment, I
can’t say a thing,

and my tongue stiffens into silence, thin
flames underneath my skin prickle and spark,
a rush of blood booms in my ears, and then
my eyes go dark,

and sweat pours coldly over me, and all
my body shakes, suddenly sallower
than summer grass, and death, I fear and feel,
is very near.

Clarice brushed her finger across the page as she read the poem again, allowing it to settle in her mind. She’d never been one for poetry, but this one…there was some truth about this one, something that spoke to her. Unconsciously, she found herself thinking back to the wedding a month ago, to watching Lucrezia and Lorenzo talking together.

Clarice flipped back to the cover of the book. Sappho. She’d never heard of him; probably some ancient Greek or Roman or other pagan, judging by the reference to multiple gods. Clarice had found the book in Francesco’s study, which was full of books, though the books of poetry and literature looked pristine and untouched compared to the well-worn bank ledgers on his desk. Francesco wasn’t the most literary man, from what Clarice knew of him—which was more and more with every day that passed.

They’d settled into a routine. Fortunately, they had their own house and so Clarice had to contend with Jacopo Pazzi only occasionally. She’d heard the rumors that Francesco had wanted to remain unmarried—like her, but unlike her, he was a man and thus had some choice in the matter. So she’d wondered, rather resentfully, why he hadn’t simply refused the match until she’d seen Jacopo Pazzi in one of his rages (about the Medici, as Clarice gathered they usually were) and realized that no one would dare disobey him if they wanted their head to remain attached to their shoulders.

But at Francesco’s palazzo, things were quiet and peaceful. Only the two of them lived there with their servants, and Francesco spent the majority of his time at the Pazzi bank, so Clarice had more freedom than she’d expected marriage to bring her. She spent her days attending to household duties and working on her embroidery, but when she had a little extra time, she would go into Francesco’s study and read, trying to make herself into a cultured Florentine woman even though she knew it was hopeless. She simply didn’t understand the poems and philosophical treatises in here.

Except this poem by Sappho. This one made sense to her.

Francesco was home for dinner that evening (he often missed it, out late at the bank), but even so it was quiet, as usual; neither he nor Clarice was prone to conversation. These days, however, silences between them were starting to become less awkward and more companionable. Francesco was not an openly affectionate man—and Clarice too was very reserved—but she was starting to be able to decipher his slight facial expressions and small mannerisms, and she could tell he held her in some regard.

And she felt the same. He was kinder than he seemed at first meeting, and his perceived coldness was actually quietness, which suited Clarice just fine. She thought that being married to a talkative man would probably exhaust her. It was a relief that Francesco didn’t need much from her and left her to her own devices most of the time. If she had to marry, Francesco was probably the best sort of husband she could wish for.

As for their nights together, they weren’t exactly passionate, but they were…fine. Clarice hadn’t really expected better; on the contrary, Francesco was gentler with her than her mother had warned her to expect. Although he never seemed to enjoy himself all that much, which made Clarice fear that she was doing something wrong or that she wasn’t pleasing to him.

Maybe he would prefer to be in bed with Lucrezia Donati.

As the thought of her occurred, Clarice remembered the poem from earlier and felt her cheeks heat up, though she didn’t know why. “I read a beautiful poem today,” she found herself saying. “From a book in your study.”

“Oh?” Francesco said.

“It was by a man called Sappho,” she said. “Have you read any of his works?”

Francesco raised an eyebrow. “Sappho was a woman,” he said. “And I have a passing familiarity with her, but truthfully poetry doesn’t interest me much.”

Clarice barely heard the second sentence, too shocked by the first. “Sappho was a woman?” she said.

“Yes.”

“But—but the poems I read, they were about women,” Clarice said.

“Yes.”

“I mean, they were about—they were about desiring women,” Clarice elaborated, feeling herself blush even as she said it. “At least I thought—I-I suppose I must have misunderstood them.”

Francesco looked amused. “No, you understood them correctly.”

Was Florence really a city of such debauchery that Francesco didn’t so much as blink at the thought of women desiring other women? “But,” Clarice said, unable to form words. “That’s. But that’s—how can—that isn’t—”

Francesco took pity on her and cut off her spluttering by saying, “I’m not a woman myself, but I don’t find it hard to imagine that one could desire other women in the same way that another desires men, or that one man desires women or another man other men.”

Clarice tried to follow this logic. “But it’s a sin,” she said.

“Why?” Francesco said.

What did he mean, why? She would think he’d never set foot at mass before if she hadn’t accompanied him there every Sunday for the past month. “Intimacy should only be for the purpose of producing children,” Clarice said as patiently as she could. “Pleasure for pleasure’s sake is a sin.”

“So the Bible says, but why?” Francesco pressed. “If we are truly God’s children, why should He not want us to take pleasure in the lives He has given us? To enjoy everything His world has to offer rather than denying ourselves true happiness?”

Clarice frowned at him. She didn’t like being talked in circles like this, made to feel like a fool. Francesco seemed to realize this, for his face softened and he said, “I’ve offended you. Forgive me. I only meant to explain the way I see the world.”

“No need to apologize,” Clarice said. The subject was dropped for the rest of the meal, but it continued to weigh on her mind all night.

The next day, Clarice went back to the poem. Maybe she’d read it wrong the first time and the poet was actually desiring the godlike man, not the unidentified “you” who was speaking to the man. But no, that wasn’t right, Clarice thought, it had to be the “you” who was the object of desire. That person’s gender wasn’t actually specified, she realized now, at least not in this Italian translation; yesterday, thinking the poet was a man, Clarice had merely assumed the “you” was a woman.

And that was what had spoken to her. The feeling of longing for a woman. When Clarice tried reading the poem again while thinking of the “you” as a man, she didn’t feel that same spark of truth she had yesterday.

Lucrezia’s heart raced as she stood on the doorstep of Palazzo Pazzi—the slightly smaller and much friendlier-looking Palazzo Pazzi which belonged to Francesco, as opposed to the cold old building where Jacopo lived. Alone, now that Guglielmo was about to marry Bianca and had been disowned for it.

Hopefully Clarice was home; she likely didn’t know enough people yet in Florence to be out making social calls, so Lucrezia figured her odds were good. She’d been dying to see Clarice again ever since the wedding but had forced herself to wait a while to give the poor woman time to settle into her new life before Lucrezia started throwing herself at her.

At least, that was how Lorenzo had phrased it when Lucrezia had asked if it would be inappropriate to pay Clarice a visit the day after her wedding. He was greatly enjoying no longer being the only one with a hopeless infatuation, smug bastard.

Lucrezia wouldn’t call it love, not yet, because as much as she loved poetry, she knew better than to believe in pretty words about falling in love from a single glance. But Clarice was lovely and their first conversation had left Lucrezia with an instant attraction, at the very least, and a sense of protectiveness, a desire to make her smile and to be closer to her.

A servant answered the door and let her inside, and as luck would have it, Clarice was crossing the courtyard as Lucrezia entered. “Madonna,” she said, stopping short and looking startled. She glanced anxiously down at her dress, which was beautiful, with a simple sort of elegance that was hard to find in Florence. “I apologize, I wasn’t expecting visitors, you’ve caught me unprepared—”

“No, no, it’s my fault for stopping by unannounced,” Lucrezia said. “I hope my visit doesn’t inconvenience you, I’ll come back another time if you’d prefer—”

“No! I-I mean, since you’ve come all this way, I would hate to turn you away,” Clarice said. “Please be welcome.”

Lucrezia smiled at her, and Clarice led her into the sitting room so they could chat at leisure. “Have you been well?” Lucrezia asked once they were seated. “How are you settling into marriage?”

“Very well, thank you,” Clarice said. “Francesco and I have great fondness and respect for each other, and I’m beginning to feel at home here.”

Thinking of how lonely she’d been at the wedding, Lucrezia dearly hoped these words were true and not just spoken out of politeness. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said. She gestured around them. “You do have a beautiful home.”

“Thank you,” Clarice said. “And how are you and your family, are you well? I was so delighted to hear of Guglielmo and Bianca’s betrothal. I…I hope that means our families may begin to see more of each other.”

It had been Lucrezia’s first thought too, and her heart leapt at this indication that Clarice felt the same. “As do I,” she said, smiling. “Everyone is well and looking forward to the wedding. It’s a wonderful match, isn’t it? It’s rare, but always so lovely when a couple loves each other as much as Guglielmo and Bianca do. Nothing is more beautiful than the union of two hearts that are meant to be one.”

Clarice smiled too but ducked her head to avoid her gaze. Was she blushing? “Indeed,” she said.

They chatted for a while. Clarice kept tucking her hair behind her ears and smoothing invisible wrinkles out of her dress, and Lucrezia’s gaze was drawn to her every movement. Beforehand Lucrezia had considered this meeting a test of the initial feelings she’d experienced during their brief conversation at the wedding, and being here now talking with Clarice at much greater length was only strengthening what she’d felt then.

Half an hour had passed before Lucrezia noticed a book lying on a chair near where she was sitting. “Have you been reading this?” she said, reaching for it. “Perhaps it’s something I’m familiar with, I’d love to discuss literature with you.”

“Oh—n-no, I haven’t,” Clarice stammered, sounding suddenly anxious. “I’m not well-versed in literature, I was only skimming through that after I found it in Francesco’s study—”

Lucrezia flipped the book over to see the cover, and a broad smile spread across her face. “Sappho? I’m a great admirer of her work,” she said as meaningfully as she could without being outright indecent.

She glanced up to see Clarice’s eyes widen a little. “A-Are you?”

“Very much so.”

Lucrezia had heard the rumors that Clarice had intended to become a nun instead of marrying, and she had wondered if perhaps it meant that Clarice didn’t take pleasure in the company of men. So if she also enjoyed the poetry of Sappho…

“Have any of her poems particularly struck you?” Lucrezia asked, trying to gauge her feelings further.

“One of them,” Clarice said right away, then bit her lip. But after a moment she elaborated, “The one that opens with the man who seems like a god.”

“Oh yes, that’s one of my favorites,” Lucrezia said, flipping through the book. “The way she evokes the physicality of love and desire and jealousy…Even the fragmented poems are so beautiful. Like this one.” She read it aloud.

“for many crowns of violets and roses
…at my side you put on
and many woven garlands made of flowers
around your soft throat.
And with sweet oil costly
you anointed yourself
and on a soft bed
…delicate…
you would let loose your longing…”

Lucrezia wasn’t trying to read it in a seductive way, necessarily, but given the words of the poem, she couldn’t entirely help it. She glanced up at Clarice and saw that she was bright red and avoiding her eyes. Lucrezia felt a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Yes, well,” Clarice said after a moment. “The language may sound elegant, but the subject material is quite vulgar, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so. It’s about love, that’s all,” Lucrezia said. “What’s vulgar about that?”

Poor Clarice looked as if she might burst into flames, so Lucrezia kindly set the book aside and changed the subject. For now.

“She likes Sappho,” Lucrezia said triumphantly that night.

Lorenzo raised his eyebrows. “Is that an innuendo, or…?”

