“No, it’s far worse than that!” I leaned close, lowering my voice to a horrified whisper. “A charge of altar desecration! She absconded with a most holy relic—”

“Surely not!” The prioress crossed herself.

“It’s a wicked world,” I sighed, and kept my eyes away from Leonello who was giving me a long stare. This line of conversation had not been part of our little playlet, but I’d thought all along that this avaricious smooth-faced prioress with her love of good wine and silk shifts might need more grease for her palm than mere gold.

And yes, she was looking very interested indeed. “This stolen relic . . .”

“As you can imagine, Suora Serafina could hardly sell it at the market!” I reached under my cloak. “My guard found it hidden in her cell.”

Everyone caught their breath as I tossed it to the table: a long braid of golden hair as thick as a man’s wrist, coiled like a lustrous blond snake.

“The hair of Mary Magdalene,” I said, crossing myself. “The hair that tumbled over the feet of Christ Himself. Can anyone doubt it? Look how it gleams after so many centuries!”

I heard a sudden explosion from Carmelina. Fortunately, with Bartolomeo’s hand clapped over her mouth, it sounded like a sob.

“A worthy relic indeed,” the prioress breathed. She took a glance at my own hair, but I’d picked a pearled velvet headdress this morning that covered my head completely.

“A worthy relic in need of a worthy resting place,” I agreed. “Caretakers more cautious than the sisters of Santa Marta in Venice. Even if they heard of it resurfacing in Rome, they could hardly look to reclaim it when they allowed it to be stolen in the first place.”

The prioress crossed herself. She was seeing lines of pilgrims, I thought: pilgrims dipping eagerly into their purses to see the braid of (my) hair all locked away in a rock crystal reliquary, bringing fame and wealth to the Convent of San Sisto.

A far better bribe than a mere bag of coins. She already had no eyes at all for Carmelina, standing pinioned in the not-really-very-brutal grip of Leonello’s red-haired henchman.

“I am sure Cardinal Borgia—that is, Duke Valentino—has the wisest possible plans for Suora Serafina.” The prioress gave a glittering smile, and the golden braid of hair disappeared into her sleeve faster than I could blink. “I shall send him word myself that she has died of a fever and has been buried upon these resting grounds, God rest her soul.”

“God rest her soul,” I echoed piously, and it really was a miracle that we all got into the coach before exploding in laughter.

Carmelina

I brought a hamper,” Bartolomeo announced, and then my red-haired lover looked puzzled when everyone burst out laughing all over again. “What? I thought we might want a bit of a nibble on the road—”