“Of course you did,” I choked against his shoulder. The Convent of San Sisto was already behind us, and so was Rome. The coach was a hired vehicle, and it racketed along the dry summer road with none of the cushioned comfort of the conveyances La Bella had enjoyed as Pope’s mistress, but I had never been so happy in my life to be jolted about like an apple rattling around in an empty basket.

“What did you put in that hamper, Bartolomeo?” Leonello poked at the woven basket at our feet. “It’s moving.”

“I almost forgot.” Bartolomeo untied the lid. “That’s not for eating. Though Carmelina always threatened to put him in a crostata—”

My old notch-eared kitchen cat put his head over the basket with his rusty mrow.

“He should go into a crostata,” I said. “I’ve no use for cats who won’t catch mice!” But I lifted the cat up out of the basket and settled him on my lap.

“She wasn’t so happy to see me,” Bartolomeo complained.

“Thank you,” I whispered, and kissed the cat on the nose and then Bartolomeo on his.

“There are other ways to thank me.” My former apprentice looked meditative. “Do you still have that giraffe costume?”

“I take all credit for that,” Giulia said. “Now, let’s see this hamper you keep talking about. I’m starving!”

Bartolomeo dragged another basket out from under the seats, and my former mistress dove right in. “Sicilian olives, oh, I adore Sicilian olives—almond biscotti, they’re a little crumbly, so we might as well eat them right now—grapes, sugared violet blossoms, candied orange peel, oh, and marzipan tourtes! Bartolomeo, you’re marvelous.” Giulia popped a little tourte whole into her mouth. “I always eat when I defraud convents.”

“For myself, I feel the need of a drink,” Leonello announced, and managed to decant the flask of French wine into the four cups Bartolomeo had also packed into the hamper. The four of us grinned at each other over the jolting rims: Bartolomeo with his lean-muscled legs hopelessly too long for the cramped space; me curled up against his shoulder while the cat purred against mine, Leonello with his boots swinging above the floor and his hazel eyes sparkling, and Giulia as beautiful and glowing as ever with her velvet skirts filling half the coach. I felt a pang, looking at her. “Madonna Giulia, your hair—”

“Wasn’t that clever of me?” She stripped off her pearled headdress, showing us a still-considerable coil of plaits. “I’ve been wanting to cut it for ever so long, so I just lopped off the bottom arm’s length this morning. Can I tell you what absolute heaven it is to have short hair? Only down to my hips! And speaking of hair—” She pressed a little vial firmly into my palm. “Use daily.”