“I think God looks a little more kindly on oath-breakers than we like to believe. Cesare Borgia got released from his vows as a holy cardinal, after all, and the Heavenly Father didn’t smite him for it. And Cesare Borgia does more evil in a day than you have in a lifetime!” Bartolomeo laughed. “God smiles on you every time you so much as break an egg into a bowl, Carmelina.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you didn’t have some kind of divine approval, then how do you keep getting away with everything?” Bartolomeo’s eyes were merry and serene. “How did you end up guardian of your patron saint’s hand? How did you escape unscathed from not one but two convents? How did you not get caught by anyone, over all these years?” Another laugh. “Haven’t you heard our Pope say it to Madonna Giulia? ‘God means as much by his inactions as his actions. If He doesn’t act, He approves.’”

“You’ve turned cynic,” I said accusingly.

“On the contrary.” Bartolomeo kissed my knuckles. “Maybe it’s not the usual way of things, but in every way that counts, you’re my wife.”

My throat felt thick. “I’m also a bride of Christ. After Marco died, well, I kept thinking it was because of me. That any man who beds me is doomed—”

“Ah, but you’re wrong. We have as much heavenly blessing as anyone could want. Here’s proof.” Bartolomeo’s hard chest moved against mine very pleasurably as he squirmed to get hold of something from the tangle of clothes at our feet. “A blessing from our very own patron saint.”

“That’s Santa Marta’s ring!” I looked at the little band of gold, horrified. I knew it as well as I knew my own nose, as long as my patron saint and I had been together. “You can’t steal a ring from a saint!”

“We already stole her whole hand,” Bartolomeo pointed out. “Besides, she wants you to have it. She’s spent the last few weeks dropping it on me every time I opened the pouch.”

I must say, it fit me very well. I put my hand into the sunlight outside the coach’s open window, admiring the gleam of old, old gold, and I thought I felt Santa Marta twitch her approval back in her usual place beneath my skirt. Madonna Giulia had emerald and pearl and sapphire rings, enough of them to sink a ship, but I preferred something plain like this. Something I wouldn’t have to take off to knead bread dough.

“That nun’s habit is absolutely ghastly,” Giulia was saying, looking critically at my convent wool. She had eaten all the marzipan by now and was starting in on the almond biscotti. “We’ll have to be sure you get some new gowns before you go out to Milan—”