“Lie back down, dear lady, until I can get that knife out of your hand.” With some effort, I dropped the bar back across the cellar doors into its bracket first. I had no desire for Juan to sneak back and surprise me as soon as my back was turned and my knives sheathed. “As for my presence here, a night’s insomnia proved useful for once. I thought to fetch a little wine—a cup of Chiarello and Nestor’s speech in Book IX of the Iliad always puts me to sleep.” I spoke lightly, conversationally, giving her time to slow her gasping breath. “The door was barred, and I thought I heard struggling. Then it wasn’t barred, and in I came.”

“But they did bar the door.”

“Perhaps it gave way.” I bent down and picked up the thing on the floor that had almost tripped me as I entered. “And what is this disgusting thing?” A grisly souvenir from one of the Duke of Gandia’s prior victims?

“Santa Marta.” Carmelina gave a watery half laugh, half sob. “Did she unbolt the door for you, or did the bar just fall out of the bracket?”

“I said lie back.” I surveyed the knife through her palm, taking hold of the hilt. “Count to three.”

“One—”

I yanked it out. “Good,” I said as the cry choked off between her teeth. “Sit up, that’s it—clap your apron round it, while I find some bandaging.” I thought of trying to get her on her feet, get her out of the cellar and upstairs for some proper care, but she was still shaking, clinging to the edge of the table, and I doubted her feet would carry her up the cellar stairs yet. She looked sadly frail, this prickly self-assured girl I had sparred with for so long; frail as Murano glass and about as likely to shatter into pieces. I wanted to pull her head onto my shoulder and promise her all would be well, but Carmelina Mangano was no fool, and she was no child—she knew all was very far from well. So I turned my back and rummaged through the cellar, finding a wad of thin cloth some maidservant must have left behind after straining wine, not turning around until I heard her get her shaky gasps under control. Then I offered her the jug of wine that had been half emptied by Juan Borgia as he waited.