“No, I mean that I found a book of Sappho in her sitting room and she told me she was reading it,” Lucrezia said. “She did express her disapproval of it—Roman prudishness, you know—but she admitted there was a certain poem she liked. And she was quite flustered when I read one of the more erotic poems aloud to her.”

“This is exactly why I told you not to go see her the day after her wedding,” Lorenzo remarked. “You would have seduced the poor thing on the spot.”

Chapter Text

Francesco was doing his best to enjoy himself, or at least to look like he was. It was Guglielmo’s wedding and he was so happy, Francesco didn’t want to ruin the day for him by sulking. And he wanted to prove publicly that he stood with his brother, not Jacopo, which meant he had to look happy to be here.

Jacopo was no longer openly furious with Francesco like he had been in the days after the vote in which he’d sided with Lorenzo, but they no longer saw each other except at the bank, and there they spoke only when absolutely necessary. Francesco didn’t regret what he’d done, but he couldn’t help but worry what his parents would think of him sowing discord in the family like this, betraying Jacopo after he’d raised him all these years.

Now, he saw that Clarice was returning to him after being briefly engaged in conversation by a few nearby guests. The two of them usually stuck close together at social engagements seeing as they both felt equally uncomfortable. Francesco would have preferred to stay unmarried, but it was rather nice to have a companion at these sorts of things.

“You look thoughtful,” Clarice said. “Shouldn’t your brother’s wedding be a happy occasion?”

“Of course,” Francesco said. They were at the edge of the room and their quiet conversation was masked by the talk and laughter and music around them, so he spoke freely. “But I wonder if I only made things worse by siding with Guglielmo against our uncle. I should have done something to bring them together again, keep our family united.”

Clarice shook her head. “Your uncle made that impossible,” she said. “He’ll never be willing to see reason where the Medici are concerned, and of course Guglielmo would never have given up Bianca. The only choice you had was which one to stand with, and I think you chose correctly.”

Francesco felt some of his tension ease. “Do you?” he asked. Thus far, Clarice was little help with matters of banking or politics but when it came to moral quandaries, there was no one better to ask for advice. If she believed he’d done the right thing, it was a good sign that he had indeed.

“Yes,” she said. “Your uncle is determined to hold onto old grudges, but Guglielmo wants to let the past lie and move forward. By siding with Guglielmo, you chose harmony over enmity, forgiveness over vengeance. You chose love over hate. And in God’s eyes, that is always the right choice.”

Francesco gave her a small smile, his heart feeling even lighter. Problems always sounded so simple the way Clarice framed them. “What a wise wife I have,” he said.

Clarice ducked her head to hide a smile of her own; Francesco knew it was rare that he openly praised or expressed affection for her like this. He should try to more often, he thought, but such behavior didn’t come naturally to him.

Their conversation was interrupted by Lorenzo and Lucrezia approaching. Francesco felt his heart beat a little faster. Greetings and pleasantries were exchanged, and they spent a few minutes discussing how lovely the wedding festivities were.

“Clarice, that’s a beautiful dress you’re wearing,” Lucrezia said. Francesco raised an eyebrow; he’d seen them growing closer these past few weeks, but he hadn’t been aware they were already using each other’s Christian names.

Clarice blushed. “Thank you,” she said. “And you look wonderful as well.”

Lucrezia smiled, and Francesco glanced sideways at Lorenzo and saw that he was smiling at her. No doubt thinking how proud he was to be married to such a beautiful woman. Francesco felt a stab of jealousy. But not out of any sort of comparison of their wives; rather, jealousy of the way Lorenzo was looking at Lucrezia.

But then Lorenzo turned to look at him, and Francesco momentarily lost his breath at having the warmth of those blue eyes focused on him. “Francesco, I was hoping I might steal you for a moment,” Lorenzo said. “Business to discuss.”

Francesco nodded, and they left their wives to chat as Lorenzo led him a little away from the party and into his study. He filled him in on the situation with the alum and his proposition for a joint venture. It would be profitable for the Pazzi bank, but Francesco knew Jacopo would never agree, and he told Lorenzo that he would try to persuade him but doubted he’d succeed.

This seemed to be the response Lorenzo had expected, and he didn’t press the subject. “How are you and your wife getting along?” he asked instead.

“Fine,” Francesco said, not that it was any concern of Lorenzo’s. “She’s a good woman and a dutiful wife.”

“Then you’re as fortunate as I am,” Lorenzo said. “Although I know that you’d intended to remain unmarried…” He paused, seeming to weigh his words, before adding, “I confess I’ve had my suspicions about why.”

Francesco narrowed his eyes. “What sort of suspicions, exactly?” he said, daring him to say it aloud.

Lorenzo held his gaze for one heated moment before looking away and saying, “Oh, nothing worth sharing.”

They were quiet for a minute. Francesco watched the firelight flickering on Lorenzo’s face, noticed how the color of his tunic perfectly complemented his eyes. “Are you happy?” Lorenzo said at last, his tone quiet and vulnerable and nothing like the façade of the clever, confident politician.

Francesco considered the question. “I have a successful bank, a grand palazzo, a wife who’s a credit to me, and now a happily-married brother,” he said. “I should be happy.”

“But you’re not,” Lorenzo said, meeting his eyes again. “Because there’s something missing. Here.”

He reached out and placed his hand on Francesco’s chest, right over his heart, and Francesco knew he could feel how fast it was beating.

But then there was a voice behind him calling for Lorenzo, who quickly dropped his hand and stepped back and promised he’d be right there. He gave Francesco one last, long look, then brushed past him to return to the festivities.

Francesco stayed where he was a moment to collect himself before going to stand in the doorway of the study and observe the party. He saw Clarice and Lucrezia exactly where they’d left them, still utterly absorbed in each other’s company. Clarice was looking at her in a way Francesco had never seen her look at him, or anyone else, before.

A few months passed. The Volterra incident had been a victory for Florence overall, but Clarice was shaken by the massacre that had taken place there and she knew Francesco was even moreso, having witnessed it himself, although he said nothing about it to her.

But the happier result was that he and Lorenzo were getting along these days, tentatively rebuilding the friendship Lucrezia told her they’d shared in their youth. Clarice was glad to see Francesco in better spirits, and she was also glad that his and Lorenzo’s growing alliance meant that they were frequent dinner guests at Palazzo Medici. Even outside those dinners, she and Lucrezia called on each other so often that sometimes Clarice felt she spent more time with her than with her own husband.

It was during one of these visits that Lucrezia told her she had news to share. “What is it?” Clarice asked, seeing her eyes sparkling with excitement. It made her even more beautiful.

“I’m with child,” Lucrezia said, beaming. “We haven’t told anyone outside the family yet, it’s still early, but of course I wanted you to know.”

Clarice let out a breath, surprise giving way to happiness tinged with something unpleasant, almost like jealousy. Well, it was no wonder she was jealous; motherhood was the one part of marriage she’d truly looked forward to, her one hesitation in her previous wish to become a nun, but she and Francesco still hadn’t conceived. Probably because he asked her to his bed so rarely.

Clarice firmly shoved all those thoughts aside and put on a smile. “That’s wonderful,” she said as sincerely as she could manage. “Congratulations. I’ll be praying for you and the baby.”

“I appreciate that,” Lucrezia said, taking her hand and squeezing it. Clarice’s skin always burned where she touched her.

Unbidden, a line from her favorite Sappho poem came to her. Thin flames underneath my skin prickle and spark…

Clarice cleared her throat and pulled her hand away more abruptly than she meant to. “I’m so sorry, I just remembered I…have another engagement,” she said, barely able to even hear her own voice over the deafening pounding of her heart. A rush of blood booms in my ears, and then my eyes go dark…

Lucrezia looked disappointed. “Oh. That’s a pity, I’d been so looking forward to our visit today,” she said. But then she smiled. “No matter, I’m sure we’ll see each other soon.”

Clarice hummed in agreement and managed to deliver the appropriate farewells before hurrying out of there, her breathing quick and uneven. She was trembling, her hands sweating.

And sweat pours coldly over me, and all
my body shakes, suddenly sallower
than summer grass, and death, I fear and feel,
is very near.

What was happening to her?

Clarice was so distracted when she arrived home that she almost collided with one of the servants outside her bedroom. The man stammered his apologies and hurried away, looking far more flustered than Clarice thought the situation called for.

Then she looked at the room he’d been coming out of and realized it was Francesco’s bedroom. And Francesco was in there, his hair a mess as he hastily laced up his undershirt, looking as flustered as the servant.

It finally clicked for Clarice.

“Oh,” she said.

“Clarice—” Francesco started to say, but she quickly went into her own room and shut the door.

It was a minute or two before he knocked. “Clarice,” he said. “May I come in?”

Clarice supposed they couldn’t avoid this conversation. “Yes,” she said.

Francesco opened the door and shut it again behind them, giving them total privacy against passing servants. It was strange; it was so rare that Clarice was completely alone in a room with her husband.

He was fully dressed now, although his hair was still a little disheveled. “I apologize,” he said. “I didn’t think you would return from your visit so soon.”

“Would you still be sorry if I hadn’t caught you?” Clarice asked.

Francesco sighed. “Are you angry?” he said, avoiding the question.

Was she? She knew she should be. She’d just caught her husband with another man, she should be horrified, furious, humiliated. But all she could think about was her and Francesco’s conversation about Sappho, months ago.

“That’s why you felt so strongly about what you were saying that evening,” she said. “About women who desire other women and men who desire other men.” Francesco nodded. “Is that why you wished to remain unmarried? Is that why I don’t—why I don’t please you when we’re intimate?”

Francesco looked like he wished he could be anywhere else. “It’s not that you don’t please me,” he said uncomfortably. “You’re a beautiful woman and a perfect wife, and I feel fortunate to be married to you. The fault lies with me alone. I’m the one who was cursed to prefer other men.”

Clarice folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. She’d worried he had feelings for Lucrezia…why was the truth somehow preferable to that? Why was it almost a relief? She tried to tell herself it was because the knowledge that Francesco’s lovers were all men meant that there was no risk of his having illegitimate children, and thus her position as the sole mother of his heirs remained unthreatened.

But she kept thinking about Lucrezia’s touch burning her skin.

“It’s a sin,” she said.

“Yes, I’m well aware,” Francesco said, almost impatiently. “Feel free to judge me in your heart as much as you like. I merely ask you not to spread this information around. In Florence accusations of sodomy rarely result in more than a minor fine and are often overlooked altogether, especially for such a well-respected and influential man as myself, but the rumors would do irreparable damage to my reputation and therefore the bank and our livelihood. If you wish to continue living in the manner you’re accustomed to, I’m sure you’ll see it’s wise to keep this between us.”

Clarice set her jaw. “You are my husband. My duty as your wife is to be loyal to you, always,” she said. “And yet you think you have to threaten me into not betraying your trust? You think you have to—to buy my silence?”

Francesco sighed again, some of the tension visibly melting out of his posture. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m so used to spending my days dealing with businessmen who think of nothing but their own interests, I’ve forgotten that there do exist some people who act merely out of the goodness of their hearts.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Clarice said. “I never would have thought about it.”

