I gave Santa Marta a pat through the pouch, unable to help a smile. I’d been horrified at first to find myself a desecrator—I could just about settle my conscience when it came to taking the reliquary, considering that the convent had swallowed up the dowry that should have been mine—but nobody could justify stealing a saint (well, part of a saint). Now, however, I wondered if Santa Marta’s hand hadn’t decided to come along with me of its own free will. The inside of a reliquary box must get dull, after all, no matter how prettily jeweled, and with me she at least had a kitchen to rule over again.

No, I was sorry about many things: sorry to break my vows even if I’d never wanted to take them in the first place; sorry to steal from the nuns who might have been greedy and silly but still hadn’t deserved to be robbed; sorry for the shame I’d brought down on my family’s reputation. I even felt pangs of conscience over the sin of bedding Marco, who would be in a great deal of trouble if it were ever found out he had lain with a nun. But I no longer felt the slightest twinge of guilt over the fact that the severed hand of my patron saint had now, in however unorthodox a fashion, found a home with me.

And despite all my sins and broken vows and occasional instances of theft, Santa Marta must have liked something about me. Because I was mistress of my own kitchens, in my own right. Because I still hadn’t been caught and returned to my convent.

You never will be now, something whispered, and my shiver had nothing to do with the bitter autumn wind. With my father dead . . . well, who would catch me? My sister didn’t want me brought to justice; she wanted me as far from Venice as possible. Marco, even if he was angry with me for taking his position, still had a vested interest in keeping my secret—he’d be in as much trouble as me if I were found out. Aside from Marco, Leonello was the only other person in Rome to know my true history, and so far he seemed inclined to keep his lips sealed.

No, I was safe—or as safe as I was ever likely to be.

The two lay sisters looked up at me when I called to them over the low stone wall around the churchyard. “Yes, signorina?”

I sketched a curtsy as the younger one came closer, still clutching her spade in one cold-chapped hand. “May I ask that you offer a prayer for my good father, Suora?” I asked respectfully. “I have just learned of his death, God rest his soul.”

“Of course.” The young nun looked hopeful, and I took a coin out of my purse and pressed it into her work-callused hand.