“Bartolomeo!” Even staring right at him, I could hardly believe he was here. He was a vision I hadn’t dared allow myself to dream of because it hurt too much: tall, ruddy-haired, taking up half the kitchen as he strode up and down gesturing and waving his hands, and I couldn’t stop drinking in the sight of him. His eyes sparkled as he looked back at me, and my mouth still felt bruised from his kiss. “Will you get to the point?” I demanded, a trifle unsteadily.

“So, I’m supposed to be fixing Madonna Giulia some warm honeyed wine right now—”

“Keep your voice down!”

“—she made a huge fuss and refused to sleep without it. Wouldn’t let anyone but me prepare it either. Your poor portress, the one who’s supposed to be looking after honored guests, well, she wasn’t supposed to let a man into the kitchens under any circumstances, but she’s so worn out running Madonna Giulia’s errands by now, she’d do anything for a little sleep. So, with the solemn promise that I wouldn’t venture outside the kitchens, not to mention the bribe of a flagon of good wine . . .” Bartolomeo made an elaborate bow. “Here I am.”

My heart thudded. “Do we escape now? Over the wall, or—”

“No, no. You’ll see. Better if you look surprised tomorrow.” He took me around the waist again. “Trust me.”

Guilt stabbed through me like a kitchen spit. “Do you realize the trouble you’ll make for yourself? If anyone discovers you helped a nun escape her vows—”

“I find that doesn’t trouble my conscience in the slightest.” Bartolomeo looked very serious. “Maybe Leonello’s rubbed off on me. Tragic, isn’t it? A black-hearted assassin corrupting a pure young lad like me—”

I saw the hilarity dancing in his eyes, and I smacked him again. “How did you know I’d be here? Here in the kitchen, I mean.”

“Don’t know,” he shrugged. “I just had a notion I’d find you here. Leonello said you looked so stricken when Madonna Giulia stalked by. And when you’re stricken, you always go to the kitchens.”

“Well, don’t you know everything.” Self-consciousness made my voice waspish. I felt ugly all over again—a wimple was bad enough, but without it my short curls were undoubtedly springing out in all directions like a nest of bracken, and I had a flea bite on my chin from the old straw in my pallet, and—and Bartolomeo looked so . . .

“What?” He looked at me.

“I hate my hair,” I burst out, running a hand over my cap of frizz.

“I’ll wager it smells the same, even if it’s shorter.” He leaned close, burying his nose in the hair by my cheek. “Cinnamon,” he confirmed. “Still cinnamon.”