“Thank you.”

“What I meant before was, how—how can you live with yourself?” she said. “Knowing that you sin every day—”

“Well, I hardly fuck a man every day,” Francesco muttered, and Clarice pursed her lips at the vulgar language. How was he finding any of this amusing? “I can live with myself because I’ve had no relationship with God since He ripped my parents away from me when I was just a child. He’s clearly shown that I mean nothing to Him, so why should I care what He thinks of me?”

Clarice was scandalized. “Francesco, how can you say such things?” she said. “It’s blasphemy.”

“Oh, just add it to my list of sins,” he said bitterly.

“I can see how one could lose faith after experiencing the pain you have,” Clarice said in a more measured tone. “But God loves all His children. He hasn’t abandoned you.”

“Well, by that logic then He still loves me even if I’m a sodomite,” Francesco shot back.

Clarice couldn’t think of a counterargument to that, and she huffed in frustration.

“I can live with myself because to me, my desire for other men isn’t a sin,” Francesco said more seriously. “How can it be when it brings me such joy and pleasure?”

“Lust is—”

“I didn’t only mean physical pleasure,” Francesco cut her off. “Pleasure in my heart. The purest happiness I’ve ever felt. How could God condemn that?”

Clarice stared at him; she’d never heard him speak with such emotion before. “You’re in love with him,” she realized. She nodded towards the door. “Alessandro.”

“What? No, he’s just a distraction,” Francesco said. “I wasn’t talking about him, I was talking about…” Something sorrowful passed across his face. “There…there was a boy I loved once, when I was young. And when he kissed me, it was the closest I’ve ever felt to God. It was pure and good and heavenly, Clarice.”

His voice was shaking, and Clarice felt herself softening. She reached out to rest her hand on his shoulder. “What happened to the boy?” she asked.

“I pushed him away,” Francesco replied. “I told him it was wrong. But the look on his face, how hurt he was…I felt like I was the one acting under the devil’s influence, not him.”

“Who was he?”

Francesco didn’t answer.

One kiss. One kiss he’d stolen at sixteen, and Lorenzo still hadn’t forgotten it. He didn’t think he ever would.

One kiss. One blissful moment of the purest happiness he’d ever known, and then Francesco was shoving him off and calling him a sodomite and hurling all sorts of other insults, then storming away and ignoring Lorenzo calling his name, crying and apologizing and begging him to come back.

But before he’d yelled, he’d kissed him back. When Lorenzo had first pressed his lips against his, Francesco had kissed him back.

Clarice woke with a gasp, her heart pounding as the dream lingered in her mind’s eye. Lucrezia’s smile, the sound of her voice, her kiss, her touch on Clarice’s skin…

Taking a shaky breath, Clarice laid back down and tried to get comfortable enough to fall asleep again. But she couldn’t, the dream still bothering her.

She and Francesco always slept in their own bedrooms, even on the nights they were intimate. Not out of any coldness, but simply because they were both solitary creatures who preferred their privacy. And right now as Clarice tentatively inched up the hem of her nightgown, she was especially glad Francesco wasn’t asleep right next to her.

She spent half the next morning praying and asking God for forgiveness, but in her heart she couldn’t repent of the sin. Francesco’s words from months ago kept echoing in her head.

If we are truly God’s children, why should He not want us to take pleasure in the lives He has given us?

About a week had passed since Clarice had discovered his secret, and things were still uncomfortable between them. Less so than Francesco might have expected given how devout and morally upright Clarice was—he would’ve expected her to give him a much harder time than just the one brief lecture—but it was clear that it was weighing heavily on her mind.

Francesco did feel bad for causing her such distress, but it wasn’t like he’d done it on purpose. He’d never intended for her to find out. Although in a strange way, it did feel like a bit of a weight off now that she knew. Maybe she’d irreparably lost all prior respect for him, but at least she wasn’t going to tell anyone and at least he didn’t have to put on the façade in front of her anymore.

Francesco was trying to fall asleep one night when he heard it. Muffled sobbing coming from Clarice’s bedroom next door.

He climbed out of bed and stopped in front of the door connecting their rooms, chewing his lip. Should he ask if she was all right? He hated, hated being around crying people and was awful at comforting them, but if Clarice was upset, it was undoubtedly his fault.

So Francesco sighed, braced himself, and opened the door.

Clarice was curled up on her bed, crying into her pillow as if to dampen the noise, but she cut off and hastily sat up when he entered. “Clarice?” Francesco said, shutting the door behind him. “What’s wrong?”

“N-Nothing,” she hiccupped. Francesco just raised an eyebrow, and she seemed to give up the charade. “Everything.”

“I know that what I told you last week must be difficult for you,” he said, trying for a soothing tone, though it probably came out awkward and gruff. “But it’s my sin to bear, not yours. Please don’t let it upset you this much.”

Clarice shook her head. “It’s not that,” she said. “Well, it is, but it’s not—it’s something else. About me.”

“Something about you?” Francesco said, bewildered. “What do you mean?”

Clarice took a few shaky breaths, like she was trying to steady herself. “After what you said last week,” she began, “it made me think about—about myself. And…and I realized that I…”

Francesco knew then. Her disinterest in marriage. Her reaction to finding out that Sappho was a woman who wrote about other women, and the fact that Francesco had noticed she’d subsequently snuck that book out of his study and still read from it often, always trying to hide it when he came into the room. The way she’d been looking at Lucrezia Donati at Bianca and Guglielmo’s wedding.

Last week when she’d asked him, how can you live with yourself? She hadn’t sounded lecturing. She’d sounded scared.

“You’re like me,” he said. “Aren’t you?”

Fresh tears welled up in Clarice’s eyes, and she put her head in her hands.

Without thinking twice about it, Francesco crossed the room to sit on the bed and he took her in his arms, holding her close as she cried and cried. Eventually she ran out of tears, and they sat in silence for a while.

“Let me ask you something,” Francesco said at last. “These feelings of yours. Did you choose them?”

Clarice looked up at him with tearstained cheeks. “What do you mean?”

“Did you choose to desire other women?” he asked. “Or did it happen to you?”

“I…I suppose it happened to me,” Clarice said. “I didn’t choose it. I would never have chosen it.”

“Then how can it be a sin?” Francesco said. “I’m not well-versed in the Bible like you are, but in my mind, isn’t a sin when you’re faced with the choice between right and wrong, and you choose to do what’s wrong? But you didn’t choose this. It happened to you.”

Clarice thought about this. “According to that reasoning, then perhaps the feelings themselves wouldn’t be a sin,” she said. “But choosing to act on them certainly would.”

Francesco nodded to concede the point. “Fair enough,” he said. “And yet, if this is something that happened to you rather than something you chose, then doesn’t that mean that God is the one who made it happen? Perhaps—perhaps you desire other women because God made it so. Because when He created you, He made this a part of who you are. So then how could it be displeasing to Him for you to act upon that aspect of yourself, when He’s the one who gave it to you?”

Clarice was gazing at him, her expression open and vulnerable. “Do you really believe that?” she asked.

“I have to,” Francesco said simply. “Clarice, you’re the kindest, most devout, most genuinely good person I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. Everything you do is to serve God. I can’t imagine how He could possibly be unhappy with you.”

Clarice rested her head on his shoulder, still sniffling, and Francesco kissed her hair.

“It’s Lucrezia Donati, isn’t it?” he said after another silence. “You have feelings for her.”

Clarice sat bolt upright, looking panicked. “You knew? Have I made it so obvious? Oh, she must know, she must be disgusted with me and—”

“No, no, you haven’t been obvious at all,” Francesco hastened to assure her. “It was a guess on my part, a guess I was only able to make because as your husband I’m aware of your comings and goings in a way no one else is. I know you’ve spent more time with her than any other woman in Florence, so she seemed like a likely candidate. That’s all.”

Clarice visibly relaxed. “Oh.”

Now that Clarice had bared her heart to him, Francesco figured he owed it to her to reveal his one last secret too. “Speaking of Lucrezia…The boy I loved when I was young, the one who kissed me,” he said. “It was…it was Lorenzo de’ Medici.”

Clarice looked up at him, clearly startled. “Lorenzo?” she said. “You loved him?”

“Yes. Although I didn’t realize it until it was too late,” Francesco said.

“Do you still love him?”

Francesco was silent. Clarice took his hand, the expression on her face saying she knew the answer to the question. “Did he love you?” she asked. “If he’s the one who kissed you, he must have—”

“Maybe, or maybe he was merely acting on shallow youthful lust,” Francesco said, repeating all the arguments he’d given himself over the years. “Even if he did feel something for me then, it’s been years, and he’s married now and has no doubt had an abundance of other lovers in the meantime. In Florence plenty of boys fool around with other boys before marriage, I’m just one of the few who never grew out of it and became a respectable man.”

“There isn’t a soul in Florence who would say you aren’t respectable,” Clarice said. “And it’s obvious that Lorenzo has very great affection for you.”

“Yes. Affection for me as a friend,” Francesco said. “And I wish that was enough for me. I wish more than anything that that was enough for me.”

Clarice said nothing, looking like she knew exactly how he felt. They sat for a long time in companionable silence, Clarice still holding his hand, Francesco still with his arm around her. His pain and secrets felt easier to bear now that Clarice shared them, and he hoped she felt the same about confiding in him.

“It’s late,” Clarice said finally.

Francesco nodded, then ventured, “May I stay with you tonight?”

“Tonight?” Clarice said, sounding surprised. “You want to—right now—?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean—just to sleep,” Francesco said quickly. “It pains me to think of you being alone while you’re in such distress. I’d like to sleep beside you tonight, if you’d permit me to.”

“Oh. Well.” Clarice gave him a small smile. “I’d like that.”

So they climbed into her bed together, and on an impulse Francesco wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Clarice rested her head on his chest, looking grateful, and it wasn’t long before they’d both fallen asleep.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks were difficult. Clarice faked illness to get out of social obligations for one week, but decided she couldn’t continue that ruse for much longer lest people fear she was so ill her life was in danger.

Francesco kept up the pretense without her even having to ask him to, easily making her excuses if someone came to call on her while he was home. Clarice appreciated it more than she could say, and it only strengthened the bond she’d felt with him since her confession. Before telling him, she’d thought that doing so would make her feel ashamed around him, but on the contrary, when Francesco was near she felt much more at peace with herself than she did when she was alone with her thoughts.

They didn’t talk about it much, not after that night. But they didn’t need to. What more was there to say anyway?

It was two weeks after her feigned illness that the first dinner invitation from the Medici arrived. “I can send our regrets, or go without you and say you had a headache,” Francesco said, clearly noticing Clarice’s anxiety.

But she shook her head, determined. “No,” she said. “I have to be strong enough to face her again. The longer I wait, the harder it will be. And the more suspicious she’ll get that something’s amiss.”

“Very well,” Francesco said. “But we can leave early if you change your mind.”

