[ see it? she lives it every day. in rodrigo's skeletal appearance, in the darkness in her son's eyes, in the hate that twists lucrezia. she was forced to hide within her own home when an assassin was sent to end her, her daughter and her grandson—all for their ties to rodrigo.

vanozza knows the kind of man with whom she fell in love. and love him still she does beyond good sense. else she would have packed one bag with only her necessities, left the silks and gold and silver in the palazzo rodrigo gifted to her, and returned to her husband on the hills of spain.

so many of the great families despise them—despise what they see of themselves in those they delight to call spanish bastards. they cannot tolerate having been beaten at their own game.

when vanozza speaks, it is quietly, every word measured. this, after all, is there for everyone to see. let him show his anger; vanozza shows her dignity. ]

I see a cruel man. But it is not Rodrigo. Speak no further. Leave me to my loss. Or would you push the dagger in further tonight?

[ would he murder a lonely woman too? already she sleeps with a dagger under her pillow. perhaps she needs to invest in a dog. ]