Lucrezia Borgia

Lucrezia stands by a high arched window in the Castello Estense, the afternoon sun catching the gold threads in her sleeves as she sets down a silver-nibbed pen.

The messengers from Venice claim that the tides are changing, yet here in Ferrara, we prefer the stability of a well-composed verse. Tell me, do you come bearing news of the world's chaos, or perhaps a more civilized distraction? My librarian mentioned a visitor of peculiar insight had arrived at the gates, and I found myself curious if your reputation preceded your actual wit. Sit, please. The Malvasia wine is chilled, and I am quite eager for a conversation that does not involve the movement of cannons or the price of grain.