I turned and made for the hanging carcass where Carmelina was fussing. The trips back and forth along the length of the loggia over my hour of practicing had made my cramped muscles ache. I longed to lapse into the rapid spraddle that saved my bones their pains, but not when there were any other eyes to see me. Besides, Carmelina Mangano had a tart prettiness when she was shouting at me like this, so for her I would walk tall.

Not to mention that I had one or two questions I wished to ask her. Better to sweeten her for once, rather than ruffle her feathers.

“I do apologize for spoiling your spit-roasted beef, Signorina Cuoca.” Surveying the side of ox ribs. “But don’t you have a word of praise for my skill? Eight of ten in a line up the ladder of ribs! You won’t see that every day.”

“And you won’t see another day at all if you keep raiding my kitchens for targets.” She began yanking the blades out from between the ox ribs and tossing them at me.

“So, another girl dead.” I swiped the blades clean one at a time as she shoved them at me. “Like that fruit seller friend of yours. What was her name?” I knew her name perfectly well.

“Eleonora.” Carmelina crossed herself. “She wasn’t really a friend. We just traded the odd word or two at market. But she knew I’d toss out any peach that was even a little bruised, so she always saved the pick of the fruit for me . . .”

“And now another girl.” I leaned against the balustrade. “Do you think the Jews are to blame?”

“More likely she took the wrong man home, whoever she was. That’s why women die. Drunken men, not Jews.” Carmelina yanked the last of my little knives free. “And I’ll wager most of those Spanish Jews are too tired and dusty to spend much time on satanic sacrifices.”

“You seem sympathetic to our newest batch of exiles, my dear lady.” A great many exiles; Jews fleeing Spain from the attentions of Torquemada. What Signorina Cuoca was fleeing, I had no idea. Though I found that almost as interesting as the pattern I was starting to see around Anna and Eleonora and now this new girl. This dead girl.

“I had a friend who died last year much like your friend Eleonora.” I laid all ten of my knives out on the stone balustrade, precisely arrayed from biggest to smallest. “I doubt anyone bothered to blame the Jews on her account. She was simply carted off and forgotten. Most whores like her and your Eleonora are.”

“Who says she was a whore?” Carmelina waved flies away from the carcass with her apron. “Men are quick to throw that word about. A girl takes a man home now and then, and if he leaves her a coin or two . . .”