That evening found them at Palazzo Medici alone with Lorenzo and Lucrezia—Bianca and Guglielmo had a dinner engagement elsewhere, as did Lucrezia Tornabuoni, and Giuliano was “out,” Lorenzo said with an exasperation that told Clarice Giuliano hadn’t bothered informing him of where exactly he was tonight.

“But that’s precisely why we chose tonight to invite you,” Lorenzo added. “It’s much easier to talk without the rest of the family here.”

Yes, and that was exactly why Clarice wished they were here. She couldn’t look at Lucrezia. Even the sound of her voice made her blush, made her think of the dream she’d had about her and all the other sinful thoughts since then. Before then too, now that Clarice was looking back on older memories with a clearer perspective.

Nevertheless, the meal went smoothly enough. Francesco was uncharacteristically chatty, no doubt to keep Clarice from having to say much, though she did her best to contribute to the conversation as she normally would.

But a while after they’d finished eating, Lorenzo said, “Francesco, would you mind joining me in my study? I have a few papers for the bank I’d like you to look over.”

Clarice’s stomach lurched, and Francesco threw an uncertain glance over at her. “It’s getting late,” he said. “Perhaps we should return home.”

“It will only take a moment,” Lorenzo promised.

Clarice tried to smile. “Go,” she said. “I’m not tired yet.”

“If you’re sure,” Francesco said, and he hesitated another second before getting up and following Lorenzo out of the room.

Intensely awkward (at least in Clarice’s eyes) silence reigned for a minute before Lucrezia said, “Are you angry with me?”

Startled, Clarice finally looked up at her and saw that her beautiful brown eyes were full of concern. “Angry? Of course not,” she said.

Lucrezia looked soothed, but only a little. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “It’s just that you’ve been so distant these past few weeks, you haven’t come to call or responded to any of my letters…”

“I-I was ill,” Clarice stammered.

“I know,” Lucrezia said. “But even before that, the last time we spoke, when I told you about the baby, you rushed out so quickly. I was afraid I’d offended you.”

“Not at all. I felt unwell that afternoon, that’s all,” Clarice said, which wasn’t entirely a lie. “And even once I recovered from my illness, I still felt too tired to come calling.”

“Oh.”

“But I should have at least answered your letters,” Clarice said. “I’m sorry.”

Lucrezia shook her head with a smile and placed her hand atop hers where it rested on the table. Clarice really wished she wouldn’t; her heart was pounding, fire burning in her stomach. “There’s no need to apologize,” Lucrezia said. “I’m just relieved that all is well between us, and that you’re feeling better.”

“As am I,” Clarice said, trying so hard to sound steady.

Lucrezia lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “This illness of yours…do you think you could be with child too? I’ve certainly been feeling ill and exhausted for weeks at a time…”

Clarice felt a pang of wistfulness. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t think so.”

Lucrezia squeezed her hand. “Well, it will only be a matter of time,” she said confidently. “It did take a while for us, but it happened in the end. Oh, how wonderful it would be if our children were close in age! They could be the closest of friends, just like we are.”

“Friends. Yes,” Clarice said, her heart aching. She thought of Francesco’s words about having Lorenzo’s friendship. I wish that was enough for me. I wish more than anything that that was enough for me.

“So, what are these bank papers you wished to discuss?” Francesco asked.

“They don’t exist,” Lorenzo said. “Lucrezia just wanted to have a moment alone with Clarice.”

A hint of something flickered across Francesco’s neutral expression, but Lorenzo couldn’t figure out what. “Why?” Francesco said.

Lucrezia’s exact concern was that Clarice had figured out how she felt and now hated her, but Lorenzo just shrugged and said, “She wanted to speak with her privately, I don’t know what about. But since I have you here, I want to tell you something.”

Another flicker. “Oh?”

“Lucrezia is with child,” Lorenzo said, beaming as pride and excitement warmed his heart, as it always did when he thought about the baby.

Francesco didn’t even blink. “Oh,” he said. “Well, congratulations.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“Clarice told me,” he admitted with a wry half-smile. “A few weeks ago.”

Lorenzo laughed. “You two do seem to be getting quite close,” he said.

“Yes,” Francesco said. “She is…one of my dearest friends.”

“That’s wonderful,” Lorenzo said even as a hint of something like jealousy twisted deep inside him. What did he have to be jealous of? He too was one of Francesco’s dearest friends.

But he wasn’t married to him. He wasn’t the one who got to share his home and his bed, to spend the night in his arms and wake up beside him.

“You and Lucrezia have always been very close too,” Francesco said. “People say you married for love.”

Did…did he sound jealous? Lorenzo’s heart skipped a beat. “That’s not true,” he said. “It was a business transaction, same as any other marriage, but we did have the advantage of already knowing and being fond of each other. But fondness is not love. Well, I do love her, of course I love her, but in a familial way, not romantic.”

Realizing he was rambling nervously, he shut his mouth. “I see,” Francesco said, his face still frustratingly blank.

What Lorenzo wouldn’t give to get inside his head, or better yet his heart. To see what went on underneath that perfect, cool façade. From the outside Francesco was like a marble statue, flawless and smooth. Lorenzo wanted to break the marble apart, to see Francesco’s heart laid bare and hold it in his hands. To know, truly know, every inch of him.

He was getting closer these days. Francesco was letting him in more than he’d done since they were children. But it wasn’t enough for Lorenzo. He wished it could be, but it wasn’t.

“And you?” he said. “Are you in love with Clarice?”

A small crack in the marble appeared, but Francesco looked away into the fireplace, preventing Lorenzo from studying it too closely. A long moment passed. “No,” he said, very quietly.

Lorenzo’s heart was pounding. He took a tentative step closer. Francesco didn’t stop him. Closer and closer. “Francesco…”

A knock sounded on the door, making them both jump. Lorenzo hastily stepped back, then crossed the room to open the door. Clarice and Lucrezia were standing there.

“I apologize if I’m interrupting,” Clarice said. “But I’m feeling tired after all, Francesco, are you almost ready to go?”

“Yes, we just finished,” Francesco said. He made his way out of the room without even looking at Lorenzo.

The four of them walked out to the courtyard, where Lorenzo and Lucrezia bid the other two goodbye and watched them go. Lorenzo glanced sideways at Lucrezia; the look of longing on her face perfectly mirrored how he felt. “I take it your evening wasn’t successful either?” he said.

“Well, she’s not angry with me,” Lucrezia said. “But I’m losing hope of her ever returning my feelings.”

Lorenzo turned to look at the closed door Francesco had left through. “So am I.”

Months passed. Lucrezia’s pregnancy started becoming visible, and every time Clarice looked at the growing bump, she was overwhelmed with jealousy and longing. Whether it was jealousy of Lucrezia for being pregnant as Clarice wanted to be, or jealousy of Lorenzo for being the other parent of Lucrezia’s child, Clarice couldn’t even begin to puzzle out.

And meanwhile, Clarice was still struggling with feeling this way towards Lucrezia in the first place. It was wrong, she knew it was wrong, and yet…in her heart, it felt right. It felt pure and good, just as Francesco had described his kiss with Lorenzo.

On the occasional Sunday the priest would give a sermon against homosexuality, and Clarice would shake and tear up, and Francesco would take her hand and hold it tight for the rest of mass. And then once they were alone at home, he would tell her not to listen, he would tell her that God loved all His children and that she was one of His most devoted servants and that He would never fault her for loving someone, even if that person was another woman.

But Clarice knew that Francesco didn’t truly care about God himself, so it was hard to put much stock in his reassurances, even though she so badly wanted to.

Every day for months, she prayed to God for guidance. She had yet to receive any.

Lorenzo and Lucrezia were also suffering. “I gave her a collection of some Sappho poems, beautiful new translations Poliziano did for me,” Lucrezia said. “Do you think I came on too strong?”

“You gave her a collection of Sappho?” Lorenzo demanded. “Are you trying to let all of Florence know that you want to fuck her?”

“It’s a very beautiful book,” Clarice said. “But I doubt she meant anything by it. She knows I enjoy some of Sappho’s poems, that’s all.”

Francesco nodded in agreement. “Yes, it seems entirely platonic to me. I wouldn’t read into it.”

“It’s the perfect romantic gesture,” Lorenzo said proudly. “A small portrait of him I commissioned from Sandro, along with a few love poems I wrote that are clearly about him.”

“He couldn’t possibly misinterpret that,” Lucrezia agreed.

“I don’t know,” Francesco said. “The portrait was probably a thoughtful gesture from a friend, and the poems are beautiful but they can’t possibly be about me, they seem to be about someone strikingly beautiful whom Lorenzo considers his great love from his youth. Ippolita Sforza, I’d guess. I’m sure he only wanted my opinion on his newest bits of writing.”

“I think you’re right,” Clarice said. “It’s very ambiguous, I don’t see any reason to interpret those gifts as romantic.”

“Lucrezia noticed me watching her after mass today,” Clarice fretted. “I’m so embarrassed, she must know now what with how obvious I was being.”

“I know how you feel,” Francesco said. “Yesterday I touched Lorenzo’s shoulder and left my hand there for far too long, it was positively indecent.”

“Clarice hates me,” Lucrezia announced. “After mass today I caught her eye and smiled at her, and she just looked away and pretended that she didn’t see me.”

“I’ve got my own problems,” Lorenzo said. “When Francesco went to return my friendly pat on the back yesterday, he only touched me for half a second before yanking his hand away like I’d burned him. I knew those poems were too much, I should have just done the portrait.”

Towards the end of Lucrezia’s pregnancy, she and Lorenzo invited Clarice and Francesco for dinner at Palazzo Medici. Clarice nearly declined because she really was feeling unwell this time, but ended up accepting since she didn’t know when she’d next be able to see Lucrezia with the baby’s birth being so near.

(Or what if something went wrong with the birth and Lucrezia lost her life? Clarice tried not to let her mind go down that dark path, but it was hard not to.)

Clarice hadn’t seen Lucrezia in the past few weeks since she’d retired from the social scene and even mass, so when she and Francesco arrived at Palazzo Medici, she was startled to see exactly how far along Lucrezia was in her pregnancy. “Are you sure you want to be entertaining tonight? You must be exhausted,” Clarice said as Lorenzo helped Lucrezia settle in her chair.

“I can manage an hour or two with my friends,” Lucrezia said with a tired smile as the rest of them took their seats. The other Medici weren’t yet present, though Lorenzo assured them they’d be joining them shortly. “And actually, the baby’s imminent birth is the very reason you’re here.”

“We’d like you both to be the godparents,” Lorenzo said, smiling at them.

Clarice let out a breath, stunned. “Godparents?” Francesco said, sounding equally surprised. “Us?”

“Of course,” Lucrezia said. “You’re Lorenzo’s dearest friend and Clarice is mine. We can think of no one we’d rather have as our child’s godparents.”

Francesco looked at Clarice, a smile growing on his own face, but she didn’t smile back. “Well, that means a lot to us,” he said. “And we’d be honored to—”

“I can’t,” Clarice said suddenly.

Everyone fell silent and looked at her. “You can’t?” Lucrezia said, looking crestfallen. “Why not?”

