“Careful,” I said, as a drop of that hot oil splashed out of the pan. “You couldn’t put a shirt on, Bartolomeo? You’ll burn yourself.”

“Already have,” Bartolomeo said, unconcerned. When his urge for the frying pan had hit, he’d clearly not bothered to pull on more than a pair of worn breeches before racing for the kitchens. The flagstone floor was chilly beneath my slippers, and despite the crackling kitchen fire I still shivered in my linen shift, but Bartolomeo was evidently feeling no cold as he padded barefoot about the ovens. Feeling no heat either; among the cinnamon-dark freckles splashed over his milk-pale chest and arms I could see red splotch marks where hot olive oil had spattered, but he was whistling happily between his teeth.

“You shouldn’t be using my kitchens just to experiment on strange tubers, you know.” I hesitated, wondering if I should order him to desist, but for once my rebellious apprentice was being cheerful instead of argumentative, and that seemed like something to encourage. “You’re lucky I feel like a bit of a nibble,” I finally allowed. “Let’s have a look at these roots of yours.”

“The first batch burned,” Bartolomeo admitted, jerking his chin at the trestle table toward a plate of what appeared to be little scorched black disks. “They fry up fast, whatever they are. Sweet Santa Marta, don’t let me burn the next batch or I’ll be out of tubers—” He touched the little wooden crucifix hanging about his neck on a cord. “You think she listens?”

“Santa Marta?” I couldn’t help a little smile. “I know she does.”

“I think so, too. Not that the Heavenly Father doesn’t,” Bartolomeo allowed. “But He’s busy. He’s got His hands full finishing off the French; I’m not going to burden Him with my kitchen woes.”

“His Holiness the Pope is the one with his hands full when it comes to the French,” I pointed out. “He’s the one waging war on them.”

“It’s all the same,” Bartolomeo shrugged. “The Heavenly Father and the Holy Father—they’re both about equally far above a kitchen apprentice with a pan full of tubers, aren’t they? Pure, powerful, perfect—things I can’t ever aspire to. Except maybe in food,” he added, and gave the pan a swirl.

“I would hardly call the Holy Father pure,” I snorted. “Or are you going to tell me he loves Madonna Giulia like a daughter?”

Bartolomeo grinned. “Even the Holy Father was a man first, and Madonna Giulia would tempt God Himself. Come to think of it, God Himself was a man once, too. He’d understand.”