5 July 1560

Cara mia,

How did your fragile frame endure these hardships, e’en with a condottiere father to cosset you? We are scarcely past Majorca, with weeks at sea yet ahead, and I am wretched. The day is given to leaden contemplation of the horizon. The night to vexatious cold, filth, and scarcely space in which to turn around. ’Tis true I should be grateful, for at the least I have a door and a bed. The crew sleeps on straw on decks below, ’tween main and mizzen mast. Cargo is everywhere. The gun deck is covered only o’er the cannon, and rain blows in, soaking the men. The deck below is dryer but needs tallow lanterns lest the men fall on each other in the dark. The stench is worse there, from the men’s bodies, from the livestock in their midst, and from the bilge. In truth, though I pity them their hardship, they are rough men, and I do so weary of seeing them urinate overboard at their whim. A relief not granted me, of course. When I decline the open air and relieve myself in the hollow-bottomed “head,” on the fo’castle that empties o’er the waves, their ribald mockery meets me when I emerge.

But for all that, in these weeks at sea, something has slipped away and another thing invaded me. I no longer remember Leonora, only Lawrence Bolde, roughened, mute, and free. Can you love me in this guise?

In faith, I would I were a man, so that I may start life anew protecting you. But as I come sailing toward England, the poisonous book comes too, for the captain keeps it by him. I implored him to drown it in the sea with its last victim, but he is obdurate. If it is false, he pleads, God’s majesty will prevail. But if it speaks true, then men must some day know of it.

“Will you spread this heresy?” I asked him. “No,” he said. “I fear the Inquisitor as much as you, and I have other sins to protect. I’ll leave the revelation for more courageous men.”

Sara turned the page, then stopped reading and frowned. “Wait. Something’s strange here. Look at the difference in the writing between the one page and the next. It’s the same script, but it’s suddenly all over the place. I have an uneasy feeling about this.” She resumed reading.

My darling, if by God’s grace this letter comes to you, know that the hand that writes it trembles with the ague. I burn with fever, and an oozing wound, and I fear my hour has come.

Corsairs attacked us off the coast of Algiers on the hunt for hostages and slaves. Unbeknownst, their galley followed in our wake all through the night, and at the break of dawn, they hove beside us. I could see them, ferocious on the riggings, bristling with sabers. The Grazie Dei could not escape them, and it was too late for cannon. But this captain in his wisdom had laid in firearms for the men, not just pikes and javelins, and so we offered strong resistance.

Armed though we were, the foe boarded us, scimitars swinging, and clove the skulls of the first men to oppose them. Scarcely was the battle begun, when one of the heathens slashed my weskit, cutting me across my ribs. Though on my knees and profusely bleeding, I fired my single shot at the assailant’s chest, and some hand dragged me to safety.

I know not what occurred thereafter, for I was in a stupor, but awakening, I learned the corsairs were driven off, though at great cost. Twelve men were lost and sixteen wounded. I am brought to my cabin where I dare not seek mending by the ship’s physician, a man beholden to the Council of Ten. Fanatic that he is, he would demand I be clapped in irons for my deceit. Each day the fever worsens, and I fear this is my punishment for bringing the book into the world. If God should claim me before you do, the captain will step in. He is the nearest thing to kinsman, and he has pledged to put these letters in your hand.

Oh, my beloved Anne. Remember me this way, and know that I love you absolutely, as man or woman. I am beyond all that, as angels are, and I shall find you in this life or in the next, in whatever form is granted me. I lie here on rough boards in this rank cell, benumbed by the dull pounding of the waves. You are all that’s left to comfort me. You are my velvet pillow, my perfume, my melody. And when my flickering candle sputters out, leaving me to night and thirst, you will be my sunrise and my wine.

Sara folded the four-hundred-year-old letter with tenderness and handed it back to Joanna.

