One of the many schemes Francesca and I had mulled over, and quickly discarded, while trying to find a way out of her predicament was having her assume the identity of a man.


    On the surface, the idea had much to recommend it. It would mean she could engage in the various masculine pursuits she enjoyed—fencing and womanizing being only two of a rather large assortment—with far less resistance than she currently faced. Unfortunately, it did nothing to address the problem at heart; that she must marry, with the unspoken presumption that marriage would result in heirs, or else be disinherited. But given that she currently did well enough to be getting on with vis a vis her masculine pursuits, if she were to pretend to be a man, she’d only be exchanging some convenience in that regard for the daily hassle of donning a disguise, evading detection, and disappointing—or possibly enraging—the objects of her affection. To say nothing of having to invent a new identity from whole cloth. She couldn’t very well assume the identity of somebody else in the peerage; she’d have to be a commoner.


    We’d spent less than an hour exploring that idea between us before moving on to more fruitful avenues. Nevertheless, I found myself, in idle moments in my first term, wondering how she would have fared as “Franco,” son of a wealthy merchant, come to Queen’s University to study something dashing. International diplomacy, perhaps. Or possibly trial law; she was certainly a good enough orator. All it would take, I mused, would be one accomplice—myself—to make any necessary excuses for monthly absences, some practice on her part to deepen her voice, locks on bathroom and bedroom doors, and a complete moratorium on any swimming or public urination.


    The irony was not lost on me that it was I who was now adopting some of these tactics.


    At least I didn’t need to smuggle bloody rags about for disposal, or bind my chest. And I could still urinate when and where I pleased. I just had to keep my shirt on at all times, or else be behind locked doors.


    I was just appreciating this when Paffuto marched into the bathroom and said at my fully-clothed back, “Visitor, deRye.”


    “I am in the middle of a piss, Paffuto,” I replied calmly.


    “Well, then, don’t make it a shit,” he sniffed, and turned away. “Franco seems quite keen on an audience.”


    It was a good thing I had already done what I had needed to do; if I’d heard that even ten seconds earlier, I would likely have wound up making a mess. As it was, I scrambled to tuck myself away again and emerged from the bathroom in a state of high agitation to find a slim, blond-mustachioed youth lounging splay-legged on the sofa. Paffuto was eyeing our guest haughtily, his gaze lingering on a hat that had yet to be doffed. Only I knew it was still on for reasons other than insouciance.


    “Leo, old sport!” Francesca cried, voice husky with what sounded like a deep chest cold. It was, I had to admit, extremely convincing. “It’s been ages! I hope you don’t mind; I’m in town for the next few days on business. I simply had to stop by to surprise my old chum.”


    “Hello, Franco,” I said. I didn’t know whether to laugh or strangle her. Possibly both. I had enough secrets to manage here as it was. “Have you eaten yet?”


    Francesca smoothed her mustache luxuriantly. “I had a bite to eat on the road, but now that you mention it, I’d love an ale. Care to show me the local offerings? My treat.”


    It was dreadfully difficult not to laugh. I had to clear my throat. “It would be my pleasure.”


    “Splendid!” Francesca leaped to her feet and promptly had to execute a furtive thigh-nudge to resettle whatever it was she had stuffed her crotch with. I had an abrupt coughing fit. Paffuto transferred his irritated glare to me.


    “Sorry,” I gasped, face red. “Spores.” And I rushed out before my laughter could no longer be contained.


    “What are you doing?” I hissed as soon as we were out of earshot. “Are you out of your mind?”


    Francesca grinned. “Looking for a husband, of course.”


    “A husband?!”


    “Shh!” Francesca looked around. “Yes, stupid. A husband. What better way to lure my male counterpart than to become the very companion he seeks?”


    I stared, mouth agape. “This is not going to work.”


    “You don’t know that.”


    “Francesca—”


    “What I need from you,” she continued, prodding me in the chest, “is for you to put about the word that your old friend Franco is a bit light in the instep.”


    “Francesca.”If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    “Maybe the two of you had a falling out over it—oh! You can say I made a pass at you, and you refused!”


    “I’m not going to do that!”


    “Perfect! You already know your lines.”


    I groaned and scrubbed my face.


    “Well, have you found me a husband yet?” she demanded. “You said you’d try.”