Clarice shook her head, her throat tight. “I-I just can’t,” she said. “I’m sorry, I—excuse me.”

She stood from the table and hurried out, tears spilling down her cheeks.

She ended up in a little alcove on the far side of the courtyard, leaning against the stone wall and gasping for breath as her body was wracked with sobs. But she’d only been there a few minutes when she heard a voice saying, “Clarice?”

Clarice turned and saw Lucrezia shuffling towards her. “No, don’t—you shouldn’t have come after me,” Clarice said, hurrying over to take her hands and steady her. “I didn’t mean to make you get up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, contrary to Lorenzo’s belief, I am capable of walking a short distance on my own and standing for two minutes,” Lucrezia said. “Why are you upset? I thought you’d be pleased that we wanted you to be the godmother, but I’m sorry if we offended you—”

“Offended—? No, of course you haven’t,” Clarice said. “I’m honored that you want me for the role, but I can’t accept it because I’m not worthy of it.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Lucrezia said, clearly confused.

Fresh tears welled up in Clarice’s eyes. “Your child’s godmother should be someone devout and—and pious and moral, and I’m not,” she said. “I’m a sinner, Lucrezia, not in deed but in thought, every moment I spend with you and even those I don’t, I sin in my heart—”

Lucrezia looked more baffled than ever. “What are you talking about?” she said. “You’re the most God-fearing woman I’ve ever known, and I would be proud to call you my child’s godmother. I can think of no one more devout and pious and moral than you.”

Clarice shook her head vigorously. “That’s because you haven’t seen inside my heart,” she said. “If you had, you would know that I—you would be disgusted with me, you would—”

“I doubt that very much,” Lucrezia said firmly. “Whatever sin you think you’ve committed, you must be mistaken. I know you. You are good. And there is nothing you could ever do or think or feel that would disgust me because I love you. I love every inch of you, I love your heart and your soul and everything about you, Clarice.”

Clarice was so surprised that she stopped crying. Lucrezia took a deep breath, looking nervous but determined. “And I don’t only mean that I love you as a friend,” she said. “I…Clarice, I—ow!”

She suddenly doubled over, clutching her side. “Lucrezia!” Clarice said, forgetting the conversation as she reached for her. “The baby, are you…?”

“Yes, I-I think so,” Lucrezia gasped, one hand bracing the wall for support and the other grabbing onto Clarice.

Clarice called for Lorenzo, her voice echoing around the courtyard, and within seconds he was rushing out of the dining room towards them with Francesco on his heels. The other Medici soon appeared from elsewhere in the house too, and Lucrezia Tornabuoni took charge of the situation, taking Lucrezia’s arm to help escort her upstairs while also shooing an anxious and heavily-pregnant Bianca away to go rest instead of helping with the birth.

“Clarice,” Lucrezia said, breathless after another contraction. “Clarice, stay with me. Stay with me, please.”

Clarice hurried to her side without a second thought. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.”

It was nearly dawn, and Lorenzo had tried to send Francesco home or at least to a guest bedroom a dozen times, but Francesco had insisted on staying with him. Giuliano and Guglielmo had been with them too for a while but were now both sleeping, leaving Francesco and Lorenzo alone.

They were in Lorenzo’s study, seated in chairs across from each other by the fireplace. Lorenzo had been pacing for hours, but now he was just resting his forearms on his thighs, looking tired and anxious. Another scream rent the air, making them both wince.

“Should it be taking this long?” Lorenzo asked for the hundredth time.

“Childbirth takes a long time, Lorenzo,” Francesco reminded him patiently.

They were quiet again. “Why do you think Clarice didn’t want to be the godmother?” Lorenzo said after a minute.

Francesco did have some idea, but he said he didn’t know. “Maybe she was just nervous at the thought of being trusted with something so important,” he said. “But I’m sure she’ll change her mind.”

Lorenzo hummed. “Even if she doesn’t want to do it, would you still want to yourself?”

“Of course,” Francesco said. “I meant what I said. I’d be honored.”

Lorenzo smiled a little. “Really?”

“Really. If you’re certain I’m the right choice.”

“Am I certain? Francesco, from the first moment I found out about the baby, I knew I wanted you to be their godfather,” Lorenzo said with an earnestness that made Francesco’s throat close up. “If it wasn’t imprudent to ask so early in the pregnancy, I would have asked you that day you came to dinner, when we were here in my study talking about it.”

That day…that day Lorenzo had told him he wasn’t in love with Lucrezia, Francesco remembered, and he’d said he wasn’t in love with Clarice. That day Francesco thought they might’ve been on the brink of…something. But neither of them had addressed it again in all the months since then.

Until now.

“What were you going to say that day?” Francesco said, the words rushing out before he could stop him.

Lorenzo’s posture tensed ever so slightly. “What do you mean?” he said, but Francesco knew he knew what he meant.

“That day, when we were talking about our wives and…and you were about to say something, but then Clarice came to tell me she wanted to go home,” Francesco said. “What was it?”

There was a long silence. Francesco was certain that he’d made a mistake, he’d pushed their friendship too far, and now Lorenzo wasn’t going to want anything to do with him.

But then he spoke.

“I was going to say that I have thought about your lips on mine every day since I kissed you when we were sixteen,” Lorenzo said quietly, looking up to meet his eyes. “I was going to say that the reason I’m not in love with Lucrezia is because my heart already belongs to you, and has for as long as I can remember. I was going to say that you are half of my soul, that I didn’t feel complete until you returned to my life this past year, but that I also feel so—so empty when I’m with you, because I’m not with you in the way that I want to be.”

Francesco was sure he was dreaming, but then Lorenzo got out of his chair and knelt down in front of his, and when he took Francesco’s hands, he was warm and real and definitely not a dream. “I want to kiss you again, and touch every inch of your skin and see into the deepest parts of your heart, I want to know you, Francesco, in every possible way,” Lorenzo said, gazing at him like he was a priceless work of art. “And it’s so hard being near you when I want…when I just want. I want with a kind of wanting I’ve never known before, a kind of wanting that sets me on fire and makes me burn for you. I’m sorry if I’ve gone too far, we’ll never speak of this again if I’ve made you uncomfortable, but I’ve waited in silence for too long, so now I have to ask—do you feel it too?”

Francesco just stared at him, utterly at a loss for words. How could it be? How could it be possible that Lorenzo returned his feelings? But everything he’d said, it was like he’d looked into Francesco’s heart and put into words everything he’d felt but had never been able to describe.

Lorenzo was watching him anxiously, a heavy silence in the air as he waited for Francesco to respond. But Francesco didn’t know what to say; all his brain could manage to come up with was a simple yes, I do, which felt ridiculous after Lorenzo had just poured out his heart.

So rather than saying anything, he cupped Lorenzo’s face in his hands and kissed him hard.

Lorenzo sighed into his mouth, almost like relief, and kissed him back hungrily, one hand coming up to tangle in Francesco’s hair and the other to grip the back of his neck and keep him right where he was. Francesco kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, finally feeding that fire inside him that Lorenzo felt too, finally filling the empty spot in his heart that Lorenzo had pointed out all those months ago.

It felt like an eternity had passed by the time they broke apart. Francesco rested his forehead against Lorenzo’s, breathing heavily and becoming even more breathless at the beautiful smile spreading across Lorenzo’s face. “So…you return my feelings?” Lorenzo said.

Francesco laughed a little. “Yes.” He closed his eyes, feeling himself smiling more widely than he had in a long time. Possibly ever. “A thousand times over.”

“Thank God,” Lorenzo said, laughter in his own voice, and he kissed him again.

They heard another scream from upstairs, and Francesco started and pulled back, guilt washing over him. “We shouldn’t—Lucrezia,” he said.

“She’s a little busy right now, I don’t think she’ll mind us finding a way to pass the time,” Lorenzo said wryly.

“Well, I feel a bit heartless kissing her husband while she’s currently in agony trying to bring your child into the world.”

To his surprise, Lorenzo just chuckled. “Don’t. She’s fully aware of and supports my feelings for you,” he said. “In fact, she’ll be thrilled when I tell her you return them.”

Francesco blinked, taken aback. All this time he’d seen how close Lorenzo and Lucrezia were and assumed they were in love with each other, at least until Lorenzo had said otherwise. Even then, it had never occurred to Francesco that what he was seeing could actually be more like the kind of bond he and Clarice shared.

“She knows?” he repeated. “And she doesn’t mind?”

“Yes,” Lorenzo said. “What about Clarice? I’d hate to hurt her—”

“She knows too,” Francesco said. “And doesn’t mind.”

Lorenzo smiled. “Good. Then I can kiss you as much as I want without feeling guilty. And ‘as much as I want’ is many, many times.”

“You’d better get started, then.”

They lost track of time until they heard a baby’s cries floating through the house. Lorenzo’s eyes widened, and then a broad, relieved smile crossed his face. Francesco was smiling too, and he wrapped his arms around Lorenzo and hugged him tight as he cried a little.

The door opened a few minutes later and Lorenzo hastily darted back to his own chair, but thankfully it was only Clarice. Who raised her eyebrows at Francesco, clearly not fooled, but then she just let out a small chuckle and turned to Lorenzo to say, “You have a son.”

“A son,” Lorenzo said, beaming and hurrying over towards her. “And Lucrezia? Is she well?”

“Very well. They both are,” Clarice assured him. “It was a safe birth and the midwife says that they’re both healthy.”

Lorenzo let out a breath of relief and gave Clarice a quick hug before racing out of the room. Francesco lingered in the study with her, wanting to give the new parents a moment alone before going to meet his godson.

“I saw that,” Clarice said.

“Saw what?” Francesco said innocently.

“You and Lorenzo looking quite close. Is there something I should know?”

Francesco ducked his head to hide a smile. “He loves me too,” he said, still hardly able to believe it. “And he said Lucrezia knows about his feelings and doesn’t mind, just as you do.”

Clarice laid a hand on his arm, also smiling. “I’m happy for you,” she said. “And happy that you two were enjoying yourselves while we women were going through a bloodbath.”

Francesco laughed sheepishly. “Was it really that gruesome?” he asked. “I hope it didn’t put you off the idea of having children yourself.”

“It didn’t, actually,” Clarice said. “In the middle of it I couldn’t see how it could possibly be worth it, but then when the midwife put the baby in Lucrezia’s arms and I saw the look on her face…I understood.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Clarice took a deep breath, and then she took his hand and placed it on her stomach. “And good thing too,” she said. “Because I think I’ll be in Lucrezia’s place soon enough.”

Francesco’s mouth fell open, his heart doing a backflip. “You mean…?”

“Yes,” Clarice said, smiling up at him. “I’ve had my suspicions for the past month or so, but after I had a particularly strong bout of nausea during the birth, the midwife easily confirmed those suspicions even as occupied as she was.”

“And you’re sure it wasn’t just a reaction to the gory sight before you?” Francesco said.

Clarice laughed. “Quite sure, as it happened well before the goriness began.”

Beaming, Francesco threw his arms around her and lifted her up, spinning her around in a circle and making her laugh again. “I love you,” he said when he put her down again, holding her so close and feeling tears streaming down his cheeks.