“How depressing, to think she died that way, alone at sea, without reaching the woman she loved.” Sara stared into the distance, as if trying to imagine the face of the dying woman. “I wish I could have been there to comfort her.”

Joanna gave a tiny shrug. “People die alone all the time. Expiring in the arms of someone you love only happens in movies and operas. Real life just isn’t that way.”

“You’re so cynical. You can’t imagine surrendering to passion, of loving someone absolutely?”

“Why would I want to surrender to anything? My one experience with romance was an error in judgment. Besides, we have no idea what was going on with Anne in England. In all likelihood she was married again by then.”

“I’m talking about love in general. I have mixed feelings about it being possible for me. I may never meet anyone in whose arms I’d like to die, but I do believe it happens to some people—that magical, irrational feeling that can make you crazy. Actually, longing for it can make you crazy too,” Sara said wistfully. “Look at all the great art that passion inspired.”

“Justification by art. That’s the same bad argument Tiziana used to defend religion. It’s argument by effect, and she should know better. A shame, really. She seems like the kind of woman who’d give passion a run for its money.” Joanna gave a slight smile. “At least of the carnal variety.”

“And you’d like to dabble a little in that ‘carnal variety’?”

“I’ve told you, she’s married. But even if I did ‘dabble,’ what would be wrong with that?”

“Nothing, of course. But it’s just scratching an itch.” Sara’s voice dropped to a mutter. “It’s what men do.”

Joanna’s expression darkened. “I find it ironic that you, of all people, are accusing me of acting like a man.”

Sara looked away. “I didn’t mean it as an accusation. Only that I would have thought you’d understand Leonora the way I do. And I don’t appreciate your reminding me that I was a man when I’ve worked so hard to be a woman for you. It’s cruel.”

Joanna felt under attack and struck back. “It isn’t cruel if it’s true.” She instantly regretted the barb, but it was too late. It seemed to almost echo in the room.

Sara regarded Joanna for a long moment. “You don’t know what’s in my mind, what makes up my identity. I thought we’d gotten past those prejudices and stereotypes, but obviously not.” She stood up from the table.

“Where are you going?”

“To a concert. I’d rather spend the evening with Vivaldi.” She snatched up a sweater in passing and marched from the living room to the apartment door.

Joanna remained sitting, confused by the sudden departure, and heard the apartment door close, a bit more loudly than usual. What the hell had just happened? Was that what people called a trannie fit? If so, it was unprofessional. The two of them had to work—and live—together on this project. They didn’t have time for temper tantrums.

Well, it wasn’t exactly a tantrum, she answered herself. More like a bit of static that hadn’t quite become a quarrel. But what had they almost quarreled about? Joanna cringed inwardly, realizing it had been the most unprofessional thing of all. They’d quarreled about love.

Was it true, what Monique had said, that she was heartless? In the space of a week, two people had implied she was, and the accusation stung. Joanna brooded. She wasn’t a “touchy-feely” type, she had to admit, and wouldn’t recognize a cuddle if it crashed into her.

That came, she supposed, from being the only child of parents who treated her like a small adult from the time she could talk, and that was before she was two. Her precociousness made her impatient with other children, though she managed very well without them. She created a world of her own, populated first by fantastical beings, then by historical ones, Egyptians and Romans, knights and ladies, and finally, discovering more nuanced details of history, by the great names of Tudor England. While other high-school students barely recognized the name of Henry VIII, Joanna could list each of his wives along with their fates, and she read Marlowe and Shakespeare for pleasure. She fantasized sweeping along the corridors of Windsor Castle in doublet and hose and imagined herself in witty conversation with the queens of England.

“What an ass I’ve been,” she said suddenly out loud, and actually held her forehead in her hand. “An ungrateful, insensitive ass.” Sara had given her a gift without either of them recognizing it. She’d given life to language Joanna had only read or heard recited on stage in iambic pentameter. But Sara read neither sonnet nor fiction, only the real outpourings of an aching heart.