The ambassadorial residence occupied an entire wing of the palace.
Beyond the private apartments lay an enclosed courtyard reserved exclusively for the Imperial delegation.
Italian banners fluttered lazily above stone walls while rows of white tents had been erected with military precision for the officers accompanying Prince Lorenzo.
Everything smelled faintly of leather, steel and fresh pine.
Soldiers saluted as she crossed the courtyard.
"Your Imperial Highness."
"Your Grace."
She acknowledged each greeting with a small nod.
Nothing more.
Her expression remained unreadable.
Only those who had served beside her for years noticed the unusual stiffness in her shoulders.
The prince looked exhausted.
She pushed aside the flap of the largest pavilion.
Her command tent.
Inside, maps covered a broad campaign table.
Letters bearing imperial seals had already begun accumulating in neat stacks.
A brass brazier burned quietly in one corner despite the summer afternoon.
Roberto was already waiting.
He rose immediately.
"Your Imperial Highness."
He extended a leather portfolio.
"Reports from Milan."
"Two dispatches from Venice."
"A coded message from His Holiness."
"And the supply inventories for the escort."
Lorenzo accepted them automatically.
Her eyes skimmed the first page.
None of the words truly registered.
She closed the folder again.
"Thank you, Roberto."
He studied "him" carefully.
"You should rest."
Lorenzo gave the faintest smile.
"I intend to."
She placed the reports upon the table.
"Have a bath prepared."
"At once."
Roberto bowed.
"I'll also have fresh clothes brought."
"Thank you."
Within minutes servants moved efficiently through the pavilion.
A large copper bathing tub was carried behind a folding embroidered screen.
Buckets of steaming water followed one after another until the room slowly filled with comforting warmth and fragrant clouds scented with rosemary, lavender and bergamot.
Italian maids arranged clean linen, fresh towels and scented oils with quiet efficiency.
One young maid lingered after the others had finished.
She hesitated.
Then smiled shyly.
She lingered near the entrance, fingers folded before her apron.
"My Prince..."
Lorenzo looked up while undoing the silver clasp of her coat.
"Sì?" (Yes?)
The young woman lowered her eyes respectfully before speaking.
"Vostra Altezza (My lord,) the maid said, her tone deliberately suggestive, "desideri che rimanga dietro per prendermi cura di te?" (Would you desire for me to remain and take care of you?)
It was not an unusual request. Lorenzo had a reputation—carefully cultivated over years—as someone who enjoyed the company of women. The maid was simply following the pattern that had been established long before Lorenzo married Marie.
But Lorenzo's expression hardened immediately.
"No," Lorenzo said sharply. "Vai via. E non fare mai più una simile richiesta." (Leave. And never make such a request again.)
The maid's face flushed with embarrassment and rejection.
"Perdonatemi, Altezza."
(Forgive me, Your Highness.)
Lorenzo's expression softened just enough.
"Non hai fatto nulla di imperdonabile."
(You have done nothing unforgivable.)
A brief pause.
"Ma quei giorni sono finiti."
(But those days are over.)
The maid understood.
She bowed deeply.
"Sì, Vostra Altezza."
(Yes, Your Highness.)
Lorenzo removed her clothes, keeping only the undergear and the prosthetic secured in place.
Although her torso remained lean and almost unnaturally smooth, thank to years of medicinal treatments during childhood, the rest of her body was one of a woman.
Experience had taught her caution.
Soldiers entered tents without warning.
Messengers rarely knocked.
A prince could never afford carelessness.
Certain everything remained in place, Lorenzo sank into the hot water and allowed herself to simply exist for a moment.
After her bath, Lorenzo dressed in her casual uniform—black riding pants, black boots, a black fitting high collar, long sleeves shirt, and her belt with its sword hanging at her side.
She found Roberto overseeing the soldiers' training. Young men sparred and practiced, their movements becoming sharper as they focused on their drills.
She watched for a time, assessing, noting improvements and areas for growth.
Then she decided to join her soldiers for the rest of the afternoon, and train alongside them, letting the physical exertion and the camaraderie ease some of the weight pressing on her chest.
But as evening approached, duty called.
She made her way back to the chambers she shared with Marie, still sweaty from training, her body aching in a way that felt almost welcome.
She entered without knocking.
The maid attendants were still working on Marie, preparing her in a gown of black silk—mourning clothes for Matthew's death. Marie's hair was arranged elaborately, her makeup applied with precision to emphasize her features while maintaining an air of respectful sorrow.
Black suited her far too well.
It made those impossible green eyes shine even brighter.
It made the freckles scattered across her nose look warmer.
Alive.
Marie caught Lorenzo's reflection in the mirror before turning around.
Their eyes met.
