I felt a smile tug at my lips despite myself. I could slip away easily once the dishes were prepared—any cook worth her mettle had her kitchens well trained enough to run smoothly without her. “Why not?” I heard myself saying, and Giulia applauded. I gave a little curtsy of thanks. Why not, indeed? A chance to get away from the tense atmosphere that was my kitchens these days; Bartolomeo’s expressionless stares and icy silences were infecting the scullions and the undercooks, who seemed to know something was wrong even if they weren’t sure what. I tried to address him briskly, nudge him back into his old enthusiasm for what he was cooking—really, a cook was worth nothing if he couldn’t keep his own feelings out of the kitchens! But I couldn’t quite seem to meet his gaze when I gave him orders now; I had to fix on the wall over his shoulder and ignore the sick swoop in my stomach whenever I thought how easily he could ruin me.

And maybe some of that sick swoop was shame, for the way I’d kissed him and cried out under him and then stamped all over him. I’m sorry, I wanted to say. Of course, it wasn’t really my fault that he had a whole palazzo of pretty maidservants to choose from and he’d decided to fix on the runaway nun, but still . . . I’m sorry.

Maybe I deserved to be ruined.

In any case, a chance to get out of my kitchens sounded like a far more appealing prospect than it usually did.

“Just don’t dress me up as a heron,” I warned Madonna Giulia. “My sister called me Heron all through childhood because I was so tall.”

“No, no, not a heron.” My mistress gave another up-and-down analysis of my lanky frame. “Something very exotic, I think. No common sparrows or kitchen cats for you. What do you say, girls?” she called to her maids. “What animal is tall, exotic, and very long-legged?”

“A stag . . .”

“A mare . . .”

“A gazelle . . .”

“What’s a gazelle?”

That costume. Looking back, I think you could fairly say it was all the fault of that thrice-damned costume.

Giulia