“He never minces anything he feels. And some people wonder why I want to keep him.” Giulia la Bella gave a snort that was half anger, but her smile returned as she scanned the letter again. “He goes on to give me all the gossip from Rome. Juan is nagging to come home from Spain now that his wife is pregnant—can you imagine Juan a father? I ask you!—and the Tart of Aragon is making poor Joffre’s life hell. She and Caterina Gonzaga would certainly get along . . .” Giulia rifled through more pages. “Here it is. My Pope accuses me of being heartless for enjoying myself without him.” Her eyes glowed softly. “He misses me.”

“I don’t think anyone would miss me if I went absent,” I said candidly, picking up the majolica plate of tourtes again and bringing it to the bath. “At least not until it came time to eat.”

“What about that mysterious fellow of yours?” Madonna Giulia’s eyes gleamed. “The one on whose behalf you learned about the many uses of limes? What was his name again?”

I suppressed a smile. “I never told you in the first place, Madonna Giulia.”

“Well, tell me now. And do sit down, won’t you, and eat some of those tourtes for me. I’m getting plump again, and I’ve got to take some of this fat off before I get back to Rome, so no sweets for me. Which is a shame, because I always eat when in the bath.” Giulia looked envious, watching me help myself from the plate. Quince and ricotta tourtes—straight from page 412, Chapter: Dolci. “Why aren’t you the one who’s plump instead of me? Cooks are supposed to be fat!”

“They never are,” I told her. “Real cooks are too busy running back and forth with kettles and spits and bread paddles to ever eat. We all survive on a taste of this and a spoonful of that and a nibble of something else. Never have anything to do with a fat cook, Madonna Giulia. Either he’s too successful or too lazy to get off his rump.”

“Good advice, I’m sure, but I want to hear more about this man of yours. Is he a cook? Is he handsome—”

“Under the water and rinse, Madonna Giulia,” the maid ordered.

“No one say anything interesting until I’m rinsed,” Madonna Giulia warned, setting her letter aside, and sank bubbling under the surface. She wriggled under the water, the occasional elbow or knee emerging as she swished the soap out of her hair, and surfaced like a mermaid. “If you won’t tell me who your lover is, Carmelina, then listen to the letter I’m writing mine. He likes a good dramatic love letter, and I’m not sure I’ve got the tone quite right. ‘My happiness depends upon Your Holiness, so I am unable to take delight in these pleasures of Pesaro—’”