Clarice hugged him back just as tightly. “I love you too.”

Clarice returned a while later with Francesco. Lucrezia smiled at them, her heart feeling even fuller at having these last two members of her family join the rest of them.

Francesco went straight to Lorenzo’s side and Lorenzo passed little Piero over to him, beaming with pride and looking as overjoyed as Lucrezia felt. Clarice had already met Piero right when he was born, so she let Francesco have a minute with him and instead came around to the other side of the bed to perch beside Lucrezia.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Happier and more exhausted than I’ve ever felt in my life,” Lucrezia said, making her laugh. She reached out and took one of Clarice’s hands. “Have you reconsidered being his godmother?”

Clarice paused, searching Lucrezia’s face as if it would tell her what the right decision was. Lucrezia had no idea what had come over Clarice earlier and Clarice’s explanation had only confused her more, but it was clear she’d been in great emotional distress, and Lucrezia hated the thought that something could be tormenting her so. But whatever it was, surely the joy of Piero’s safe birth was strong enough to erase it?

Indeed, at last Clarice gave her a small smile and gently squeezed her hand. “I accept,” she said. “It would mean the world to me to be his godmother. Thank you.”

Smiling, Lucrezia tugged Clarice closer so she could kiss her on the cheek. She was simply too tired to pay any mind to the blush it caused on Clarice’s face or the fluttering in her own heart.

“Tell me I’m understanding this correctly,” Lucrezia said a few hours later after she’d woken up from a nap and Lorenzo had filled her in on his latest news. “While I was in here enduring the most agonizing pain I’ve ever known, you were having a marvelous time kissing Francesco?”

“Sorry,” said Lorenzo, who did manage to look a tiny bit sorry, to his credit.

Lucrezia shook her head, smiling as she leaned down to give Piero a kiss. “You’re lucky that he’s put me in such a good mood and also made me too tired to kill you.”

Chapter Text

Piero’s baptism was a joyous occasion. Clarice’s prior doubts were chased away, replaced by pride as she stood at the baptismal font beside Francesco, Piero in his arms. She saw Francesco’s eyes lock onto something that made him smile wider, and Clarice looked over to see Lorenzo and Lucrezia, standing arm in arm and beaming.

The sight might have made her jealous once, but now she knew that she was seeing the love between two parents and partners, not two lovers, and that that extra spark in Lorenzo’s eyes was for Francesco rather than Lucrezia.

And Lucrezia…Lucrezia was looking directly at Clarice, and Clarice could’ve sworn she saw that same extra spark in her eyes.

The four of them stood gathered together at the feast at Palazzo Medici afterwards, congratulating each other and passing Piero around between them. While Clarice and Lucrezia were cooing over him, Clarice saw Francesco and Lorenzo having a quiet moment together, briefly clasping each other’s shoulders and exchanging soft words and tender smiles. To the other guests it would look like nothing more than friendship between them, but Clarice could see the love in their eyes.

She was truly happy for Francesco. She knew he’d suffered a lot in his life and had been so lonely for so long, and it warmed her heart to see him finally find the happiness and belonging he deserved. Happiness and belonging which she and their unborn child were part of too, of course; Clarice knew that Francesco loved her dearly, just as she did him.

And yet watching him with Lorenzo now, she couldn’t help but feel a little wistful. She’d never needed romantic love to feel complete, and indeed she was happy with her new family and friends in Florence. But it might be nice to have romantic love too, she thought, so conscious of Lucrezia beside her. It might be nice to have someone who looked at her the way Lorenzo looked at Francesco.

“Lorenzo says that you’re also aware of the latest developments?” Lucrezia said, quietly enough that only Clarice could hear.

Clarice started out of her thoughts and realized that Lucrezia had followed her gaze to their husbands. “Yes,” she said, also keeping her voice low. “And Francesco says you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I’ve spent the better part of two years watching Lorenzo pine over him like a lovesick youth, it’s a relief I won’t have to anymore,” Lucrezia said, making Clarice laugh. “Do you mind?”

Clarice shook her head. “No. I’ve also known about Francesco’s feelings for a while.”

“And you…don’t disapprove?” Lucrezia said, watching her carefully. “It’s only that…well, I know how seriously you take Church teachings, and I know that these things are even more taboo in Rome than in Florence…”

“When Francesco first confessed his feelings to me months ago, I didn’t know what to think,” Clarice said. “But now, I don’t disapprove. How can I disapprove of seeing my husband and a close friend so happy? I’d like to believe that God wouldn’t consider love of any kind a sin.”

Lucrezia smiled. “I agree,” she said. “And I’m glad to hear that you feel the same way.”

She said the words meaningfully, in a way that gave Clarice the impression they weren’t only talking about Lorenzo and Francesco. But Bianca and Guglielmo came over to see Piero before they could speak any further about it.

After chatting with everyone for a few more minutes, Clarice spotted Carlo de’ Medici on the other side of the room. Her heart leapt; Carlo was a dear friend, but she hadn’t seen him since she’d left Rome. And she could use his advice now more than ever.

She excused herself from the conversation and approached Carlo. “Father Carlo,” she said.

He turned around, and his face lit up when he saw her. “Clarice!” he said. “It’s so wonderful to see you!”

“You too,” Clarice said, smiling as they exchanged a hug.

They spent a while catching up. “I know you weren’t happy that your parents agreed to the betrothal,” Carlo said eventually. “Have you changed your mind?”

Clarice smiled again. “Yes,” she said. “Marriage is…different than what I expected. So is Francesco, and Florence too. But all in a good way. I’m very happy here.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Carlo said, smiling back. “Such happiness must be a sign that this was indeed the path God had planned for you, even if you didn’t expect it.”

Now was as good an opening as any. “Yes,” Clarice said, chewing her lip as she prepared what to say. “Father, may I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Is it possible to disagree with one of the Church’s teachings and still be a good Christian?”

She was relieved when, rather than reacting with immediate judgment, Carlo merely hummed thoughtfully and asked, “Disagree how? Is it a disagreement borne from selfish reasons, or from your steadfast belief that the teaching is contrary to God’s will?”

Clarice was doubly relieved that he was engaging the scenario without asking her for the specific teaching she disagreed with. “I’d like to believe it’s the latter, although…although maybe the disagreement is in part caused by selfish reasons,” she admitted. “But there is something that I feel in my heart is good, something that’s a manifestation of love, something that harms no one and brings happiness to those involved. Something that, after extensive reflection, I have come to believe God wouldn’t condemn, and yet the Church says that He would.”

Carlo nodded, clasping his hands, and was quiet for a long, contemplative minute. Clarice waited anxiously. “In the end, we must carry faith in our own hearts,” he said finally. “The Church provides guidance, but in truth, after my time in the Vatican…I’m no longer certain that every member of the Church really does act as God’s voice.” He looked troubled. “There is corruption. There is greed. There are also many good, moral men of true faith. But it would be foolish to say that the Church is completely pure and infallible.”

It was what Francesco always said, but coming from him it was easy to ignore as his characteristic cynicism. To hear Carlo acknowledge the Church’s failings, though, it pained Clarice even while also reassuring her that perhaps its condemnation of her love for Lucrezia didn’t mean it was wrong in God’s eyes.

“I see,” she said. “So then following from that, could it—could it be that some of the Church’s teachings may be a misinterpretation of God’s will?”

“I suppose it’s possible. We are only men, after all, and men make mistakes, even clergymen. I strive to carry out God’s will every day, but He is often mysterious in His designs, and I would never claim to have perfect knowledge of what is and isn’t pleasing to Him,” Carlo said. “All we can do is listen to our hearts, and pray to God for clarity, and do our utmost to live holy lives. God will show you the right path as long as you keep your heart open to Him. And you have a purer, more open heart than most, Clarice.” He reached over and clasped her shoulder. “I believe it won’t lead you astray.”

Clarice looked down at her hands, feeling a lump in her throat. “Thank you, Father,” she murmured.

After the festivities had concluded for the day, Clarice returned home to spend the rest of the afternoon reflecting on Carlo’s words and praying for clarity as he’d advised. Adultery and homosexual acts were mortal sins. The Bible was very clear about that, and the Bible was the word of God. But the Bible was also clear that God loved all his children, that He created each of them, and that it was pleasing to Him for them to love one another. Why would God have given Clarice this love for Lucrezia if He didn’t want her to act on it and experience the joy it would bring her? And she saw how happy Francesco and Lorenzo’s love made them; surely that was a sign of God’s approval?

If the love between two women was pure, and their husbands knew about and consented to their relationship, then how could it be a sin? But Francesco wasn’t the only one to whom Clarice had made her wedding vows. She’d made them to God too, she’d promised Him that she would be a faithful and chaste wife. Pursuing her love for Lucrezia would break that vow.

And yet, this love did nothing to lessen her faith or devotion to God. On the contrary, this was the first time in Clarice’s life that her faith had truly been tested, and after months of studying the Bible and praying to God for guidance, she felt closer to Him than ever, more determined than ever to live according to His will.

Loving Lucrezia would never make her turn her back on God or shut Him out of her heart. Never.

The realization made Clarice’s heart feel lighter, gave her that sense of clarity she’d spent so long searching for. Part of her still worried she was coming to the conclusion she wanted rather than the one that was correct, but…it just felt right. Lucrezia wasn’t a temptation from Satan, but rather a blessing from God sent to bring Clarice happiness. Because she was His child and He loved her, just as she loved Him.

The light of the setting sun was flooding in through the windows, warming Clarice and lighting up the room. She wrapped her fingers around her rosary and smiled, feeling a few tears trickling down her cheeks. She made one last prayer, one of gratitude and reaffirmed devotion, before finally allowing herself to turn her mind to more earthly concerns.

Namely, did Lucrezia even return her feelings? A few weeks ago Clarice never would’ve dared to hope so, but now, she kept thinking about Lucrezia’s words from the night Piero was born. I love every inch of you, I love your heart and your soul and everything about you.

And I don’t only mean that I love you as a friend, she’d said, but she hadn’t been able to finish the thought. What would she have said? If Lucrezia didn’t only love her as a friend, could it be that…?

For the first time, Clarice allowed herself to hope.

About a month after Piero’s birth, Francesco, Clarice, Lorenzo, and Lucrezia finally found time to have dinner together and discuss Francesco and Lorenzo’s new relationship—they were all aware of it, and all knew that the others were aware, but this was the first time all four of them had been able to sit down and actually talk about it.

They met at Francesco and Clarice’s home to have more privacy, although Lorenzo sheepishly said that he was fairly certain the rest of his family had all caught on to his and Francesco’s feelings for each other and didn’t mind. “They can all read me too well,” he said. “And I’m sure it’s the same for you with Guglielmo.”

“Yes,” Francesco said wryly. Guglielmo had made more than a few badly-disguised comments that made it obvious he knew what was going on and was trying to coax Francesco into telling him, but Francesco was content to wait until such time as Guglielmo found the guts to ask him outright.

