“You think His Holiness will stand for that?” the chief steward snorted. “He’ll send troops against Orsino Orsini to fetch her back . . .”

“What are you going to do?” I’d heard Madonna Giulia’s brother groan at her over the table. But the Bride of Christ, for once, didn’t seem to be talking to anyone, and nobody knew anything.

“About Madonna Giulia,” Bartolomeo began. “Do you think she’ll really—”

“I don’t think anything,” I said, giving the asparagus a stir and adding half a jug of simmering beef broth. “Except that I wish Lord Orsini would be a little more specific when he sends down a compliment of ‘lovely food’ because how am I supposed to feed the man if I don’t know what his tastes are. That, Bartolomeo, is our only concern.”

“Yes, signorina.”

“You might have more to concern you than Lord Orsini tonight,” a voice full of sour amusement said at the entry to the kitchens. “His mother’s just arrived.”

I turned, still elbow-deep in asparagus, and saw Leonello leaning up against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest. I wished Madonna Giulia hadn’t given him that all-black livery—it became him well enough, no mistake, but he looked more like a devil than ever. Then his words sank in. “Madonna Adriana’s here?”

“The lady herself, and a party of papal guards. Not to mention some stragglers they picked up on the road, some Venetian lords and an archbishop and their various entourages, getting out of the path of the French army and now begging hospitality for the night.” Leonello shrugged. “You will have rather more mouths to feed this evening than anticipated, Signorina Cuoca.”

“Why on earth is Madonna Adriana here?” I blinked, drying my hands on my apron. I could braise some fresh lake trout for her—trout for an old trout . . .

“I thought we weren’t supposed to ask questions about our employers, signorina,” Bartolomeo said innocently. I gave him a dirty look.

“Besides, why bother asking?” Leonello’s voice was very dry. “Madonna Adriana is here to drag La Bella back to Rome, of course, and before the French can arrive.”

Bartolomeo sealed his mixture of cheese and onions into its packet of enveloping pastry. “Are the French really almost here?”

“No more than two days’ journey by the Montefiascone road, from what I hear.”

I couldn’t help a shiver. “So close?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry, Signorina Cuoca. If you fall into French hands, you’ll just be raped a few times. It’s me and this apprentice lad of yours who have something to be afraid of. Him they’ll kill, and me they’ll dress in motley and set to dance for their king.”

“Very funny.” I dismembered a handful of asparagus spears in a violent yank.