    I had said that, and had then done no such thing. “It’s, um…” I faltered. “It turns out it’s very difficult to do that without, uh… accidentally implying…”


    “And this is why I’m here,” Francesca interrupted decisively. “I can do what you can’t.”


    “I really think this is a bad idea,” I said flatly. “Even with your voice. How are you doing that, by the way?”


    “Laryngitis!” she said cheerfully. “Got over the fever two days ago, but the voice is still with me for some reason. I simply could not pass up this opportunity. It’s perfect.”


    “Where does the Duchess think you are right now?”


    “Here, visiting you.” Her grin widened. “I didn’t even have to lie!”


    “And your chaperone?”


    “It’s Carlo.”


    Her footman. “Ah.”


    “He’s the one who found me the mustache,” she added, smoothing it once again. “Real human hair.”


    “Gross.”


    “Care for a kiss?” She puckered the mustache at me threateningly.


    “Eugh!” I batted her away. “Francesca, it’s not that I don’t want to help. I do. You know I do. I am here at university to help you. And if you want me to stay here, to help you, I cannot do anything to draw attention to myself. The instant I am discovered as a lowbreed—” I spat the word. Francesca’s smile fled from her face. “—I will be expelled.”


    “What?” She sounded genuinely shocked.


    “They wouldn’t even let you enroll if you were a man. That’s how rigid they are about it.”


    Francesca’s eyes were wide beneath the brim of her hat. “Why on earth did you enroll, then?”


    “Because I didn’t read the instructions,” I said, lavishing myself with scorn.


    Francesca was silent for the remainder of our walk to the tavern. She did not speak until our ales had been delivered to the small table we’d found—one of the few still set up outside, so she could keep her hat on, her long blond hair safely hidden beneath.


    “If you need to drop out,” she said, voice low, “you should just drop out. I don’t want you risking yourself like this for me. You’ve done enough. More than enough. Two people shouldn’t suffer for the problems of one.”


    “I don’t want to drop out.” I sipped my ale.


    Francesca raised her eyebrows. “University life agreeing with you?”


    “It is.” I took another sip. “And they don’t get to take this from me.”


    Francesca nodded slowly. She didn’t need clarification. “I see.”


    “Lord deRye?”


    I turned. Three ladies stood at the entrance to the milliner’s, which was next door to the tavern. I didn’t recognize two of them.


    The third was Lady Teresa Contarini.


    I sprang to my feet at once, propelled far more by terror than politeness. “Lady Contarini! What a pleasure! Please allow me to introduce my companion, L—”


    “Mr. Franco Luomo,” Francesca interjected smoothly, rising to her feet and coming forward to bow over Lady Contarini’s proffered hand.


    She eased her way through introductions all around, in her husky laryngitic tenor, doing a terrible job of emulating a character interested in men. I barely spoke, which was for the best; I was practically chewing my tongue in agitation. But by the time the women departed, Francesca had charmed her way into an invitation—extended to both of us—to attend a midmorning salon the very next day, at Perfezionamento.


    I waited until the trio were all the way down the road before rounding on Francesca.


    “Are you insane?!”


    “I must be,” she replied dreamily, “to have refused to even consider attending finishing school. Did you see Miss Lucrezia? She moved like a doe in the woods…”


    I almost grabbed Francesca by the lapels to shake her, but settled for clenching my fists to my face instead. “This is the opposite of what we’re trying to do here!” I shouted.


    “You’re yelling,” Francesca said mildly.


    I stormed into the road, in the opposite direction from where Lady Contarini and her doelike companions had gone. Francesca tossed some coins onto the table and followed.


    “How on earth do you expect to attract a husband in a women’s finishing school?” I snarled, when she had finally caught up. “And now I have to go too! I cannot be in the limelight like this! People will talk!”


    “People will talk regardless, Leo. You really think attending a salon with Lady Contarini will bring about your discovery any faster than the natural flow of information generated by your mere existence?”


    “Yes!”


    Francesca waved my concerns away. “Just keep yourself to yourself this time, then. No moonlight jaunts, no fountainous escapades. And I will have you know that I have it on very good authority that gentlemen of the Uranic disposition are frequent attendees of ladies’ salons. I may meet my future husband tomorrow, in fact.”


    “I don’t believe you.”


    “Suit yourself.” Francesca was grinning again. “But if we are the only men there tomorrow morning, I’ll give you ten lira.”