They talked for a while, establishing boundaries and figuring out how things would work going forward. “And of course, as she and I have already discussed, Lucrezia is more than welcome to have a lover of her own should there be anyone who catches her interest,” Lorenzo was saying, giving her a pointed eyebrow-raise that made her blush and scowl at him.

Interesting. “Clarice too, if she wants,” Francesco said with his own pointed eyebrow-raise, and now Clarice was blushing too and focusing her attention on her plate.

Lucrezia loudly started talking about something else, and Francesco curiously observed the other three. He knew for a fact that Clarice had feelings for Lucrezia, of course, but he’d also been suspecting lately that Lucrezia felt the same way about her and that Lorenzo knew about Lucrezia’s feelings. It would be so easy for him and Lorenzo to tell each other what they knew and set everything right, but Francesco’s loyalty towards Clarice wouldn’t let him spill her secrets like that, even to Lorenzo.

With any luck, Clarice and Lucrezia would soon figure things out themselves and wouldn’t need their husbands’ intervention. Not that that made it any less excruciating for Francesco to sit here watching them sneaking glances at each other and blushing throughout the meal.

After dinner, Clarice and Lucrezia moved into the sitting room, leaving Lorenzo and Francesco alone. “I hope it’s not too much longer before they put us out of our misery and tell each other how they feel,” Lorenzo said once they were out of earshot.

Well, there was that question answered. Francesco coughed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, feeling his lips twitching to betray a smile.

“Oh, come on. They’re painfully obvious.”

“Yes, they are. But you didn’t hear that from me,” Francesco said, and Lorenzo laughed.

He stepped closer to pull Francesco in for a kiss, making Francesco hum appreciatively. “Now,” Lorenzo murmured against his lips. “Why don’t we move this conversation to a more private location? Your bedroom, perhaps?”

“You’re absolutely shameless,” Francesco said fondly. He kissed him again. “It’s late, you and your wife ought to be getting home.”

“Oh, but didn’t you hear? Lucrezia left alone because she had a headache, and I stayed later to discuss business with you.”

“Well, in that case, let’s begin those discussions.”

“You think I should tell Lucrezia how I feel?” Clarice repeated, stunned.

Francesco nodded. “I have it on good authority that she’d be receptive.”

“Whose authority?” Clarice asked, but he just gave a cryptic shrug.

Clarice studied him, considering the possibility. By now it had been two months since her conversation with Carlo at the baptism, and for two months she’d been thinking in her bolder moments that she would tell Lucrezia, but then as soon as they were face-to-face, Clarice always lost all her courage. It would be nice to tell her and finally get closure one way or the other, but what if Clarice permanently ruined their friendship? She wouldn’t be able to bear losing Lucrezia.

“What if I offend her?” she said. “What if she’s disgusted and wants nothing to do with me anymore?”

“That won’t happen,” Francesco said. “Even if I’m mistaken about her feelings for you, which I don’t think I am, I do know for a fact that she…ah, likes Sappho. Lorenzo’s said so.”

“Yes, I know she likes Sappho, we’ve discussed her poems many times,” Clarice said, bemused. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“No, I mean she likes Sappho,” Francesco said, wiggling his eyebrows meaningfully. Clarice just stared at him, and he rolled his eyes. “Never mind. The point is, I’m certain she won’t be offended or disgusted.”

Clarice gnawed on her bottom lip. “I don’t know…”

Francesco placed his hands on her shoulders. “You know I would never advise you to do this if I thought there was even the slightest chance of you being hurt as a result,” he said.

Clarice relaxed as she took in the earnestness in his eyes. She trusted Francesco more than anyone else in the world. “I know,” she said.

She deliberated for only a moment longer, then took a deep breath, her mind made up. “Very well. I-I’ll do it. Today,” she added impulsively, surprising even herself. Lucrezia and Lorenzo were expected at Palazzo Pazzi any minute now, and the thought of confessing her feelings to Lucrezia today without having much time to prepare was terrifying, but at the same time, Clarice was buoyed by Francesco’s confidence and knew she’d lose her nerve yet again if she waited for a later occasion.

Francesco smiled. “Good,” he said. He kissed her forehead and let go of her. “Good luck.”

“I’m going to need it.”

“No, you’re not. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Lorenzo and Lucrezia arrived a few minutes later, and Clarice felt like she was going to be sick when Lucrezia met her eyes and smiled. Unless that was just pregnancy-induced nausea. They all exchanged kisses on the cheek in greeting and chatted for a few minutes before Lorenzo and Francesco excused themselves to “discuss business”; Clarice never knew when discussing business was an innuendo, when it was an excuse to leave her and Lucrezia alone, and when it actually meant discussing business.

It was a beautiful April day, sunny and warm but not too hot, so Clarice and Lucrezia went to take a turn around the garden. This was a good place for a private conversation—less chance of being overheard by passing servants than inside the house. Although their servants had undoubtedly figured out Francesco and Lorenzo were having an affair by now and seemed to have kept it to themselves, given that there was no gossip about it floating around Florence, so Clarice hoped the same would hold true if they got wind of her and Lucrezia. Well, if there was ever anything to get wind of; she still wouldn’t let herself believe there would be.

“How is Piero?” Clarice asked as they turned the corner of the far end of the garden.

“Growing so quickly,” Lucrezia said, half proud and half nostalgic. “And what about you, how are you feeling?”

She stopped walking and placed a hand on Clarice’s stomach to illustrate her meaning, and Clarice’s breath caught. They shared casual touches all the time, but this one felt so much more intimate than usual. On instinct Clarice covered Lucrezia’s hand with her own, her heart pounding. She instantly regretted it, knowing she’d gone too far—but then Lucrezia just smiled and laced their fingers together, keeping her hand exactly where it was.

“I-I’m well,” Clarice stammered out. “Tired, but the midwife says that so far everything seems to be proceeding as it should.”

“Good,” Lucrezia said. “Oh, isn’t it so exciting that we’ll have children the same age? Just as we said before.”

“When we said they’d be great friends like we are,” Clarice recalled.

“Exactly.”

This was her opening. “The thing is…” Clarice swallowed, feeling herself start to tremble. “I-I don’t—I don’t see you as a friend. Well, no, of course I see you as a friend,” she hastened to add as she saw Lucrezia’s smile start to fade. “You’re so dear to me, Lucrezia, dearer than I can say. Your friendship means the world to me and I would hate to jeopardize it.”

“I feel the same way,” Lucrezia said, looking puzzled and worried. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to say—I’m trying to say that I love you,” Clarice said in a rush. “I’m in love with you.”

What had she done? What had she been thinking? How had she let Francesco convince her this was a good idea? Mortified, she quickly dropped Lucrezia’s hand and stepped back, turning away so she wouldn’t have to see the horror on her face. There was nothing else for it, she would have to convince Francesco to relocate them to Rome, the Pazzi bank did have an important branch there, and it would be a shame to separate him from Lorenzo, but Clarice simply could not stay in Florence now that she’d utterly humiliated herself in front of—

“I never even dreamed that you might feel the same way.”

Clarice’s heart stopped. “What?” she said.

Lucrezia reached for her, gently taking her wrist with one hand to tug her closer and moving the other hand to cup her cheek and tilt her head up, forcing her to meet her gaze. Clarice blinked back the tears gathering in her eyes and saw that Lucrezia was…she was smiling.

“I love you too, Clarice,” she said. “I fell in love with you the day we met.”

“What?” Clarice said again, dumbfounded. “You did?”

Lucrezia smiled wider, her eyes crinkling and shining with warmth and love. “How could I not have? You were so beautiful in your wedding gown, and so sweet and kind. I was captivated by you. I still am.”

Clarice was at a loss for words. Lucrezia was the beautiful one, the one who inspired the poets and painters of Florence. How could she be captivated by Clarice? “You really mean that?” she managed after a moment.

“Of course I do,” Lucrezia said. “I love you, Clarice. I love you.”

As her shock began fading away and Lucrezia’s words began sinking in, Clarice gave her a small, hesitant smile. Lucrezia took a step even closer and pressed her lips against hers, making Clarice inhale in surprise. No one had ever kissed her like this. Sometimes Francesco kissed her hands or cheeks or forehead, but never her lips, not even when they were intimate.

It felt like heaven.

Clarice’s eyes fluttered shut, and she tentatively kissed Lucrezia back, hoping she wasn’t terrible at it. Lucrezia’s lips were soft and warm, and Clarice felt so light, as if she might float away at any moment.

She was still trembling a little when they broke apart, but her heart was overflowing with joy and she couldn’t stop smiling. Lucrezia was smiling too, tenderly stroking her cheekbone with her thumb.

In the ensuing silence, Clarice heard a faint but familiar voice floating through the air. “Finally!”

Lucrezia threw an accusatory glance over towards the left wall of the palazzo. “Lorenzo, Francesco,” she called. “Mind your own business.”

There was a muffled curse and the sound of a window slamming shut, making Clarice laugh and Lucrezia shake her head in fond exasperation. “Incorrigible, the pair of them,” Lucrezia said. “Though I have been just as bad pining over you to Lorenzo as he was with Francesco, so if he’s invested in us then I suppose I only have myself to blame.”

Us. The simple word made Clarice smile even wider. “Yes, it was the same with Francesco and me. Well, not so much pining,” she said. “Neither of us is prone to talking about our feelings.”

Lucrezia laughed. “Oh, I’m aware,” she said. “I’m stunned—pleasantly so—that you told me how you feel, I never would’ve expected you to do something like that.”

“I only did because I had to, because you never said anything,” Clarice said. “Why didn’t you? It would have been so much easier for you.”

“I don’t know about that. I may be more talkative than you under normal circumstances, but you make me just as nervous as I make you.”

“I find that very hard to believe.”

Lucrezia took Clarice’s hand and placed it over her heart. Clarice could feel it beating just as fast as her own. “You see?” Lucrezia said.

“I suppose you have a point,” Clarice said, smiling.

Lucrezia brought her hand up to her lips instead and kissed it. “I wanted to tell you every day, but I was afraid of how you might react,” she said. “It’s like I said at Piero’s baptism. I didn’t know how receptive you would be to the idea of another woman loving you, and I didn’t want to offend you.”

Clarice nodded, thinking of how long she’d wrestled with that very thing. “It might be for the best that you didn’t tell me sooner. I don’t know how I would have reacted,” she said. “I wasn’t ready then. But I am now.”

Lucrezia smiled again, just as dazzling as she had been the very first time she’d smiled at Clarice at her wedding feast, what felt like a lifetime ago. “Good,” she said. “Because I’ve been waiting a long time for you.”

Rather than replying, Clarice leaned in and kissed her again.

6 Months Later

It was the happiest moment of Francesco’s life. He never wanted to be anywhere other than right here, cradling his baby daughter in his arms. “She has my eyes,” he said for approximately the seventh time, still hardly able to believe it.

“And your frown,” Clarice teased, and he scoffed.

There was a knock on the door, and Francesco finally tore his eyes away from Viola to see Lucrezia returning with Lorenzo in tow. All the Medici women had assisted with the birth while Lorenzo, Guglielmo, and even Giuliano had kept Francesco company, but they’d stepped out to give Francesco and Clarice a few minutes alone with their daughter.

