“You involved Bartolomeo?” I shot to my feet.

“I thought you didn’t want details.” Leonello blinked innocently.

“You odious little man, I will hate you all over again if Bartolomeo came to any harm!” Sweet Santa Marta, if he was caught and executed for this, it would be all my fault. Was God so jealous of His brides that I was a curse to any man who laid hands on me? I’d bedded three men since taking my vows: Marco, who was dead; Cesare Borgia, who said he was the Devil and was surely damned to hellfire—and then, Bartolomeo. Who had become embroiled in God knew what dark business, and all because of me.

“Calm yourself,” said Leonello, seeing my face. “He’s unhurt. Though probably even more hungover than I am. He knew I was accompanying Madonna Giulia to the convent today and made me promise to seek you out. I was to tell you—let’s see—” Leonello cast his eyes up to the ceiling. I folded my arms, glowering, heart pounding. “Ah, yes. He’s taken a position as undercook in the household of Vittorio Capece of Bozzuto. That Neapolitan lordling who collects paintings and pretty page boys.”

“I knew that already. That’s all Bartolomeo said?”

“There was a great deal more in the way of flowery protestations,” Leonello said. “I shall not embarrass you by repeating it all verbatim. He adores you, he will write to you until you can leave here, he would wait for you forever—”

I could feel my cheeks heating. “He told you all that?”

“He was very drunk at that point, I admit. He came to me troubled in his soul, you see, because he did not regret our actions, and thus feared he could not repent as one is supposed to after the doing of evil. As I was the only murderer and evildoer he knew, he wanted to find out how one made the proper atonement. An odd mix of purity and practicality, that boy . . . he needed reassurance, and even more badly he needed wine, so I broached a cask and gave him a little practical advice about how exactly one confesses the more serious sins to one’s priest without giving away the details that get one caught. Sins like, say, accidentally killing a clumsy lout despite doing everything possible to save him.”

My heart squeezed. Oh, Bartolomeo—“How could you drag him into this? He’s just a boy—”

“He’s no boy.” Leonello’s tone brooked no argument. “He’s a man grown, Carmelina. And he’s done nothing he need feel remorse for.”

Easy for Leonello to say, with his conscience as flexible as a snake and as impervious as burnished steel. Bartolomeo and his finely tuned sense of wrongdoing were another matter entirely. “He’ll never forgive himself,” I said into my hands. “Sweet Santa Marta, I wish he’d never met me.”

“Do you?” Another arched eyebrow.