“I’ve never had the opportunity to thank you for helping me find my post here, Madonna Giulia,” he said with another impeccable bow. “I volunteered to bring up the dishes myself as soon as I’d heard you’d arrived. Sugared figs for the little mistress”—handing another down to Laura—“and marzipan tourtes for your own chamber.” A grin. “And there will be fried smelt from Lake Bolsena for your plate any day you wish it, regardless of what the maestro di cucina has to say.” His grin was infectious.

“What, you aren’t maestro di cucina yet, Bartolomeo?”

“I plan to have his post by next year.” Matter-of-factly. “Signore Capece is already a great admirer of my sugar subtleties. ‘Food made art,’ he says. Many thanks again, Madonna Giulia.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Carmelina,” I smiled. “She trained you, after all. I remember her whacking you over the head with a spoon in Capodimonte, when you were mangling her pasta shapes.”

“I’ve not heard from Carmelina lately.” His smile disappeared. “She can’t write often; she says the nuns won’t have letters delivered without a good fat payment. She did say she’d be able to leave when Madonna Lucrezia did . . .”

“I shall see what I can find out about Madonna Lucrezia, then,” I promised. “Surely she won’t be staying at the convent much longer.”

He gave me another bow and a round of thanks. I’d meant to hunt down Carmelina anyway, and lure her away from the Borgia employ to my castello in Carbognano. I’d have to promise her new stoves and new trestle tables and all the spices she wanted, no doubt, but she was worth it. Perhaps this handsome no-longer-apprentice would wish to accompany her . . . Though it would hardly repay poor Vittorio his hospitality if I stole his cook on departure. On the other hand, given Vittorio’s tastes for strapping young men, perhaps it was a good idea at that.

Orsino was still wandering about our new chamber in his dusty doublet, looking a trifle lost among all the luxury, and I devoted myself to fussing over him for a while in the way I knew he liked: unlacing his shirt with my own hands, bathing his temples in lavender water. He put his hands about my waist, and I knew what he wanted so I smiled and cast my eyes down and let him lead me to our borrowed bed. I lay under the rich green satin bedcover, and then I lay under my husband, and he hardly seemed any more substantial than the satin. He was still so hesitant to touch me, so furtive when his fingers stroked my skin or his weight pressed against me—and it pressed against me a great deal, because my husband very badly wanted me pregnant.