Lucrezia went to sit on the bed on Clarice’s other side, taking her hand and kissing her cheek and asking how she was feeling. Lorenzo came around to Francesco’s side and crouched down next to him, beaming as he looked down at Viola.

“Oh, Francesco, she’s beautiful,” he said.

“I know,” Francesco said. “She has my eyes, see? Aren’t they just like mine?”

“Just like. And look at her little frown! Also just like yours,” Lorenzo said fondly, making Clarice laugh and Francesco roll his eyes.

Francesco carefully passed Viola over to Lorenzo, and his already-bursting heart was now overflowing as he watched his lover cradling his daughter against his chest, cooing softly at her and kissing her tiny nose.

A bachelor married to his work. That was what Francesco had once wanted to be. But he’d long since realized that he hadn’t truly wanted that; it had just seemed like the safer option. Safer than having a wife who might not understand his preferences. Safer than having a lover who might break his heart. Safer than having a family who might be taken from him, like had happened when he was a child.

He’d always assumed he was destined to be lonely, to turn into a bitter, empty man who loved nothing but money, just like his uncle. Francesco had always wanted children, a family, but he’d thought the only way he could have that was by entering into a loveless marriage that would make him and the poor woman cursed to be his wife miserable, and it just hadn’t seemed worth it.

But now, he had everything he could have ever dreamed of. A healthy, beautiful daughter. A man he loved who loved him just as much in return. A wife who didn’t mind that Francesco could never give her his heart because she was made the same way. A perfect situation where his wife and his lover’s wife were lovers themselves, where both extramarital relationships could flourish without guilt or deceit because all four of them had an understanding and cared deeply for each other.

Finally, after so many years of wanting, so many years of emptiness—finally, Francesco had enough.

“What are you thinking about?” Clarice asked, bringing him out of his musings.

“Nothing.” Francesco took Viola back from Lorenzo and gave her a kiss. “Just that I’m happy.”

Clarice reached out to cradle Viola with him, and Lorenzo put his arm around Francesco, and Lucrezia was resting her head on Clarice’s shoulder. “Me too,” Clarice said.

Chapter Text

18 Years Later

The four parents had always hoped to make a match between two of their children someday, although it would be a waste of a potential marriage alliance, as the Medici and Pazzi were already so inextricably joined that there was no need of yet another union between them. But for Clarice, Lucrezia, Francesco, and Lorenzo the prospect of tying their families together even more closely, of being able to share grandchildren with the one they loved, was more than worth the sacrifice.

As it turned out, they hadn’t even needed to play matchmaker. As soon as Francesco and Clarice had even mentioned the word “marriage” to Viola, she’d dramatically declared that she would marry Piero de’ Medici or else she would become a spinster and bring shame on the family. When Lorenzo and Lucrezia had heard this and asked Piero his thoughts on the matter, he’d shyly said that he was agreeable to the match.

The two had been close friends their entire lives. Clarice didn’t know if there were any romantic feelings between them or if they’d simply made an agreement that they’d both rather marry their best friend than throw in their lots with strangers. Either way, she was sure it would be a happy marriage. In her own experience, romance in a marriage wasn’t necessary as long as there was a strong and true friendship.

Now, she and her younger daughters were helping Viola add the finishing touches to her wedding outfit when Lucrezia appeared in the doorway. “Oh, my darling, you look so beautiful,” she said, smiling as she came further into the room.

Viola smiled back at her godmother. “Thank you,” she said. “Though it was Piero who had such a beautiful dress made for me.”

“As if he knows anything about fashion. I had it made and gave him the credit for it,” Lucrezia said conspiratorially, making them all laugh.

The dress was a rich shade of green, perfectly matching the emerald circlet Clarice had worn to her own wedding, which now sat atop Viola’s dark curls. Aside from the small stature she’d inherited from Clarice, she was every bit Francesco’s daughter, from the color of her eyes and shape of her nose to her quick temper and cunning mind and loving heart. She had his business sense too—Clarice was quite sure that someday both the Medici and Pazzi banks would be in Viola’s hands in all but name.

She’d grown so quickly; her birth felt like only yesterday, and now suddenly it was her wedding day. “Don’t tell me you’re crying already, Mamma,” Viola said as her maid passed her a pair of emerald earrings.

Clarice wiped her eyes, smiling sheepishly. “The wedding of one’s first child is an emotional occasion, Viola. You’ll understand someday,” she said. “Now, girls, would you give us a moment alone? Go find your father and brother and make sure they’re ready.”

The two younger girls hugged Viola and wished her luck before obediently leaving the room. Viola’s maid straightened her circlet one last time before departing too, shutting the door behind her and leaving Clarice, Viola, and Lucrezia alone.

Clarice took Viola’s hands, then cleared her throat and tried to think of how to begin. “There are some things about your wedding night you should know,” she said awkwardly.

Viola immediately cut her off. “Ugh, stop, Mamma. Lucrezia already told me everything.”

“Did she?” Clarice looked to Lucrezia for confirmation, and she grinned and nodded. Clarice let out a breath of relief; for weeks she’d been fretting over how to tell Viola what she needed to know, remembering how her own mother’s warnings and vague metaphors had both scared and confused her. Lucrezia had probably been much better at delivering the information with the right mix of sensitivity and bluntness than Clarice would’ve been.

“Well, in that case,” Clarice said, “the only thing I have to say is that I know you’ll be happy. God has blessed you with a good, kind husband who will love you and treat you with the utmost care. You may be feeling frightened today as well as excited. I did too—more frightened than excited in my case, I have to admit. The transition from daughter to wife, from girl to woman, can often be difficult to navigate.”

Clarice paused a moment, remembering that first year of her own marriage, how lonely she’d initially felt in Florence, how nervous around Francesco. How much she’d struggled with understanding her feelings for Lucrezia and learning to accept them. Lucrezia had been her first friend in Florence, but Francesco had been the first one she’d trusted with her truest, fullest self.

“For me, your father eased the transition,” Clarice continued. “We quickly became each other’s dearest friends, which you and Piero already are. Romance might come later.” Over Viola’s shoulder, she met Lucrezia’s eyes and smiled slightly. “Or it might not. But as long as you can call your husband a friend, I don’t believe you’ll ever be unhappy.”

Lucrezia hummed in agreement and reached out to squeeze Viola’s shoulder. “We’ve been so looking forward to welcoming you into our family, and all of us will do everything we can to make you feel at home,” she said. “I promise you, Lorenzo and I already do love you as our own daughter. And I’m certain you’ll continue to see so much of your parents and siblings that it’ll be like you never left home.”

Viola laughed. “Yes, I know.” Their children all knew the full truth of their relationships with each other; they’d told them when they were young enough not to be scandalized but old enough to understand the need for discretion outside the safety of their two palazzos.

Viola hugged Clarice first, then Lucrezia. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything. Both of you. I love you.”

“We love you too,” Clarice said. She kissed her on both cheeks. “Are you ready?”

Viola took a deep breath and smoothed out her dress. “I think so.”

“Good. Your father will want to speak to you before the ceremony,” Clarice said, nodding towards the door. “We’ll catch up in a moment.”

Viola smiled at them and left the room. Once she was gone, Lucrezia wrapped her arms around Clarice and kissed her. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“Bittersweet,” Clarice said after a moment’s consideration. “Probably the same as you.”

“Less bitter for me, as my child isn’t leaving my home,” Lucrezia pointed out.

“True. But Palazzo Medici isn’t so far away,” Clarice said, cheering herself up with the words. “Not like how it was for my family and me when we were separated.”

Lucrezia nodded. “It must have been painful,” she said; she herself was a native Florentine and hadn’t had to go far upon marriage. “But I for one am very glad you did come to Florence.”

Clarice smiled and kissed her again. “So am I.”

Their parents were the first to congratulate the newlyweds at the feast after the ceremony. “Treat her well,” Francesco said, clapping Piero on the shoulder. “Or you’ll have me to answer to.”

Piero nodded vigorously, his eyes widening a little. “Y-Yes, of course.”

“Don’t scare him, Papa,” Viola scolded, though she was barely suppressing laughter.

Francesco turned to her next. “Are you happy?” he asked, quietly enough that only she could hear under the other three saying something to Piero.

“Yes,” Viola said, the smile on her face confirming the truth of her words.

Francesco smiled too. “Good.” He pulled her into a hug and kissed the top of her head, pride and happiness and nostalgia all swirling inside him. “I love you, little flower.”

Viola scoffed at the childhood nickname. “I’m a married woman now, Papa. You can’t call me that anymore.”

“I can and I will. You and your siblings will always be my little ones, even when you’re grown up and married and have little ones of your own. You’ll understand someday.”

“You’re now the second person to tell me that today,” Viola remarked. Then she hugged him tighter for a moment before letting go. “I love you too.”

Lorenzo congratulated Viola next and welcomed her into the family, and then Francesco squeezed Clarice’s hand and exchanged a smile with her before wandering away with Lorenzo to give the newlyweds a moment with their mothers.

“Look, Piero, there’s the duke of Milan,” he heard Viola saying. “We should speak with him later and see if we can negotiate more favorable terms for the new trade route he’s planning.”

“But it’s already going to increase our banks’ revenue.”

“Yes, but we stand to gain even more if we play our cards right. On such a happy occasion as our wedding, he might be feeling more generous towards us…”

Francesco chuckled as their voices were gradually lost in the hubbub of the other guests. “There’s my girl,” he said.

“She’ll certainly be a force to be reckoned with someday,” Lorenzo agreed.

“Someday? She already is,” Francesco said proudly.

The families and guests were all gathered in the very same gardens that had hosted Francesco and Clarice’s wedding feast twenty years earlier. “I still remember your wedding so clearly. Oh, how jealous I was,” Lorenzo said as he and Francesco leaned against a column together on the edge of the festivities, looking for all the world like nothing more than the father of the bride and groom congratulating each other on a successful wedding.

“I wasn’t in the best of spirits myself,” Francesco said. “Today is certainly a much happier occasion.”

“Indeed,” Lorenzo said, smiling as he followed Francesco’s gaze to their children.

Whatever the precise nature of Viola and Piero’s feelings for each other, they certainly did look happy now, Francesco observed with a smile on his own face. They still had yet to stray from each other’s side, absorbed in each other’s company and talking and laughing together just as they’d always done since they were children. Quite the difference from himself and Clarice at their wedding.

“With any luck, we’ll be welcoming grandchildren soon,” Lorenzo mused. “Just imagine it. Holding our first grandchild in our arms, knowing that they share my blood and yours. Knowing that they’re ours, ours together in a way my children and yours never truly could be. Won’t that be beautiful?”

Francesco’s smile widened, and he subtly brushed his fingers against Lorenzo’s where their hands were hanging by their sides. “Yes, although it’s hard to accept that we’re already reaching grandfather age,” he said with a sigh.

Lorenzo laughed. “I know,” he said. “But I think I’m going to like growing old with you.”