I sank down on the upturned barrel beside the cistern and unwrapped the bandage, running my bleeding hand under the flow of water. Such good water they had here at the Palazzo Santa Maria, deep wells with water clean as any spring that ever welled up in Eden itself. Another reason I had so loved working here, because I didn’t have to worry about whether my water was good enough for mixing with the wine. Convents never had such good wells. I’d miss the water. Wine too—dear God, but I wanted some wine. Maybe then my hands would stop shaking. Leonello had poured half a jug of wine into me last night, and it was the only way I’d gotten to sleep.

“Carmelina?”

I started violently, erupting from my hunched seat on the barrel and whipping out the knife I’d been carrying under my apron all day. So stupid because how was I supposed to use a knife with this hand? But I still couldn’t put it down.

“I’m sorry.” Bartolomeo held out his big freckled hands, placating. “I never meant to startle you.”

“Well, you did!” I couldn’t quite put my knife down, even seeing the familiar red hair and wide shoulders of someone who was decidedly not Juan Borgia. “What are you doing here, Bartolomeo? You quit, and that was a good while ago!”

“I’ve found work. A new position.” He indicated his neat new doublet and the bundle of a fresh apron under one arm. His sleeve was marked with a badge that seemed familiar. “Or rather, Madonna Giulia found me a new position. She heard I was departing, and she said she always loved my fried lake smelt, so she’d be happy to recommend me for a new post. I’ve been hired today, undercook in the household of that Neapolitan lord, Vittorio Capece of Bozzuto.” Bartolomeo’s eyes as they looked on me had none of the sullen anger he’d shown since the night we shared a bed. “I thought I’d come back to give my thanks to Madonna Giulia.”

“I see.” I should have been happy for him, should have congratulated him. All I could think was that it was my fault he’d left the Palazzo Santa Maria in the first place. I averted my eyes from his gaze, feeling a flush mount up from my neck.

“Also,” he said candidly, “I came back so I could lord it over you. ‘Call me a boy now, signorina’—that sort of thing. But Maria the laundry maid’s already told me that you’re to leave with Madonna Lucrezia tomorrow.”

“Yes.” I looked down at my still-bleeding hand, the bandage that trailed over one shoe like a dead snake, and found that at least I was able to lower my knife.

His voice was very neutral. “I know why you’re going.”

“Maria the laundry maid tell you that too?” I managed a bare modicum of tartness, if not quite enough to cover my pride, as I began washing out my bandage under the cistern.