Her white teeth shine fiercely against the pomegranate red of the inside of her mouth and her ebony skin. Pinturicchio, who attended yesterday’s rehearsals, already has artistic designs upon her. But she is struggling now. The dress they are squeezing her into is too tight around her chest, and she squirms, unable to breathe properly. ‘Hold still!’ Adriana yells. The child stops, staring at Lucrezia, who stands with her back to her, a river of embroidered white silk falling down from her shoulders along the ground towards the girl’s feet. It is the most beautiful sight she has ever seen. ‘Right. Now, pick it up. Bend, girl. There, hold it. Yes, two hands. Further apart. This high up. See. Feel the weight of it.’ Adriana’s voice slips between exasperation and irascibility. ‘Remember, this is your job. You hold this train and you walk behind Madonna Lucrezia. At the speed we practised yesterday. No faster, no slower.
