“Work was never lost to a more worthy cause, Madonna Giulia.” Bartolomeo reeled off a few orders to the pair of pot-boys scrubbing pans under the cistern, more orders to the boy eternally cranking at the spit of hot-roasted pigeons rotating over the fires. “I want to see mouths shut and hands moving,” he warned, and turned back to me. “Only a few of us are needed in the kitchens here if il Signore isn’t entertaining. Most of the others have gone off to see a miracle play in the Piazza San Pietro. The martyrdom of Santo Bartolomeo, and they say he’s flayed on the stage so realistically, they had to bring the player back out to show the audience he was still alive. I didn’t care to watch my patron saint get killed horribly, so I’ve enough time to give all the frittelle lessons anyone could want.” Bartolomeo smiled down at Laura, and she dimpled at him through her lashes. Nearly five years old, and my daughter was already a flirt! Though Bartolomeo had certainly turned into a lad with whom girls of any age would long to flirt. I still remembered Carmelina’s favorite apprentice as the scrawny boy who had loped along the wagons on the journey back from France, but this lean young man with the broad shoulders and the shock of fiery hair could have made a nun’s heart flutter.

Laura held her breath as her very first batch of frittelle went into the skillet, and Bartolomeo handed her the spoon so she could push them around in the butter. “Watch them carefully, little mistress, you don’t want them to burn—”

“Carmelina tried to teach me to make elderflower frittelle once.” I smiled, remembering. “I nearly burned her kitchens down.”

Bartolomeo’s freckled face lost its smile. “Pardon me, Madonna Giulia—but have you had any news of—”

“No, not yet.”

“My last letter came back unopened. The messenger said there was no one of her name within the convent walls.” He scowled. “She can’t have left the convent already, not without coming to see me! Months I’ve been waiting and writing; does she think I’m made of iron?”

I tilted my head at him, giving a grin. “So you’re her sweetheart!”

“She clearly doesn’t think so,” he grumbled.