"—your daughter's mother Moorish, then, or Blackamoor?"

"Ethiope, surely," Messer Quistelli opined. "Was she a slave of yours?"

"No, she was a Christian woman," replied Fiametta's father. "From Brindisi." There was a certain dryness in his voice, whether with respect to Christian women or Brindisi Fiametta could not tell.

"She must have been very beautiful," said the Swiss politely.

"That she was. And I was not always so dried up and battered as you see me today, either, before my nose was broken and my hair grew gray."

Captain Ochs made an apologetic noise, implying no slur intended on his host's face. Messer Quistelli, also aging, laughed appreciatively.

"Has she inherited your talent in your art, Master Beneforte, while avoiding your noser" asked Messer Quistelli.

"She's certainty better than that ham-handed apprentice of mine, who's fit only for hauling wood. Her drawings and models are very fine. I don't tell her so, of course, there's nothing more obnoxious than a proud woman. I have let her work in silver, and I've just started letting her work in gold."

Messer Quistelli vented a suitably impressed Hmm. "But I was thinking of your other art."

"Ah." Master Beneforte's voice slid away without actually answering the question. "It's a great waste, to train a daughter, who will only take your efforts and secrets off to some other man when she marries. Although if certain noble parties remain in arrears on the payments an artist of my stature is properly owed, her Knowledge may be the only dowry I can afford her." He heaved a large and pointed sigh in Messer Quistelli's direction. "Did I ever tell you about the time the Pope was so overwhelmed by the beautiful gold medallion I crafted for his cope, he doubled my pay?"

"Yes, several times," said Messer Quistelli quickly, to no avail.

"He was going to make me Master of the Mint, too, till my enemies whispers got up that false charge of necromancy against me, and I rotted in the dungeons of Castel Sain Angelo for a year—"