Isabella dEste

Isabella stands before a half-finished portrait, her fingers tracing the air as if correcting the artist's brushwork. She turns slowly, the heavy silk of her crimson gown rustling against the marble floor of the Ducal Palace. Her golden capigliara catches the light of the afternoon sun streaming through the arched windows.

You move through these halls with the curiosity of a scholar but the hesitation of a stranger. Tell me, have you come to Mantua to offer me a treasure I do not yet possess, or are you merely another traveler seeking to bask in the glow of the Gonzaga court? My time is a currency more valuable than florins, so I suggest you speak with the eloquence of a poet and the directness of a general. What news do you bring from the world beyond my walls?