Bartolomeo’s face had no expression at all as his eyes fastened on my bruised mouth, then flicked to my hand. “How badly did he hurt you?”

“Not near as badly as he wanted to. Leonello came along.” I wrung out the bandage and began wrapping it around my palm. The bleeding looked to have stopped. Sweet Santa Marta, Bartolomeo, just go away.

“I never liked Leonello. He was always eyeing you. And he’s got charm, you know, for all he’s a dwarf, so I was afraid you’d start eyeing him back.” Bartolomeo hunkered down on his heels beside me, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. “Then again, I didn’t like anyone who gave you the eye besides me.”

“Well, most of the time I just thought Leonello was horrible, so nothing to fear there.” I struggled with the wet bandage. “But there’s no denying those knives of his can be very useful.”

“I’ll have to thank him, then.” Another pause. “Maria said it was your cousin Marco who was to thank for it. Something about a letter he wrote—”

“Leave it, Bartolomeo!” I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t even want to think about Marco. Just the sound of his name made me sick. I didn’t know why he’d helped lure me for the Duke of Gandia, but I had a fair idea money was involved. I didn’t care if I ever saw my cousin again in this world.

Bartolomeo reached for my injured hand as I fumbled to knot the bandage. “Here, let me—”

I flinched back.

“Or not,” he said, and stood up again. I clumsily tied off my hand, and he stood looking at me in the fading orange sunset with his arms folded across his chest. Please not another proposal of marriage, I thought, but his gaze was thoughtful rather than moony. “You should be resting, you know.”

“I’ve cena to finish.” My hands were shaking again, and I felt a childish urge to hide them under my apron. “I can’t leave them all unfed, I—”

“You’re a wreck, Carmelina.” Bartolomeo’s voice was mild. “You’re trembling, you’re white as rice broth, and I doubt you can chop so much as an onion with that hand. Lie down in your chamber, drink a great deal of wine, and try to sleep.”

“But I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Somehow Bartolomeo steered me back into the scullery without touching me. He rummaged behind a door and took down a spare apron. “I’ll take charge of cena tonight.”

“You don’t work here anymore,” I protested. “And even if you did, you’re still junior to Ugo and all the undercooks. They’ll never listen to you—”

“They will. Because I’m a better cook than any of them, and they all know it.” His voice was calm and confident. A man’s voice, not a boy’s, and his touch on my shoulder was a man’s too, brooking no argument as he steered me back to the chamber he knew was mine. “Take that knife inside with you, and bolt the door if it makes you feel better. I’ll knock twice after cena, bring you some wine and some hot sops. I doubt you feel like eating anything, but try for me.”