“My last two letters addressed to you came back,” he returned. “They said there was no one of your name inside these walls anymore. But if you’d left with Madonna Lucrezia, you’d have come to see me. So, I thought of asking here again, but for your nun’s name.”

“I only told you that name once.”

“I remembered it.”

“I’m not supposed to have any visitors—”

He laughed, drawing glances. “Do you have any idea what the sisters here will do for good food? I brought a hamper—”

I felt a smile tugging at my lips. “You and your hampers.”

“Yes, me and my hampers. Cheese tourtes, apple biscotti, a crostata of fresh summer blackberries, candied walnuts—they fell on everything like wolves on a lamb. Nothing left but crumbs.” He stretched his fingers through the grille toward me, but I withdrew, tucking my own hands into my sleeves.

“You’re angry with me,” he said, and blew out a breath as he pulled his hand back. “Well, you have a right to be. Your cousin, Marco Santini—”

“What? No, I’m not angry, Bartolomeo. I’m just being careful.” I flicked my gaze at the wrinkle-faced choir nun staring daggers at us. “Suora Ursula,” I whispered. “We don’t want to catch her eye, and believe me, she’s always got an eye fixed on any of the young men who come into this parlor.”

“But I do want to explain about your cousin.” Bartolomeo met my gaze squarely. “I wouldn’t blame you if you still blamed me, Carmelina. I didn’t mean him to die, but he did. And I had a role in that.”

“My cousin was a greedy fool. That was what killed him, not you.” I felt a knot in my stomach easing. Maybe I couldn’t give my former apprentice much, but he’d at least have peace of mind in this one thing. “If Marco hadn’t given me to Juan Borgia just to get a debt repaid, he’d still be alive today. So don’t trouble your conscience on it any longer, Bartolomeo.” I wished I could take his hand.

“Thank you.” Bartolomeo curled his fingers around the grille bars instead. “I thought, maybe that was why you hadn’t answered my letters.”

“No. Not that, not at all.” I could have laughed, or maybe wept.

“Then what’s happened? Why are you here”—his eyes flickered over my wimple and veil again—“like that?”

I hesitated, because Cesare Borgia had killed everyone else who knew it. “I know something, about the Pope’s daughter. This is how they silenced me.”

“What do you know?”

“Better if you don’t. Pantisilea did, and Perotto the papal envoy too, and they’re both dead now.” I crossed myself. “Cardinal Borgia’s men flung them both into the river, God rest their souls.”

“Then you’re lucky,” Bartolomeo said, low-voiced. “They could have killed you, too.”