I hesitated before speaking. “I think I’m going mad here.”

His fingers tightened a little around the bar of the grille, but his voice was still conversational. “You need macaroni.”

“What?” My eyes stung.

“Macaroni,” he said. “Layered in a dish with slabs of provatura cheese and lumps of butter, cooked slowly until it all melts together.”

My mouth watered. “I didn’t teach you that.”

“Certainly not; it’s my own recipe and its going into my compendium, too. It’s just what you need right now. Pasta with a great deal of butter and cheese,” he said seriously, “cures all.”

I snorted laughter and stifled it behind my hand. Suora Ursula was still eyeing Bartolomeo, looking suspicious despite the crucifix about his neck and the pious little bow he aimed in her direction. A few of the visiting matrons in their rich gowns were eyeing him too, for different reasons.

He turned back to me, and his smile dropped away. “I will get you out of here.”

“It’s a great sin,” I whispered. That meant very little to me, with my tattered conscience and list of offenses against God, but for a bright soul like my apprentice’s . . . “Understand what it means, Bartolomeo. Stealing a nun from her convent? It’s like stealing a man’s wife away, only it’s worse because it’s a wife to God Himself. Adultery and desecration combined—”

And I couldn’t help but remember my private, terrified thought after Marco died: Is God so jealous of His brides that I’m a curse to any man who lays hands on me?

“I don’t care what kind of sin it is.” Bartolomeo’s voice was steady. “I’ll think about that later. After I get you out.”

“If I leave these walls, Cesare Borgia will see me dead. He’s killed everyone else who knew—”

“I’ve an idea or two. Just be patient a little longer. I swear, I’ll have you out soon.”

A young cook against a Borgia prince? Those were odds too long for any gambler. But Bartolomeo’s eyes burned into mine, that familiar bright cinnamon, and I felt warm for the first time in a year. Warm and safe and full, as though I’d eaten a whole platter of his buttered macaroni.

A young lay sister came flying in on noiseless feet and went straight to Suora Ursula. She looked at me as she began to whisper something.

“Maybe I’ll get out of here,” I whispered, fumbling in my pouch. “Maybe not. If I don’t—”

“Carmelina—”

“If I don’t, take this.” I pushed the little bundle of Santa Marta’s hand into his hand through the grille. “Careful, she’s very brittle at her age. If you snap her fingers off, I shall lay a curse on you and you’ll never cook macaroni again without burning it up!”

“I can’t take her. She’s your saint.”