Only for a heartbeat.
Then both looked elsewhere.
Neither trusted themselves enough to hold the other's gaze.
The maids bowed respectfully.
"My Lord."
Lorenzo answered with a distracted nod.
"Carry on."
She looked exhausted.
Her riding boots were still dusty.
Dark trousers clung to powerful legs, and her oversized black linen shirt was soaked through with sweat, sticking to the muscles of her shoulders and arms after hours spent drilling soldiers.
Her hair was damp, loose strands curling against her temples.
There were healing bruises blooming along one forearm where Roberto's wooden sword had managed to strike her.
Nothing serious.
Merely proof she had actually enjoyed herself.
Without saying a word she walked toward the washstand filled with cool water that was placed beside one of the windows.
Fresh linen.
Soap.
She set her sword carefully against the wall.
Unbuckled her sword belt.
The heavy leather landed across the chair with a dull thud.
Marie tried very hard not to watch.
Failed.
She rolled stiff shoulders that had spent the better part of the afternoon drilling soldiers before reaching for the buttons of her sweat-soaked shirt.
One.
Two.
Three.
The linen fell open.
Without the heavy riding coat, the hours of training became obvious. A lean, athletic chest, lightly marked by old scars gathered through years of campaigning, rose and fell steadily as she breathed. Her frame was narrow rather than broad, but unmistakably masculine to every eye in the room.
Exactly as it had to appear.
She slipped the shirt from her shoulders without the slightest hesitation and reached for the basin.
One of the younger maids stole a glance.
Another quickly hid a smile behind her hand.
Bess whispered something under her breath that made the English maids quiet down.
Marie saw all of it.
Something unpleasant twisted sharply inside her chest.
Her jaw tightened.
"That will be all."
The maids froze.
"My Lady?"
"I said,"Marie repeated, far more sharply than intended, "you are finished. Thank you."
"As you wish."
The women exchanged surprised looks before bowing hurriedly and quietly disappearing through the door. Bess bowed and left as well. She could be heard scolding the English maid and telling them to behave more like the Italian ones.
Silence settled behind them.
Lorenzo dipped the linen into cool water before dragging it across the back of her neck.
Only then did she glance sideways.
"What?"
Marie folded her arms.
"You seem awfully comfortable."
Lorenzo blinked.
"...Comfortable?"
"Standing there half-undressed in front of every maid who walks into the room."
Lorenzo looked down at herself before raising one eyebrow.
"I had just finished training."
"That wasn't my point."
"I know."
Marie crossed the room.
"They were staring."
"I noticed."
"And?"
"And what?"
She threw her hands into the air.
"I never took you for an attention seeker. You are a grown "wo...MAN" and my husband."
The words escaped before she could stop them.
Lorenzo's lips twitched.
"So now you remember."
Marie flushed immediately.
"You know what I mean."
"I do."
"You could have waited until they left."
Lorenzo wrung the cloth slowly between her fingers.
"No."
"No?"
"No."
She met Marie's eyes.
"I cannot afford to."
Marie frowned.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means people have watched me dress."
"They've watched me undress after battle."
"They've helped stitch wounds."
"They've carried my armour."
"They've seen enough over the years to convince themselves I have nothing to hide."
She spoke quietly.
"If I suddenly become modest..."
Her expression hardened.
"...people begin asking questions."
Marie said nothing.
Lorenzo continued drying the water from her shoulders.
"My body is part of the disguise."
"If anyone starts doubting what they think they know..."
She looked directly at Marie.
"...both of us die."
The words landed heavily.
Marie looked away first.
"...I hadn't thought about it."
"I know."
Lorenzo tossed the linen aside and grabbed fresh water, splashing it through her hair. She shook her shoulders, water droplets scattering, her movements lazy and deliberate.
"But since we're discussing disrespect..."
She buttoned the first button.
"...shall we talk about Pierro?"
Marie looked back immediately.
"What about him?"
"You seemed rather comfortable throwing yourself into his arms today."
"Excuse me?" Marie said sharply. "Are you really starting another jealousy contest right now?"
"I did not throw myself—"
"No?...Really! "
"I was in shock."
"You pushed Marcello away."
"..."
"You asked specifically for Pierro."
Marie bit the inside of her cheek.
"He makes me feel safe."
Anger flickered across Lorenzo's face.
"So I've noticed."
She turned away before Marie could see it clearly.
Lorenzo continued to shake water from her hair, her movements suddenly more aggressive.
"Besides...What do you expect me to do?"Lorenzo said, her frustration evident now. "We are stuck here. We are trapped in this situation. And clearly you have found solace in Pierro. But God help us if anyone discovers what is happening between you two, because it would make everything exponentially worse."