“Do you think the French will invade, signorina?” Bartolomeo was saying. “They’re savage, the French—they spit babies on pikes and desecrate churches, and salt the fields—”

“Salt,” I mused as we wheeled the last turn around a gibbet where they’d hanged a local robber last week. His carcass still swayed from the noose, mostly picked clean by now, though a solitary crow still pecked at a thigh bone. I’d need to find a good salty cheese after visiting the fish market, and a wheel of Parmesan too. I could not live without Parmesan. My immortal soul, yes—that was probably lost to me, considering I desecrated churches just like the French. My morals, yes—those were certainly in tatters too after all the time Marco and I had spent under the blankets. Not to mention that dark and very strange hour I’d passed with Cesare Borgia . . . that had probably tacked a good century of hellfire onto my soul all by itself. But I’d far rather live without soul or morals than Parmesan.

I’d had no further visits from the Pope’s eldest son, but I hadn’t expected it. I was only a serving girl, after all; he had not bothered to learn my name at the time, and once he was done he’d left me with nothing more than a calm nod and a few bruises in odd places. I didn’t even really want him back in my bed again, beautiful though he was. Coupling with Cesare Borgia had been an entirely different thing from Marco’s friendly rumples under the sheets. More like coupling with a hurricane—something to leave you exhilarated and frightened, bruised and worn out. Something to remember with a certain private smile, but no particular desire to repeat the experience.

Cesare Borgia—now there was a man with no morals!

“Signorina.” Bartolomeo’s voice cut off my inward smile. “What if the French—”

“Bartolomeo.” I cut him off, brushing my thoughts away. “What do you plan to do if the French invade?”

“Um, well—”

“Nothing, that’s what you’ll do. Because it has nothing to do with either of us.” I pulled my cloak closer around my shoulders as the breeze off the river began to nip. “If they invade, then they invade, and that’s that. Personally I hope they keep themselves and their horrendous food on their side of the mountains. Baby-spitting French soldiers are bad enough, but they’ll bring their rancid butter and their overdone roasts with them, and then Santa Marta help us all.”

That stilled my apprentice’s tongue, at least until we plunged into the tumult and noise of the fish market. “It’s bigger than I thought.” Bartolomeo blinked.